Much thanks to One Minute Writer for giving me something to do today. Prompt, "Breakfast." This was tremendously amusing to write.






My primary problem with mornings is that the sun is altogether too imposing, hovering right there on the horizon where the long rays can reach right through the windows to assault your sensitive eyes. By the time I’d found the table with my toes, I had recovered enough to squint angrily at the stove top, where there was a decided lack of coffee pots.

I was parched, so I cracked the frigidare for some milk, which yielded naught but a plate heaped with cold bacon, a dozen or so beers, and a lemon. I stole a beer and the plate of bacon.

Jason walked in at about that time to find me staring blearily at the table.

“Hey, Jason.” I pointed at the six foot long .50 caliber machine gun laying across the table, half disassembled. “One of these things doesn’t fucking belong.”

Jason threw his hands in the air. “Hey, I thought we were going to eat out this morning.”

I squinted at him. “And which one of you cheapskate bastards is going to pay for that?”

“Cheapskates! The hell you say.”

“Then perhaps you can explain this breakfast of champions shit,” I said, hoisting the plate of bacon and the beer and shaking it at him. He shrugged helplessly, and I fell into a chair and began grimly munching on my bacon.

Alex entered from the back hall, Mr. Morning Person, a big happy meet the day smile on his face. “Mornin, guys...” His expression became quizzical as he took in the scene in the kitchen.

I gestured at him with a bacon strip. “I got here first. You can have the lemon.”

Jason saw Alex’s expression and apparently decided to salvage the morning. “We are going into town to eat,” he said firmly. “I know a place.”

“Isn’t the jeep broken?” I queried around a mouthful of bacon.

Jason grinned wickedly. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to take... the Terminator!”

“The Terminator!” Alex said excitedly. “You got it working!?”

I raised my eyes in a silent plea to heaven as the two smacktards rushed outside to play with their new toy, a mummified armored personnel carrier we’d found abandoned by the runway when we’d moved in. Judging from its appearance, it had served valiantly in the Penolopesian wars. From outside, I heard its engine roar to unlife- a hostile, rattling racket. The hoots of exultation from Alex and Jason rose above the din as the damned revenant rattled up to the barracks to collect me.

The fantastic and glamorous existence of the private escort pilot was upon me. I resolved to weep, as soon as I had the energy.

Here's something about me that you did not know before.

I love the front lawn when it's a bit overgrown and incredibly lush, with a carpet of gorgeous yellow dandelions upon it. I absolutely loathe being ordered to desecrate it with a mower when it's in this state. When commanded to destroy the big "weed" bushes springing up along the fence line of our little wire-fence enclosed pasture, I obliterated the ones grounding out the current-carrying wires, but left the big ones not touching the wire, with the pretty purple flowers on them, alone. When it's snowed outside and covered the lawn in a perfect carpet of white, I hate tramping through the snow and destroying that perfect uniform plane. I cry pretty easily in the movies, especially at scenes of great sacrifice.

I love summer nights to the point of religious reverence. The summer night air, wind, defies my attempts to define it's magnificence. The green earth underfoot and all the celestial sphere of the universe flung out above. Nights like that justify existence.

I remember dirt roads not far from my dwelling, narrow lanes made into tunnels by the close canopy of trees stretching overhead. Narrow roads passing by little green bowers. And if I lived alone I would light out on moonlit nights to walk those paths. They say Ireland has that quality of hidden places; natural wonder secretive and fey. So does Michigan at night, if you know where to look.

How I wish for someone to share that with.

I'm not all guns and tanks and fighter planes and Michel Bay movies. I wonder how many people see this side of me without needing to be told.

None, I posit.

The party was in full swing, full lilting jazzy swing as musicians staggered from bar to musical bar and keg to keg. An impromptu band had grown in one corner upon a drumset, like mold, and was busily leaping and jumping through winding undisciplined solos. A musicians party this was, all sound and fury signifying a damn great many things, most of them neurotic.

Through the wandering horde of drunken merrymakers I espied my friend, Alex, making way towards me in his usual boisterous fashion. Bottles of Sam Adams hoisted high, he weaved and ducked and outright barreled through the thong with the adroit arrogance of a true trumpet player.

“And why, pray tell,” he began, thrusting the cold bottle towards me with authority, “is my best broseph, my vocalist extraordinaire, lurking in the corner of the room?”

Deceit failed me. “That escapes me, my good man.”

