"Mental" Notes: The Freshman Years (Pt. 1 of 2)

With this post, I premiere my new column, "Mental" Notes. It's meant to be a public way to flex my brain lobes during an intense period of writer's block. "Mental" Notes, although it is meant to be a type of public forum, won't have the same kind of grammatical attention as other posts will, as it's meant to be a stream-of-consciousness form of brainstorming. "Mental" Notes won't be a weekly column, and there's a chance two posts of "Mental" Notes might follow the other on the next day or have a space of a month without another post. 

College was a wonderful experience, at least during the first weeks. After that, it became increasingly difficult to get inspired enough to write anything so any idea that would cross my mind, I would immediately type it via Evernote, even if it meant getting certain details to be very specific or vague enough that I could recall it later that night. I would continue to complain to everyone I knew how most of my ideas were either repetitive, blockbuster-ish, nonsensical, or just terrible, although everyone still wanted to hear about it. If anything, the only thing holding me back this year was my own self-criticism. There were several projects that I've been working on for weeks, Semaphore being one of them, but the writing process has been such a pain that these once entertaining projects have now become a burden, one I wish I could just do away with. Despite my negativity, I plan to finish Semaphore this summer. In fact, every single time I type anything, it feels like I'm just regurgitating someone else's ideas and passing them off as my own. Maybe I'm facing reality at this point, realizing that since I'm in college, I have to think about a likely career which at this point is being a writer, but that's as ambiguous a career as you can get. Now that I've bored you all with my incessant negativity, let's get to the point. The following ideas are some of the bright points of my wallowing, obscure beginnings as a writer in college, the few times when just considering how an idea could work have been a joy to figure out. Since I acknowledged it, one thing I will work on over the summer is improving my outlook on life. Whether it'll make a difference by the end of the summer, I'll have to see. I'll post more information about the individual ideas in the comments. Enjoy!  

(1) An average, normal day at Case Western Reserve University goes on as a junior takes a break from studying to read his favorite short story by Ray Bradbury. All is well and peaceful until a car drops from out of nowhere right into the middle of the street. The care lands nose-first and scrapes along for a few feet until stopping and dropping its back wheels onto the street. The junior looks away from the book and rushes over to the car. After struggling to open it, he uses his book to smash open the window, and opens the door with the door handle. He looks around for a second to see if anybody is inside when his entire arm is being held up a loud, growling noise. A dog leaps from the car and starts attacking the junior.
"This is what I get for saving your life?" he retorts as he slips off his jacket and drops it, which the dog continues to chew on. The junior cautiously enters the car, and notices something in the back. There are a stack of paint cans that cover most of the back seat. When the junior touches the can, all of them collapse on him and the junior is completely drenched in paint. After checking the labels, he's relieved in knowing that the paint is non-toxic but astonished when he realizes what year the cans are from: 2100(The current year is 2011). One of the dogs waits in the front of the car, shaking nervously, until it sees the junior approaching him carefully, and finally embracing him energetically with many licks on the cheek. The dog who attacks him tries again with the junior grabbing the dog's body and forcing it to behave properly. The dog gets half its body doused with "future" paint, as a result, so other people only see its backside instead of its front. The junior doesn't realize he's invisible until he notices a curious police officer paying no attention to him as the officer investigates the crash. The officer bumps into him and gets frightened, claiming that there's something in the car that can't be seen. The group of students try to approach the car but the officer threatens to punish anyone who does. The junior sees the dogs leaping out of the car and tries to follow them. The crowd screams in horror at the sight of the attacking dog's hind legs and tail.
"Where are you going?" says the junior to the dog. "Come on!" he picks up the two dogs and runs away.

One morning, when I was walking to class, a quick scene played out in my mind that involved a car landing nose-first and dragging itself on the road for about 8 seconds while the hapless college student can only watch. From that point, ridiculous plot points kept making more connections to the idea until reaching the conclusion that the car was part of an experiment that went wrong(not horribly wrong, mind you). At one point, during the original draft, I made an unnecessary joke about that the paint cans covered by the shroud resembled a corpse, scaring the junior to fall back on the car horn. To be fair, the plot is rich enough that I could consider it for a short story in the future, but far too advanced and technologically demanding for a short film.

