Accident on Freeman Ave.

Originally typed in 8th grade.
 
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.

Part 1

Everything is black. I don’t hear a noise. I guess no one else is here. I take off the sheets and try to walk. I fall straight to the floor. My back is really killing me, my feet feel like mush, and my spine seems as fragile as glass. Damn. That annoying ring tone is playing again. It seems like forever till I grab the cell phone from the table. I accidentally push some ornaments and they fall on the floor and break on impact, the water splashing on my fingers. I check whose calling me and at that moment, I lose my breath. I frantically crawl to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and gulp down a bottle of water. I check who it is again and find out it was from my friend Elizabeth. It was a text message that read, “GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! WE NEED TO TALK!” If Elizabeth doesn’t use the landline phone, I can tell it’s not good news. It feels like forever till I can finally stand up and walk normally. Forgetting that I actually have a car, I toddle to Elizabeth’s house while negative thoughts are pouring into my mind. Why does she want to see me? Why is she infuriated? Why in hell did she use the word ass? Walking nervously to the front door, I touch the doorbell and get an unexpected reaction. She opens the door and I become aware of her eyes filled with tears, runny nose, quivering mouth, she held tissues tightly in her hands, and says, “Curt’s dead!”

For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”

“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”

“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”

“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”

“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“

“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.

“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.

Part 2

A normal, cloudless afternoon, students from campus with vehicles would drive away to hang out with their girlfriends, or go to the movies, or whatever the hell they would do after school. I, on the other hand, would just drive home and type on the laptop for hours and hours and hours, thinking that I’ve wasted my entire life. Then there’s Freeman Ave, a crosswalk which gave me frozen nerves, every time. I had a certain feeling that sometime, at that very crosswalk, chaos would strike. And strike it did. Kurt was driving next to me in a Honda Accord, in shimmering jade. I drove a Volkswagen Buggy, in unembellished red. By the millions of times he was beeping that horn, I could tell that he wanted to race. No damn way was I gonna risk my neck in an insipid stunt as that so I drove away, trying to lose him. Unfortunately, I had just “started” the race so he tried to catch up. I couldn’t take this any longer so I called him on my cell phone and screamed the F-bomb in his ears. He knew that I wasn’t kidding so he said fuck back at me, told me he was gonna find some other sucker to race, and then hung up. Curt began screaming towards random people to race and they either called him drunk or a mentally retarded ass. One person reluctantly agreed and the race was on. This would be his fatal mistake. I drove behind them, in case anything happened. It was an intense race with twists, turns, and nearby runovers. Ironically, the next street coming was Freeman Ave. Curt was in the lead. He didn’t look at the traffic lights. From our side, it turned red so the other side just became green. The cars kept driving even though Curt was in full view. I jumped out of my car before someone rammed into it. The other guy smashed Curt’s car from behind and pushed it forward. Curt’s car was instantly crashed from the left and began spiraling when another car smashed it from the front. People began dialing their cell phones and calling for help. When his car began to spiral, I just ran away from the scene and hoped that he was okay. I had fainted while running and then everything went blank. The last thing I remember is the wailing of ambulances.

My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.

An Anthropomorphic Hedgehog's Birthday

Running at the speed of sound might be the most dangerous thing anybody can try to do. For many people who think about attempting a run like that, they imagine themselves alone and running down a flat, empty road. What does Sonic the Hedgehog imagine when he runs at those speeds? He wants deadly machines built by a maniac, bridges on the verge of collapsing, platforms galore, golden rotating rings that may or may not have any value... In other words, a daring and adventurous run. One of the great mysterious of the world is explaining how a hedgehog of all creatures can run at such speeds. some claim it's his shoes while others believe it's a god-given talent. Rather than wonder, Sonic just keeps running, and as of today, he's been running for the past twenty years, and will keep going for...who knows how long. It's funny when people ask me if I still love that running guy, although I'm also grateful to be living in a world where people are more tolerant towards others in their hobbies. It's painful to realize that thirty years ago, a young John Lasseter was tormented constantly for loving cartoons. The second decade of Sonic's career has been a difficult one as being his fan is becoming a nostalgic obligation instead of a whole-hearted commitment. Discovering the internet the first time, I realized how despised Sonic was in many forums and websites, and how the announcement of Sonic in Super Smash Bros. Brawl, a popular fighting game, was only exciting since it gave haters a chance to utterly destroy Sonic with the game's many weapons, but as someone who is an unabashed fanatic of the blue blur, I couldn't understand how anybody could hate him. I wasn't thinking about the corporation's mascot, or the guy who was in that shitty unplayable game, or the 90's symbol who was becoming an utter dissapointment. I think of him as an incredible character who's bursting with energy and neverending excitement. That's the way I've thought of him since I was three years old playing his game on the Sega Genesis, and that's how I'll continue to think of him throughout the rest of my life. Happy birthday, you chili-dog eating fiend! A cake is waiting for you on my dining room table.