Alex gestured towards the patio door with his beer. “Then away we go! Lead on, Sir Adams!” Bottle thrust forward like a rapier, Alex parted the crowd as we proceeded to the patio, where the party was rolling on as merrily as inside. The warm summer night air breathed life over the scene and lent me it’s animation.

My pocket buzzed, and I withdrew my cell phone, flicking it open with the deftness of a switchblade draw. I read the text missive thereupon and sniggered.

“Aha!” Alex declared with an air of discovery. “So this is what made into your pocket with such dispatch ‘pon my approach!” he accused, robbing Shakespere with the same casual ease he borrowed from Frankie Hubbard and Louis Armstrong. He pried the lid off his beer and proffered the bottle opener to me. I accepted.

He glanced at my phone.

“Cindy again, is it?”

“You know how it is,” I muttered. “Evil stepsisters make voice conversations troublesome.”

“My my,” Alex mused, “lurking in the corner of a truly horrorshow party and simply texting your time away.” He pondered this and worried his beer. I opened mine.

“I seem to recall,” Alex rejoined, “a certain somebody texting incessantly with a girl who was herself in the middle of a party, only last week.”

“Yes,” I said, heading him off, “I am vaguely aware of the irony-.”

“Aware!” Alex exclaimed. “Do you hear this people, he is aware!” He thrust his bottle at me accusingly. “Then I am to take it that your continued apathy is the result of blatant cowardice? What, pray tell, stays your hand?”

A sigh, as my eyes appealed my case to the heavens.

“My self-preservation instinct,” I replied. “Where to begin this sketch, Alex? She chases shooting stars, and here I am standing on Earth. She waits for Adonis to step down from his marble plinth, and yet if he did she’d throw him down the Parthenon steps, because she fears attraction. She reaches for stars but fears to gain them, for she is sure she’ll burn like the other sinners. Two forces creating a gravitational riptide and woe betide the man who falls into that event horizion!”

My gaze fell from the starry sky and back to earth.

"She tries to avoid it by taking her love and her lust in different places, pure sources, as if such vampirism is acceptable, or tolerable. She’s laid her rails in revolving obsessive circles and along them that engine roars wild; she strokes the fire with kerosene and I refuse to be aboard when it finally blows.”

Alex read the declaration etched in my stony countenance, the slashing signature of my mouth.

“You’re madly in love with her.”

I turned towards the yard and finished my beer.

So the crowd of teenage girls led by the loudmouthed sassy chick and her purported lesbian lover were back tonight, having wandered in from the club across the street (which is apparently called "Primo" and ONLY admits 14-19 year olds.) The obnoxious ringleader had some things to say, mostly along the lines of "gee did we get our hot lesbian discount yet." I was in a bit of a quiet spacey zen mood, and not wanting to disrupt it, answered with noncommittal, placid wit. Predictably they made a mess of the soda counter as they loitered, though less of one then usual. I cleaned it up right in front of them, as they loitered. At some point, Obnoxious Girl stated thus:

"I'm going to call you Lesbian Makeout Guy, is that okay?"

I paused a second.

"Lesbian makeout guy. Yes. Yes, the irony implicit in that statement is too precious to ignore."

Now, I've seen this type of person before- the dumbass nickname is just the start of the bullshit. But I wasn't expecting the hijinks to ensue that very night. The fun really started when she paid for her drink and tried to put $4.04 on a pump. I asked her what pump she was on, and she said pump four. I entered the pre-pay credit into the system. She hadn't actually driven up to the pump yet, but since it was a very slow night, it was unlikely to cause problems. Now, right after her, an older gentlemen of Japanese heritage approached to put ten dollars on pump four. He asked for it on pump four. I've seen him in there before, and he speaks English well, with only a slight accent, but from the ease with which he gets confused by even the simplest communique I must conclude that his grasp of the language is far from comprehensive.

Soon thereafter, I noticed the pump with Obnoxious Girl's $4.04 being drained on my monitor. Since she was still walking out to her car, I realized that both of my clients had managed to get confused. Now the elderly Japanese gentleman's case is forgivable, given the language barrier and the difficulty of seeing the pump signs through the front window glare at night. The girl, however, knew which pump she was on and managed to pull up to pump two, not three, despite the big red signs. Or perhaps the Japanese gentlemen had already stolen into their slot at pump three, but who cares.