(2) An R-rated movie for kids. A poorly timed music festival goes horribly wrong when riots threaten to destroy the entire city. The riots end after a week but the effect on the city doesn't. No one dares to try to leave their homes in fear of looters and graffiti artists. Two brothers, 13 and 8, do the unthinkable and go to the site of the music festival. They notice a banner that has been ripped from its pole but is still in pretty good shape. They go back home and try to make a kite of the banner. At the same time, a powerful gust of wind takes the two brothers, working in the garage, out of it, and into the skies, all 1000 feet of it. Hanging on tightly, the brothers begin fearing for their lives until they get high enough that they are able to see beyond the city and are amazed at the sight of it.  Brothers paragliding across the country using many large fabrics to get to their destination. Later on, they improve the design of the first banner, are able to find a second banner, and begin a ludicrous cross-country journey around the US. A frightening moment: bullies start chasing the two brothers and obtain a weapon to try to pierce the fabric.

This idea came about in a vivid dream I had one night. It began with both me and my brother running away from a manic who's shooting at us. A few bullets pierce bits of the fabric that we're holding. The maniac starts reloading bullets, just as my brother and I notice a steep drop ahead of us. At that moment, two of the maniac's cronies drop in from nowhere with automatic machine guns and RPG's. We have no choice but leap from the edge. We let the fabric unravel, open up, and the wind currents miraculously carry us into the skies. The maniac pulls out his own fabric (from out of nowhere) and chase us. The dream skips the chase and ends with my brother and I flying next to some hot air balloons. The background, about the ruined music festival, was included afterwards for the concept. This is a concept I'd love to return to in the future, possibly when I have a large enough budget to film it. 

(3) A man watching television is verbally assaulted by the television personality(TP) he's watching. After a few seconds of futile insults, the TP starts hurling glass bottles at him(that don't break)-(the man has difficulty reacting to the bottles hitting his head, only being able to slur out an inaudible word) until, finally, the man decides to turn off the TV and go for a walk. He opens the door, and takes a step, and falls 10-15 feet in a ditch that surrounds his house. For the next few minutes, the man struggles to pull himself out of the ditch despite his broken bones.

3) This idea came to mind shortly after a ridiculously long study session. I was walking back to my dorm, and an image of a man, whose fluids have been replaced by rancid toxins, watches an increasingly boring program. It was one of my many inspiring daydreams that temporarily replace reality with an unusual premise. It becomes a problem when I act out the scene in real-time to people in passing. The idea for the man to fall in the ditch was a way to surprise the viewer in my hallucinatory fantasy. Shortly after, I preceded to watch an entire web series, CrackedTV, from beginning to end…and it was still Wednesday.

(4) A college student, upon realizing he's becoming less and less social, decides to overcome his fear of greeting everyone while walking by deciding to embarrass himself and say "Ripe figs" repeatedly while walking in numerous tones(whispering and shouting).

After a brainstorming session about programs to consider airing on the college television station, I thought about an unusual PSA that encouraged people to say "Ripe Figs" as a way to break the ice in the college community. I would be the unfortunate guinea pig in the skit for Case Jackass (a show that sounds exactly like what you'd expect) and says "Ripe Figs" in a large crowd of people while someone would be filming from a distance. This is still currently a "private" idea but would be worth a shot as an abnormal experiment or at least a conversation topic for the cynics at Case Western.

(5) A short story/short film describing your trouble with making mac and cheese in college. It'll be called "Mac and Cheese".

This was my idea for my first short film before writing Semaphore. It would've starred myself as the hapless college student who forgot to practice making mac and cheese before coming to college. It would've been a combination of slapstick, visual gags, and exaggerated facial expressions (just like every other comedy). It was based on my actual first attempt at making mac and cheese one Friday afternoon when I was too lazy to head over to the dining halls which was a 2 minute walk from my dorm. I followed the instructions very closely but still made the mistake of drowning my macaroni in boiling hot water, causing the individual pasta pits to mend into a clump of fabricated greed. I poured the cheese on it and ate it, clump and all. It was the most embarrassing thing I'd eaten up to that point but I only had to wait two days for more disgraceful examples of sustaining myself in college.

(6) A short "foreign" film about someone who is with his friend, but then cuts his lips deeply. Done with gibberish and body gestures.