Leaving dust behind

Originally typed on September 17, 2009.

This was an assignment for the creative writing class I took in high school. I found poetry to be a difficult thing to familiarize myself with, especially since every poem I wrote always had elements of prose. Poetry, however, was a more loose and imaginative writing style that challenged my abilities and ,every so often, produced respectable results. The class was easily one of the greatest I ever took at Harvard Westlake, and I am eternally grateful to Adam Howard for teaching it. Thorughout the summer, I will post some of the assignments of the class including some constructive exercises. This poem was designed to be written in the style of a poem we read in class. When I remember what the poem was, I will mention it.

You run because you have to. Cities
And countries become confusing blurs, thrilling
Events in history become calendar markings,
Anniversaries of the great adventure.

You jump because you need to. Every canyon
Is just a one inch step and back;
Blown-up machines and a broken bone
Are both kinds of luck.

You run due to adrenaline, curiosity,
A sense of wonder. Much like an infinite path
You will keep traveling until the impossible end,

You will never realize how much the sea reflects
Upon you, in its color and its grace, as its waters
Recede back into its rightful place.

The Presenters (Season 1)

Originally created in 10th grade.

Let's place ourselves several years in the future where this is a reality. The Presenters is the name of my animated sitcom, releasing in 2034. From the first thought I ever had about this ‘series’, I wanted to create an show designated to be the successor to The Simpsons and South Park while fusing the elements of both shows and Seinfeld/Curb Your Enthusiasm. The series runs every Friday at 9 pm on HBO. The Presenters is a show about an animator named Harold, his lovely wife with no name yet, and his 15-year old son, Hal. They live in Los Angeles, California in a quaint little suburb. Harold's personality is very similar to Larry David's on Curb although he is more confident and less impulsive than Larry is. The wife has been a difficult character to write about since I'm aware of the sitcom mom cliches and even she still feels like an artificial character at the moment. Some of the activities that she and Harold do for fun are fantasies that I occasionally dream or wonder about. Same for his son, Hal. Despite being 15 years old and relatable, I have a tendency to hate teenage characters so that might explain why Hal isn't involved in most of the episodes. Later, I'll feature posts that further elaborate on the episodes mentioned below since the short description is only a sampling of each episode.  For me, this is a major post that, two years ago, I never would’ve imagined myself making but the time seems right. This show is only for adults so some episodes have inappropriate content. Read with caution.

P101-The Goddamn Pilot We are introduced to Harold and his family, a quirky yet relatable bunch.  A chance occurrence at Harold’s job causes Harold to get the opportunity of a lifetime.

P102-The Dinner Party Harold, a week into getting his new job, invites his only friend, Tom Flounderman and his boss known as the Editor, to his house for a dinner party. When neither Tom nor the Editor can show up, he hastily invites three random workers who pretend to be his new friends.

P103-The Double Date When Hal’s double date hits an unexpected delay, Harold and his wife take advantage and go on the double date instead. The date goes well until Hal and his mother get to an unexpected emotional breakthrough and discuss their feelings at an ice cream parlor. Meanwhile, Harold and Hal’s date, Shelley, go to a movie theatre and practice tongue kissing techniques.

P104-Abbey Road Harold gets a new assistant named Abbey Road and is oblivious to Abbey’s undying affection towards him until Abbey kidnaps Harold and locks him in a closet to be a part of a ménage a trois with Abbey and the local chess champion.

P105-The Therapist Harold begins his therapy sessions, discussing his many problems with nail polish and picture frames, until the therapist rudely interrupts him and mentions his failing love life which Harold agrees to try to help out.