Of course, I immediately called the gentlemen with the intercom system to ask him to wait a moment. I then called Obnoxious Girl's pump and told her that she'd driven up to the wrong pump. "It was pump three you wanted. You know, the one with the big red sign?" Then, and only then, did I $4.04 of credit on their pump. The Japanese gentlemen had re-entered the store to inquire into the difficulty. Now his slender grasp of English was made apparent, but by being friendly and apologetic, I indicated that he should drive around to pump two (right next to his,) where I'd put the rest of his six dollars of credit. I even walked to the door with him to point out where pump number one was, to make things easy for him.

Upon returning to my register, I saw that Obnoxious Girl, with her regular genius, had stopped pumping with fifteen cents of credit to go. I called her on the intercom to let her know, because when people drive off with credit remaining, it counts against my drawer balance. It also gave me an excuse to ask her if she needed help operating gas pumps. "You just hold the lever down until it stops, miss." Reluctantly, she started pumping again. The system, however, tracks that as a separate transaction (so somebody driving up afterward is handled separately, and doesn't get the prior customers credit.) So, I simply watched the pump like a hawk, and manually stopped it with my console- restarted it- stopped it- so she had pumped twelve cents worth. Technically I could have let her go a few cents over- store policy is to cover the difference for folks in case of pump hijinks- but somehow I knew she'd want her change. She did, and told me so via intercom.

I walked out to the front door, where she'd pulled up her tiny white Escort, window rolled down. I got the pennies out, and dropped them into her hand one-by-one as she said "Go slow, I need to count them since apparently you can't count."

"Well next time just remember that the pump is very simple," I said with a smile. "You know, that whole squeeze the lever thing."

I then turned and walked back into the store, to hoots from a few of her girlfriends about the merits of my ass.

She said I'd see her again next weekend. Oh, I do look forward to that.

As of approximately two weeks ago, I am gainfully employed with Speedway Super America, the legendary gas station chain that can trace it's linage back to to sixties or something.

Work was a lot of things I expected and a few I hadn't. Now that I've had a week or so of training on my belt, they've taken me up on my one marketable trait- insomnia- and put me on lots of nights. Now, nights at this store effectively mean "clean the entire store and wait on customers at the same time," which can be quite easy on weeknights and a nightmare during weekends (and of course I am scheduled all weekend.) I did my first night alone tonight, and it was a lot better then I expected. I've a few stories, but before that I'll hit the highlights of my new job:

1. My coworkers are awesome and kick impossible amounts of ass. That includes my boss (especially if you're reading this, Tina,) Angel, the working mother who kept me from going fucking insane those first few busy afternoons, and Shawn, the rather excellent fellow who trained me on nights and proved to be all-around cool. It's quite possible that there are some truly unpleasant assholes employed at this store, but if there are, I've yet to have a shift with them.

My best friend works there also, which is extra cool.

2. My customers are almost all excellent. I've read LJ communities like "customerssuck" so I was braced for the worst, but ninety percent of the clientele at our gas station are regulars, and most of them are incredibly pleasant, friendly people. The rest are simply polite. I've yet to have a difficult customer; I've only had a few folk that were a little short with me. Really, they are outweighed by far by the weird ones. More on that later.

3. Don't ever call it a fucking gas station. It's a miniature grocery store that just happens to sell gas. This particular speedway used to be a little cinderblock doohickey like most until a few years ago, when it was obliterated and the current hulking monstrosity of a convenience store was erected. We sell milk, bread, chapstick, oil, money orders, and an asston of other stuff you don't expect in a gas station. Hell, they carry lunch meat, so my three requirements of life: bread, milk, lunchmeat- are all available right there. I'm pretty sure that we carry souls in the back somewhere (right next to your life and your will to live, as Shawn so wryly put it.)

4. Keeping my register balanced is fucking horribad. Some days it'll ring in only a few bucks high or low, and other nights it will ring up something like fifty bucks off, like it did this morning. There's a ton of factors effecting this, including how much money I bought from the safe to put in my change machine, (which automatically kicks out coins, and needs about $118 before I end my shift.) Now my managers have been just fine about adjusting for all the crazy myrid shit that throws off that count, so it's not like it's a problem, but the strain of OCD I caught from my engineer father rails against it.

5. Speaking of that register, it can caress my scrotum with it's tongue. There's approximately eleventy billion functions packed into that fucking touchscreen monster, and it's quite annoying, all things told. As one of my co-workers put it, corporate figures the 30 seconds saved by the changer should allow us to triple the load put on the cashier.

6. Just why the hell do they need so many different kinds of cigarettes? A guy I know from school came in and asked for Basic menthol 100's in a Box, and I told him to get me a P-40C with War Emergency Power installed. He laughed his ass off, because he understood where I was coming from.

7. The intercom system with the pumps has made for some hilarity. When we activate a pump for somebody, we page them on the pump's intercom and ask "cash or credit?" which is some bullshit to let them know we're watching them without actually having to say that there's a man on the roof with a crossbow who will waste them if they try to drive off without paying. My best friend, who works at Wendy's and bounces at the local bar, has some fun with that. "Paper or plastic?" "Okay, drive around to the second window."

Now, STORYTIME: tales from SPEEDWAY! Tonight was my first night working alone, and some interesting lulz were to be had:

The first one has some interesting background, which takes the form of a late-night club across the street. This is remarkable because this club nicely complements the single bowling alley in town, which was previously the only source of entertainment in what has been called the "horse capital" of our state. So, this remarkable example of night life is directly across the street, and around 10 to 1 AM, I get a lot of teenagers in there from the club.

So yet another gaggle of incredibly noisy, laughing-at-nothing-what-so-fucking-ever girls wanders up to my register to pay. The second one, paying for her female friends slurpy as well as her own, tells me that they're dating.

"There should be a discount for that, right?"

"Yeah, I'll make a note for my manager," I say. "That's one-eighty-nine."

"There really should be a discount for that! In fact, I'm not moving till I get it!"

She was joking, of course, but when you give me an opening like that...

"Well, there's no dating discount, but I think there's a lesbian makeout discount..."

"TWO DOLLARS!" she exclaims, thrusting the cash at me. "TWO DOLLARS!" while her girlfriends go wild behind her.

Then there was the gas meter machine at the back of the store. Friday nights the guy from the gas company drops by to fill up the tanks, and he needs a printout of the storage tank levels before and after for his records. Well, no problem. I get back to the machine, hit "print" and notice that it's perilously low on paper. Well, I can fix that. I give the man his record, locate the proper paper spool from the storeroom, and go to replace the spool.

I open the lid and the motherfucking machine starts going BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP like no other machine in the store can manage, in a store full of sassy damn machines. So I fumble with the spool, get it threaded, and slam the lid shit.

No dice. It's still going BEEEEEP BEEEEP OH FUCK I'M OUT OF FUCKING PAPER RUN FOR IT BEEEEEEEEEP"

I spot a little roller at the bottom of the paper receptacle, so, thinking quickly, I thread the end of the paper under that and roll the little rubber roller. The beeping ceases.

All is good until the gentlemen finishes and requires another printout. I stroll back to the machine, hit "print-" and what is this? A no paper error!?

And then, the beeping renews.

THIS time, I notice the funky roller device at the top of the machine, and thread the paper over THAT and then under the little ROLLER thing and FINALLY the fucker prints, though the digital display is still crying a river about NO PAPER.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is work.

Prelude: Jake and Kim, fleeing in a vulnerable two-seater dive bomber borrowed from their foes, are chased down by a pair of hostile fighters. Jake proceeds to flip out with the realness and defeats them both, continuing the fight with the superior plane when the last one tries to give up and run away.

There are no planes in this part so kindly STFU.


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

“Jacob.”

Jake turned from the stove to find Kim regarding him from the doorway with an unreadable expression.

“I just put the kettle on,” he offered uncertainly.

She simply walked to the table and looked at him.

“Jake... why did you chase that last fighter?”

He hadn’t been expecting that, and his face betrayed it. “I... well I had to press the advantage, otherwise he might have come back at us with more altitude.”

She considered this a moment. “No. It was reckless. You just didn’t care.”

“Bullshi-“

“Did you hear yourself!?” she interjected. “The way you raged? Roared? You wanted to kill him.”

“You have to want it, to win. That’s combat,” Jake countered weakly.

“That was suicide! If you’d missed that shot, he would have killed us, and you didn’t give a damn. Do you like getting shot at-“

“YES!” he snarled, making Kim recoil a step. “I like it, I love it. And I never miss, because I’m in control, always.” He raced on before his anger could fail him: “Up there- my fate is in my own hands, literally. Every motion counts, every second is precious. This...” he swept his hand to indicate everything, “three weeks vanish and you don’t know it. In the fight, you live every second.” He glared at her, embarrassed, defiant.

Kim stared at him, shock plainly visible.

She slapped him.