P106-The Car Accident Harold gets into a car accident and is forced to walk down the 405 while trying to remember how the accident happened, trying to deliver an important package to the closed post office, and trying to deliver a gallon of milk for his wife.

P107-The Teaching Job Harold’s wife finally gets the teaching job at the local elementary school, and after some ‘advice’ from Harold, she begins her job. After two weeks in her seemingly blissful career, she winds up in the middle of a love triangle with the bisexual 1st grade teacher and the 4th grade teacher who’s been struggling to come out of the closet.

P108-The Book Tour Harold reaches unprecedented levels of success when his first animated short is posted on YouTube and is critically acclaimed by everyone. When the publicity tour is announced by the animation company, Flowers United, he is all but excited when he realizes he will be interviewed by Reader’s Digest. But he first must have an interview with Cosmopolitan which he is all but nervous about.

P109-The Assistant Harold is approached by Hal’s ex-girlfriend, Kiki, for a job during the summer and after being baffled by her ignorance towards animation, gets Kiki a job as his wife’s assistant. The choice unexpectedly ruins Harold’s reputation and his sex life.

P110-The Funeral The family heads out to Michigan for Harold’s best friend’s funeral. Harold decides to change his eulogy into a standup routine that offends nearly everyone at the funeral.

P111-Impact at Mach 5 Harold goes back to his old middle school to visit his art teacher. He listens to the selection of music offered by the class and is appalled. He promises to create a new mix for the class, which he enlists his friend Tom to do. Tom downloads a sound file called Impact at Mach 5 which ends up being an audio clip of a publicized sex tape.

P112-A Trip with Mr. Hanks Harold goes on a bus trip and winds up sitting next to his favorite actor, Tom Hanks and they have a long conversation about their lives.

P113-Pause, Go get the Batteries Harold gets fired from his job due to an intense rivalry with renowned animator Reni Danlau, and Hal suddenly begins failing his classes. All goes well until a good-intended trip to Home Depot leads to a halt in the family’s future plans.           

I remember when I was biking with my neighbors up a hill and a thought came across that advertised the Rugrats video game on the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. There was no such thing but I was excited to tell everyone about it. Same with this show. For every seemingly random thought that came across my mind in high school, this was the first concerted effort that actually had potential in it, and the characters are just such a blast to write about and to explore their limitations and possibilities. I have 'created' other shows such as an adaptation of Sonic Advance 3, and temporarily wrote episodes for Spongebob Squarepants. Anybody can safely say that they've also written episodes for their favorite show but it's never in the same quality as the show itself but that should never be a reason to stop. Even if it's the most ridiculous thing ever conceived, somebody will be able to relate to it. You'd be surprised at how huge your intended audience actually is.

Persuasive Essay

Originally written on March 7, 2005.

Tomorrow, I am graduating, and have been searching for an antique work that will bring everything the blog represents in full circle. This is that post. With one quick impression, anyone will come to realize that it is the worst persuasive essay ever written. It mangles and chews up all the proper rules of essay writing leaving behind a bloody mess. It is short, far below the usual 3-4 pages that are required. It is a work made by a teenage boy who wanted to have an opinion but ending up defending everyone and getting nowhere. As a moment in history, it is utterly brilliant and a representation of the creative soul that waited patiently for many years to break out. In execution and thought process, I will never outdo myself with anything else. See if you agree or not.
 
People like some music and others the same or different kind. It would be interesting to listen to music that we like most of all. My idea is for everybody (except me) to bring music they like to listen to.
It could help us to learn about the person or his or hers personality. It could be interesting to learn of peoples different tastes in music. You could have some thoughts of why this person likes this kind of music.
This could increase the music class to other hights of our personalities. Now that you have read this, go ahead and make a decision. It’s up to you.

Artist's Statements

Began on March 28, 2011.

The following are the numerous versions of the artist’s statement that I wrote for my concentration(more on that in The Third One) It is an accurate portrayal of my thinking process which can be very frustrating if little progress is made. With the theme of stories and the numerous ways I could interpret that theme, I eventually came upon the last statement that encapsulated the ideals the theme represented as well as being as mysterious as the works themselves. Eventually I will try to explain the works as a whole but maybe when I become more confident in trying.  

In AP Art History, when I learned that Salvador Dali, the world-famous surrealist, had a wife, it gave me hope for the future. That’s a story.

Stories. An exploration of the human psyche.

Stories. Originally began as a more instructional development of the steps needed to tell a story, with each work being a separate element. An example of one work being the beginning, the next the rising conflict, leading to the climax, and so on. The idea dropped inconspicuously, replaced by a simple need to display ideas. By an understanding of how unusual my ideas seemed, I’ve struggled for the past few months doing so.

Stories. As the name itself shows, it is an unorthodox exploration of the concept of the story. Works focus on making things happen.

Stories. I’m having trouble with it.

Stories.  The topic is personal.

Stories. Begun as a major opportunity to unveil my unorthodox ideas for the first time after keeping them hidden, it’s become a personal and almost therapeutic exercise for life and for the future development of stories. The exhibit doesn’t display the order in which they were created in. Though the original concept of the stories has a dark and disturbing nature, it was a challenge to universalize those ideas for the viewable public, mirroring my own challenges with talking with others in a different world.

Stories. Still having trouble.

Stories. Originally was going to be a chronicle of lost ideas to be displayed for the first time-began as a single story telling the journey of a psychotic man who wanted to experience some kind of emotion by going to the park and shooting a duck. However, against the wishes of the class, I decided to sound like a douchebag who rejected his friends’ ideas. Whoo.

Stories. Can give headaches.

Stories. Pressure.

Stories. Giving importance to the seemingly unnecessary elements presented in a story-Showing only the most essential details that push a story forward-elements is an overused word-I’m tearing up right now and I don’t know why.

Stories. Can cause emotional imbalance.

Stories. Can continue tomorrow.

Stories. An opportunity to reveal an uncertain truth, only for those curious enough to listen(or in this case, see.)  A collection of works that I can’t help but call strange only since they are.  Pretty damn strange. Much like it may be strange to swear upon realizing you’re no longer 5, it is strange to have made these works with the intent of being a public therapy session, but ultimately that’s what each of them are. Therapy is a long winded session of story-telling with the therapist making each connection(listening intently).

Stories. A pretentious explanation that is simpler than it appears to be. 

Stories. A wish that the artist will stop insulting his own works and get to the goddamn point.

Stories. A commercial break.

Stories. A mythical trip through an ancient time.

Stories. Making the connection can be as frustrating as the work itself, daring yourself to prove you are not ignorant to the obvious.(The obvious can be anything) The purpose of these stories is to allow the mind to unwind itself for the first damn time, giving the okay to make as many interpretations to the work and not questioning either idea as all of them are as relevant as the other.

Stories. Whether it is just a letter, a note, or a page, the journey through a story always requires direct attention and no preconceived knowledge. A story can amuse, surprise, or confuse.

Stories: A Concentration

The Third One

Originally typed on April 16, 2011.

Around this time, my art class had to write a few words about our concentration, a collection of works that had a theme; my theme was stories.  A painful brainstorming session about what my artist’s statement was going to be led to this story. The thinking process tends to be a difficult and self-inflictive one and when I can distract myself with words that pair together well with each other, the result is therapeutic and wonderful. When my teacher, Ms. Marianne Hall read it the first time, she insisted that the story should be another work for the concentration. It worked out very well, and in a future post, I’ll explain why. For now, enjoy.

The bead from a 20 inch long bracelet of twine; Hidden under a pile of decomposing forgettable, amazingly uncrushed under all the weight. Once nestled carefully with 20 or so other beads around the wrist of a young boy or man as he liked to call himself. His fifteen-week anniversary present. He preferred to count by months, less numbers to keep track of. The bead tumbles across the sludge and trash, skipping right across other precious memories. A toy train missing one wheel. A picture frame with drips of paint on the top right corner. The bead lands in a can of Spam, hitting the bottom, skipping off against the wall, spinning until it finally rests. Its judgment day will come in a few hours.

Parental Guidance Suggested

Originally posted on Facebook on July 3, 2009.

Place where I came up with the story: In the bathroom at about 11:45am while applying Proactive on my face. As an impatient person, it’s no wonder I never got around to finishing this story even though I still remember most of it. Looking back, it must’ve been a very stressful time to come up with a story this explosive. Eventually I will post the next part as the next part of the story must be told. With this second post, I’d just like to remind everyone that I won’t post things daily as that would be a major obligation. Also, when I began considering what to post on this blog, most stories will be as crazy as this one, but that’s okay. It’s all a part of the creative process. That being said, there is foul language and if you’re against that, wait till the next post for something less profane. For everyone else, enjoy.