“That’s not l-living, th-thats a death w-wish,” she choked out through the rising tears. “You deal d-death and s-s-ooner or later you’re going to get it!” She turned and fled the room, trying to escape before the first wracking sob rent her.

Your result for The Would You Have Been a Nazi Test...

The Resistance

Take The Would You Have Been a Nazi Test at HelloQuizzy

I've included the most interesting data from the quiz website, that the official copy and paste code results omitted:



I'm not at all surprised that I'm much more patriotic then my peers. The quiz counted anything patriotic as "blindly patriotic-" that is, a negative- but in that light I find it interesting that I still scored high enough on "antitolerant" (that is, my apathy levels or lack therof) and "brainwashworthy" to negate my insanely high patriotism score. Apathy is the most interesting score, in my opinion: simple apathy is what allows most atrocities to proceed. I've heard lots of screaming about Iraq one way or the other, but not too many people seem to be incensed about the genocide in Darfur. Plenty of people in the internet quiz-taking demographic- that is, my generation- are cynical of their own country's government, but that clearly doesn't mean that they're independent thinkers or concerned with larger moral issues. They think they are, though, and that's a problem. It's easy to forget the point this quiz has made- most of the citizens of Germany were ordinary joes, and yet most of them fell into line with the Nazi regime with nary a peep.

Your result for The 3 Variable Funny Test...

I am absofuckinglutely furious. I am so righteously, earth-shakingly pissed off that if the Enterprise was in the area, I'd be blowing out every fucking instrument panel on the entire vessel, even the fucking coffee makers.

After an uncommonly pleasant day- that is, one without anger and bitterness and stress poisoning the air here- one oversight sets the bitch off. And I don't mean, makes her irritated, no, she goes into full out tantrum mode, like a motherfucking five year old, stomping around the house making a huge production and making everyone sick to their stomach with the stress. I'm sick and fucking tired of living around a hand grenade, and I'm not going to take it any more. Trying to walk chalk around her does nothing. We just spend every second of our day cowering, just waiting for She-Hulk to take offense at something we didn't do, as always, and start smashing a previously good day into so much worthless shit.

For the first time in as many years as I can remember, I'm actually sleeping well and staying somewhat awake during the day. And for a few brief weeks, the other half of the poisonous weariness/stress cocktail was also absent. Well, fuck that, now. I won't be getting anything productive done for the rest of the night because I won't be able to focus, not now.

She keeps on threatening to leave, go stay with her mother. I really wish she would. My father can be a horses ass, on his own, and I'll be picking up a decent workload around the house to boot, but I've handled it before and I can handle it now- and I'll be able to handle it easily if it means having a life again, instead of a constant sickening miasma of stress around here.

I am at a con.

Yes, a Con. Conclave, to be precise.

I am at a Con and I decided not to bring my laptop.

It is currently 4:15 AM. I have heard an entire elevator laugh at a Fallout joke, discussed the intricacies of slash fanfiction and destroyed a mind with the prospect of Mr. Toad slash, dickered about Linux, and I am now blasting along on a caffeine high. God help me, but I understand these people. I am not of their number- as always I exist at the crossroads of various intellectual pursuits without delving fully into the churning morass that is the eldrich and terrible Fandom- but I am finding that I can tread these waters easily. And they are fun to swim in.

It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the dark days stand wide; but to climb back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air- that is the rub, the task.

>__>;;

Something is wrong with me.

I am talking to people less and less these days. I was already an internet recluse, but now I can barely summon the energy to even post on forums, or carry on a conversation in IRC or IM. I'm not filling that time with games, or other entertainment. Mostly I just zone out, or I sleep.

All I seem to want is to be left alone.

Something I've been meaning to write for a while now- a confrontation in an otherwise mundane setting, a confrontation purely of words and wills. The kind of thing I imagine would be on Gossip Girl and such shows, but I wouldn't know because I never watch them.

I packed many things into this story, about the nature and personality of the characters: and those facts reflect directly on their import and motives, Jason especially.
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Jason watched Robin surreptitiously from his spot by the door, swirling his Coke around in his hand automatically. She had retreated to an isolated corner with two other girls, and they were carrying on their own animated conference, away from the main bustle of the party. Others seemed to glide around their bubble of camaraderie.

Turning to visit the snack table again, Jason saw Alex glide into the room, effortlessly catching the current of conversation and riding it from one group of friends to another. Ripples formed in his wake as people broke away from their clusters to gravitate towards him, greeting, talking. He smiled and kept on gliding through the room, absorbing one knot of people after another, and inevitably sailed up to Robin’s isolated corner.