It’s about 3 pm in the middle of summer. Friend 1(35 yrs. Old) sits in his lonely little apartment, licking what’s left in his peanut butter jar while watching a horrible program on his analog television set. Suddenly Friend 2(36 yrs. Old) comes in, Kramer-style, holding a sheet of paper.

Friend 2: It’s time…
Friend 1: Hammer time? Party time? Bullshit time? What’s your preference?
Friend 2: Time for my revenge!
Friend 1: (Continues looking at the screen) Seriously?
Friend 2: Yes. He’s been waiting for it for a long time and his time has finally come.
Friend 1: It’s never a she, is it?
Friend 2: Actually, I have a couple of she’s…but that’s for another time. No, my plan is for someone who’s deserved it for far too long.
Friend 1: Funny… many people come to mind but I can’t figure out who would be one you’d want to kill.
Friend 2: I don’t want to kill him. Just embarrass him till he becomes suicidal-maybe.

Friend 1 gets up from his chair and opens his refrigerator. Friend 2 starts unraveling his sheet of paper and shoves it in front of Friend 1’s face. Friend 1 grabs an empty glass bottle and hurls it at Friend 2’s face. Friend 2 ducks at the last minute.

Friend 2: Heh. You know you could’ve killed me there.
Friend 1: I could’ve? Really? That’s horrible…
Friend 2: You bastard. This is exactly what I’m talking about. These types of actions will no longer be accepted after my revenge has been exacted.
Friend 1: Huh?
Friend 2: HE was my bully.
Friend 1: Huh. How unexpected. What a surprise. I’m gonna keep bullshitting you till I don’t feel like it.
Friend 2: He was one hell of a bully, one of the rare ‘can turn a doorknob’ kinds of bullies. Bullied his way to becoming CEO of some fucking company that I only learned about after watching ‘his’ commercial. I had to stare at his face for thirty fucking seconds, way too long for me to take. And that’s when I realized it was time for some good’ol fashioned payback. So since that commercial aired about 5 minutes ago, I’ve been compiling a scheme of the most evilest of evils.
Friend 1: Why not just be happy for his success like a normal person?

Friend 1 grabs an opened can of Budweiser and stumbles back to his seat. Friend 2 grabs the remote and turns off the TV.

Friend 2: Obviously I have to…bring a light to some of his…previous endeavors.
Friend 1: (pulls can tab) You keep pausing. I’m intrig(drinks from the can)
Friend 2: Eh, every memory with that bastard has been a painful one. Whether my whole face has been plunged into a toilet and some shit gets in my mouth, or my whole body is being suspended by my underpants on a flagpole and all I do is pray that I don’t fall. Which I did, twice. The first time it happened, I stopped believing in the atheist god.
Friend 1: Classic bully. Heh. You know, I feel sorry for your troubles but…(smirks) BWAHAHHAHAHAHA!!! I never…I never thought I would meet anyone who’s actually gone through this type of shit. IT’S HILARIOUS!!

Friend 2 crumples up his paper into a ball and starts juggling it. He stares at Friend 1 with disbelief as Friend 1 finishes his can, crumples it and throws it at a corner.

Friend 2: I thought you’d like that, but not only did he force me to write on the chalkboard for some ‘coolness’ law I apparently broke, but he would whip me while I was doing it!
Friend 1: With what, a jump rope? A little girlyness would degrade anyone.
Friend 2: No, my drunk and confused friend, he-would-wwchip me with electrical wire which he kept in a box that he could only open while he had rubber gloves on!

Friend 1 stops smiling and thinks for a moment. He suddenly remembers his younger voice as it screams for help desperately. STOP WHIPPING ME! Nah. It doesn’t make sense to stop. But this is inhumane! Just my point. You’re not human since you’re a nerd so…ah! AhH! AAAAAAHHHH!!!! Friend 1 comes back to planet earth for a moment and starts listening to what Friend 2 is saying.