“Hey, Robin! Long time no see!” he exclaimed brightly, the cordialness lancing effortlessly through the little bubble of animated conversation. She looked up with a causal air so measured that Jason knew she’d been aware of Alex’s approach.

“Yeah, life has been like that,” she returned easily. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, reading up for midterms, you know. Bad time of year to have so many gigs, but I guess I can’t complain.” He smirked winningly around her, towards the other two girls. “And you? How has Applebee’s been?”

“We still serve neither apples nor bees, but I did get a promotion,” she said lightly, before rising awkwardly, keeping her dark eyes locked on his.

“Ah, guess your manager really liked your style,” replied Alex smoothly, half-smiling at one of the other girls as Robin’s cool expression slipped ever so slightly.

“Sounds like he’s straight,” Jason interjected, sliding up behind Alex. “So sorry, man.” He smirked mischievously, friendly.

“Hey, man!” Alex gripped Jason’s hand and pumped it once, warmly. “What’s going on?”

“Actually, I’ve decided to open my own business,” Jason said brightly.

“Do tell.”

Jason grinned. “It’s an untapped market, really. Kind of like Micky D’s back in the day? Only sold milkshakes and hamburgers? Cept I’m just going to sell guitar strings and weed.” His smirk was just a shade harder this time.

Alex’s huff of amusement was a little forced. “You might have a little trouble getting the word out, though.”

My popularity? thought Jason. That’s all you have?

“Nah, that’s the beauty of it, I already have a market. All I gotta do is tack up my flyers next to the ones for your band down at the hardware store.”

That wiped the automatic smile off Alex’s face. He regarded Jason blankly. “You have a problem with me?” he asked with an air of injury.

“Problem, singular? I have to choose just one?” Jason’s body language was still relaxed, but his can of Coke had ceased circling. The burble of conversation around them had chilled as the circle of Alex’s followers cautiously edged away from the pair contending.

Alex glared at Jason, and slid his left foot back ever so slightly to face Alex at an angle, his body tense. Relaxed as ever, Jason simply set his Coke down on a nearby table and nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his pockets- still returning Alex’s glare, stony faced.

Alex stood that way for a few seconds, waiting for Jason to square off. He spoke.

“You can be a real dick, man,” Alex said sadly, sounding disappointed, and turned to slide back into the thick of the party as carefree as ever. The little drama having ended, the circle of observers slowly drifted away with him.

Jason retrieved his Coke and glanced sideways at Robin, who was staring at him in surprise. Jason just smiled meekly, shrugged, and awkwardly shuffled off towards the back yard, aware of her searching eyes on his back the whole way.

*This does not apply to you, Rachel. It's totally different.

I've met more then a few new people online whom I hit it off with spectacularly, and whom quickly become my friends. More then one of them, however, suffer from a terrible failing- they are very undiplomatic and rigid as regards perceived insults or slights. And, of course, this is not something one notices until you stumble over whatever invisible tripwire it is that sets off their neurosis's and/or twisted egos- and you suddenly find yourself on the receiving end of the harshest kind of vitriol and insults over some incredibly inane or innocuous comment, or perceived slight.

I am generally a forgiving person, and I usually find holding grudges to be a waste of energy. But these unwarranted explosions of vitriol have an immediate and harsh cost, (besides the issue of suddenly discovering that one is in a minefield, and that all future interactions will be strained and orderly, not carefree and friendly.) Regardless of how quickly the spat is resolved or smoothed over, I still feel awful because I've had a spat with a friend; no matter how innocent I may be personally. That entire afternoon, I simply feel rotten.

I've invested in these people, emotionally and intellectually; and when they throw it in my face for no reason, it hurts. And thus, I resent them: I resent them for all the time and energy I have invested, the trust I have given them; which is now all wasted.

It's wounding; and the kind of people who have mysterious hair triggers like this will necessarily be set off often. However, after the first incident, I have no excuse for continuing to suffer it- I've been warned. Doubly so, since these kinds inevitably have a history, and a reputation, in the various online communities they occupy.

From now on, I'm going to drop these people after transgression one. Life is too short to put up with their silly shit.

This is a preliminary attempt at a story idea I've had on the back burner for a while- just an attempt to get the ideas flowing, get a feel for it. "Jake" has become my default name for any male character; I just like the name, is all.