Friend 1: I’m…intrigued. I really am this time.
Friend 2: Wait, you weren’t before? Well, what was I doing talking for such a long time? Maybe I should go-
Friend 1: Nononono! I’m listening. Tell me, tell me. What is your magnificent, vengeful plot?
Friend 2: Listen, what I’m about to show may scar…most of your life. I haven’t tested it with others yet.

Friend 2 unwraps his paper ball, revealing its true identity.

Friend 1: I thought you were going to show me a disturbing Photoshop, not a bunch of words.
Friend 2: Ah, but they contain the most malevolent text you’ll never read.
Friend 1: Huh?
Friend 2: Sorry, (pulls away the sheet) but this text is much too delicate for someone like a nonbully to handle.
Friend 1: Aren’t YOU a nonbully?
Friend 2: I am, but I’m holding a piece of paper you’ll never read so I am at a different level of exclusivity. Anyway, for my plan, I need you to spend the amount I am about to give you. May you care it well.

Friend 2 gives Friend 1 a distinctive amount of cash from his wallet.

Friend 1: 5 dollars?
Friend 2: And I want you to purchase the following items: some type of container, I don’t care if it’s spherical or cubical, and H20 although there may be an infinite supply of it in your sink.
Friend 1: and what, in fuck’s sake, are you going to do with a bucket, most likely, and H2fucking0?
Friend 2: What we’re going to do is break into his company…
Friend 1: Yeah?
Friend 2: …barge into his office…
Friend 1: YEAH?! YEAH!!
Friend 2…and dump the water over his face!

Friend 1 gets out of his chair, does a triumphant-kind of dance, and starts choking Friend 2. After a few seconds, he lets go and sits back in his molded, springs-sticking-out chair. He grabs and stretches his face in disbelief.

Friend 1: You’re serious?
Friend 2: (coughing and breathing)Ach, yeah.
Friend 1: This is what you’re going to do to the man who electriwhipped you in your wee-little years of life?
Friend 2: I was actually pretty tall when I was 9. It was kind of embarrassing getting my assocks kicked by someone I could’ve considered as a midget.
Friend 1: Even so, is this really it?
Friend 2: Well, yeah, I mean his clothes are going to be wet, his bodyguards will be pointing and laughing at him, there might be a small chance of rain inside his office…
Friend 1: Tell you what, what if I…make some creative changes to this operation? What if I take over the whole thing? Huh? What do you think?
Friend 2: Ha, why would you want to be in charge of a vengeful plan?
Friend 1: Do you really want to know why…or will you just let me do it?
Friend 2: Nah, whatever insipidly inane story you’d like to tell me will not relinquish my rights for this plan.
Friend 1: I don’t think you’ll feel the same after it’s been told.
Friend 2: All right, then. Fire all weapons. 

To be continued…never.

The First One

Background: The following are random quotes heard around the city and in my own mind. As a post, it is very unorthodox, but knowing how consistent I tend to be, I’d prefer to begin with a casual post then bring the stuff. Not that the following isn’t bad, it’s just different. I would like to thank my friends who have begged me to begin a blog since they first read my writing. It’ll be interesting to see how the blog develops over the summer and throughout the first year of college. Each post will have information on its location and origin, and a few sentences that further elaborate on the post. Comments and any kind of criticism are welcome.

A)+What do you find inside of a dissected fish?       
    -Guts?      
    +Caviar.
B) I scoff and laugh at that statement.
C) I didn’t do anything. I was just screaming.
D) I have twins that bring only misery and displeasure.
E) +Are you guys on a date?      
     -Yes we are. (Casual arm-shoulder connect) We were talking about the universe imploding so that would be like getting to second base.
F) You go down the passageway-oh wait. It’s a hallway. I don’t know why I said passageway.
G) +I thought that being overly sensitive would be my most valuable asset.      
     -Why? Because it made others feel sorry for you?      
     +NO! Well…yes.
H) I can’t do freestyle. I’m too self-conscious.
I) I’m a 33 year old in a 24 year old’s body! What does that even mean?!
J) +What was the point of pg. 86?       
    -To get to page 87. Realistically, I can’t see any other way to do that.
K) You’re smart. Why can’t you think of something stupid?!

More quotes to be posted soon. Special thanks to Arlill Rodriguez, Gary Rodriguez, Justin Bretter, David Dubin, and Spencer Eichler for originally saying the quotes.