So I write a lot of pilots into my stories. Bite me. Write what you know, right?



The world swam into view, revealing a young woman hovering over him against a backdrop of blue sky. Jake decided he should introduce himself.

“Urrgh.”

She simply frowned, admonished him in some lyrical tongue unknown to him, and pressed something against his leg.

“AhhUGH!” Jake tried to sit upright as a sharp bolt of pain shot from his thigh to his hip, and was returned firmly to the earth by a strong hand pressing against his forehead.

“Sit still,” the girl ordered sternly in perfect English as she finished applying the bandage to his thigh. “You’re not hurt badly, but you shouldn’t try to move around, okay?”

“Uh,” Jake confirmed. Not moving was fine with him. Just fantastic, in fact. He felt like he could lay there all day. He heard his benefactor moving away, and tried to rise on one elbow. “Hey, wait-“

“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied, returning to view with a canteen. “Just needed some water, okay? You’ll be fine,” she said soothingly as she produced another rag. Jake ceased his objections and tried to clear his mind. He’d been at treetop level, and had just selected a clear spot in the field when… Jake drew a blank.

“What happened?”

The girl paused a second, thinking, and apparently decided he was lucid enough to converse with. “You hit a tree when you came in low, and your machine flipped over. I pulled you out from underneath it and carried you over here.”

Jake thought about that for a moment, and for some reason it suddenly seemed very funny. He started giggling. He thought of Immelman- Immelman! and as the fight came rushing back, it seemed even funnier. He was full out laughing now, his rescuer regarding him with concern and a little caution, perhaps thinking he’d hit his head harder then she’d thought. “After all that, I manage to crash…”

Slowly, Jake felt the adrenaline in his system waning, and his mad laughter subsided with it as battle fatigue took hold. As his wits started to return, so did his sense of perspective, and he realized that his rescuer was very pretty.

“I usually don’t crash.”

”I’m sure,” she replied, glancing upwards at the sun.

“My engine was all shot up.”

“Shot up?” She spared him a quizzical glance.

“Well, I shot them up too,” he clarified swiftly. “I was outnumbered, you see.”

“Oh,” she replied tentatively, seeming confused. “I think you can walk. I’m going to help you up now, okay?” Jake nodded, and she reached forward and pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. His wounded thigh, on his right leg, buckled, and the girl wrapped her arm around Jake to support him. Jake steadied himself and put his arm around the girl’s slender waist for balance.

“I should crash more often.”

“Why is that?”

”Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes, you most certainly did.”

“Where’s my plane?” Jake said abruptly. The girl pointed off to the right, and Jake espied his overturned Morane, buried in the tall grass. “Shit,” he muttered sadly, in spite of himself. At least he’d never have to screw with that godamned finicky starter again. “Can we limp over there? I’d like to see if my gun is okay.”

“It’s still in your holster.” Jake didn’t need her to tell him that; he could feel the bruise where the revolver had smacked his leg in the crash.

“No, I mean my machine gun. On my plane.”

“Machine gun? They’re putting guns on those things now?” She looked thoughtful for a second, glancing back at the Morane, then frowned at him. “You’re banged up pretty good. We can come back for it, okay? It’s not going anywhere.

She was certainly right about that, Jake thought. “Okay. Lead on, um…”

“Eva.”

“Eva. I’m Jake.”

“Hi, Jake. Okay, just lean on me. The camp is pretty close…”

( Original )

I sat under the back deck overhang tonight, watching the lightning flash and play in the distant advancing storm-front, greedily inhaling the cool night wind.

If ever I meet the love of my life, it would be like that- both of us coming out into the night to watch the oncoming storm, relishing the night wind, tasting the power and energy of the charged atmosphere itself- a wind that carries the vibrant power of the vast living earth.

And it was like



And I was like



And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that.

I have oft pondered on my inability to socialize, make friends, meet girls, etc, etc. Inherent in all that bitching disguised as eloquent self-introspection was the assumption that I, personally, was Doing It Wrong. That there was a technique that eluded me, and was compounded by a lack of effort on my part.

Now I suspect I have been wrong.

I realized it when I was on the receiving end of Yet More Common Advice on Why I Fail, which was summed up as, "you're to fucking lazy to actually GO to parties, and then get girls drunk enough to put up with your shit."

Well, news flash, motherfuckers. I don't get invited to any fucking parties. I don't "do" parties, because it's just a bunch of shitheads standing around talking about nothing important, doing nothing important, and they're always boring as hell. And even if I did, I wouldn't go to a party where there was underage drinking, because I don't break the law. Yeah, I'm a square, deal with it. And even if I did, getting wasted isn't my idea of fun. It's fucking stupid. So are the people who do it. Fuck them.

The reason I can't socialize like other people is simply because I'm not like other people. I'm different. Their idea of light conversation is who's fucking who, in RL or on General Hospital. Mine is cultural dissonance and national identity in the context of international relations. Not only can I not relate to them, but I should not try to.

The consequences are simple- friendship and dating are pathetically limited, because the people I click with are likewise limited. I cannot "shop around," because curio shops are in short supply. I have to take them as they come, and combining their scarcity with the apparent high bias towards fucking insane, I'm totally fucked.

I welcome this. No more hand-wringing or struggling or self-blame or exhausting efforts to correct something impossible. That boulder is at the bottom of the hill and there it will stay. I'm fucked. That's easy to accept. This isn't laying down or giving up. I don't want to compromise who I am and force myself into some kind of contrived role to avoid this fate. If I want to be all that I can be, well, this is the necessary corollary.

So. No more looking for romance in places I shouldn't; like most of my otherwise-eligible social pool. And no more worrying or fretting about the fucked up situation(s) that I'm already in, or the ones that will find me in the future. Either something will happen or it won't, and the fact is it most likely won't. So I'll just chill.

It's a million to one shot; and I'm not going to bother trying when I'm up against Vegas odds.

Currently, it is 4:35 on a Friday afternoon. The People's Republic of Ann Arbor, the biggest, most exciting urbanite college town that the East coast, and perhaps the world, has to offer, is less then three minutes away from me- and that's if I walk. I have no homework, and no prior appointments.

And I? I am sitting in an empty study hall on an entirely lifeless campus, typing a Livejournal post about my incredible, continuing inability to conduct something approximating a social life or extroverted recreation despite having a nearly unique oppertunity to do so.

The problem, of course, is that having the oppertunity to step away from the internet and interact with other human beings in the normal time/space continuum does not imply knowledge of how to exploit it. My goal is not to simply leave the confines of my sadly familiar haunts; this study hall and my chamber; rather, it is to meet new people, and build interpersonal relationships with them that is not dependent on instant messaging of any sort for its continued existence. I can attend all the parties and frequent all the trendy college-town coffeshops I wish, without effect- I can be just as alone in a crowded party as I am in my own home. The acquisition of my laptop has exacerbated this effect- now I can lug my shell with me, like a snail.

Simply closing the lid of my silicon shell and leaving it in my backpack, however, puts me no closer to a solution. The most basic of hurdles still thwarts me: how do I meet new people, initiate a conversation with them, and... forget the 'and.' Even the 'and' is so far beyond me at this point as to be unfathomable. "Meet" and "converse" are sufficient quandaries for now.

I greatly desire to overcome these problems. I want to converse with people, talk to other sentient beings rather then type to them, and unsurprisingly enough, I wish to converse more with those mysterious females, as often as I may. I want to live my life, rather then make wisecracks from the back row as I watch it play out on the stage without me. But I currently have no idea how.

Even when I do get my shit all together, stop screwing around, and really clamp down, I still can't seem to change a damn thing. Nothing works. In any single area I try to make progress, I get a little ways up that slope, and slide right back to the pitiful ditch I've been in for years. Undoubtedly, there is progress- I've stayed true to my convictions, had the strength to act on them, and unequivocally so (proving to myself and the world what I've known, but doubted, all along.) However, on the big issues, the real bars that have stopped me from growing in the ways I have wanted- I have been ineffectual.

Well, World, here's a news flash for you. I'm sick and tired of your fucking horseshit. I'm not just angry, I am absofuckinglutley homicidally furious. You're going down. You're going down faster then Bear Stern's stock. I'm going to end you faster then Elliot Spitzers career. My stubborn hopeful convictions and cynical doubts have long been locked in stalemate, but when I passed that first test, my doubts were weakened- and even if they hadn't been, I'm just too pissed off now to care.

I'm done analyzing and over-analyzing my barriers real and imagined, external and self-imposed. Now, I'm just crashing through them like a motherfucking Tiger Tank in a glass stemware shop. I've always had this resolve, this conviction that I can win- and now, I have unchained it. Doubts and misery? Fuck 'em. It's time to kick ass and take names.

Fuck you, World.

I'm going to win.