After writing the first draft of Semaphore, I took a walk and had this scene play in my head. It was supposed to be a heightened example of gestures being a way to express emotions coupled with buckets of blood pouring out of the lips (because that's funny, right?) Overall, this was more of an amusing thought than something I would consider making.

(7) Possible idea for a Spanish short story: the tale of a rat who survives a nuclear blast.

After I took Introduction of Spanish Literature, I realized that I didn't give enough attention to the Spanish culture as I should have all these years and in the spirit of the work of Julio Cortázar, I decided to write my own short story in Spanish. This was the first idea I considered. To be fair, it never went beyond this sentence and a quick little sketch I drew to visualize the impact, but it would've been a combination of prose and poetry, giving an impression of the explosion but never explaining where/why it happened. The rat would've been an interesting analogue for the aftermath of the blast. For some reason, I'm inspired by explosions, the look, sound, and feel of them, and like Hollywood, it's something I tend to heavily abuse during my daydreams.

P101-The Goddamn Pilot

We are introduced to Harold and his family as a chance occurrence at Harold's job causes Harold to get the opportunity of a lifetime.

The first episode of a series has to be good enough for a network to pick it up, and I would consider this first episode as a misstep, much like South Park’s first episode. The title already shows a series that is trying too hard to be original, and finds itself in a difficult place.

THE OPENING: The screen turns on and the HBO logo is buzzing with TV snow. A slow hum plays as "Original Programming" appears under HBO. The screen goes black. The Presenters' logo lights up all of a sudden, cued by the theme song, the big band theme from Woody Allen's Sleeper. Some of the letters turn off/flicker on and off as the theme song plays for a few seconds. The logo is made up of carnival lights, similar to the logo for Boardwalk Empire. 

The episode begins with a bird’s eye view of the Howardson’s home, a lovely scene to begin until a bird suddenly explodes due to the sun’s rays. The camera pans towards one of the windows which is a black square and only a faint glow from an alarm clock. We see Harold’s room in pitch black until the light turns on revealing Harold exercising with an anesthetic arm(for some reason). His son Hal knocks on the door and tells him breakfast is starting. We are introduced to the whole family at the breakfast table, as they talk about current events such as Hal’s upcoming science fair and Harold’s usual rant about how terrible his job is. Harold realizes he’s late for work and rushes over to his car, jumping over the cooked bird from earlier and nearly running over a person as he backs up from the curb. Commercial break. We cut to the office building where we see many people busy at work on their computers, and then to Harold. He is an accountant at a successful business. We see his desk which is littered with sketches and drawings of sorts, mostly of a character from his childhood, and see the back of a picture frame. The camera turns to see the picture which is an autographed picture of John Lasseter instead of a family portrait. Harold talks with a dissatisfied customer and stumbles on certain words. “I’m sorry that happ- happened, but-but’ (away from the phone) godfucking damn it! (on the phone) ‘but there isn’t much I can do about it.” His frustration leads to him slamming the phone towards the wall. He hides his face shamefully until an old man sits on the opposite side and asks for his help. The man turns out to be The Editor, a famous animation director who created his own studio ten years ago but has yet to create a successful film. The Editor sees Harold’s drawings and is instantly impressed. He asks Harold for an interview to which Harold agrees to. The episode ends with a shot of Harold at his new desk at Flowers United and a picture of the family, albeit an embarrassing one he was supposed to have ripped up.

Altogether, it’s not a terrible episode as an introduction, although I recall the original conversation at the table as confusing and filled with shit jokes. Also, the meeting with Harold and the Editor seems very unlikely to happen so easily and may need either a different place or with Harold already working at Flowers United. Also, the opening is too strange and has to be changed. As a pilot, it’s clear that writing one is difficult and I can’t imagine the amount of people today who are trying to get a pilot picked up by a network. This may have influenced my decision to avoid that section of the entertainment industry as it will be stressful and self-destructive. My art teacher has recommended trying to make a graphic novel eventually which I will most likely try. Despite what I’ve said of the pilot, it is a good introduction to the characters and maybe if I have time, I’ll try to write it again.

Short Story

Sorry, we are currently experiencing some technical difficulties and will return with our regularly scheduled programming as soon as this blogging interface becomes less broken. Thank you for your patience.
  
Originally typed in December of 2009.

Pt. 1

I arrive a minute before the deadline, 11: 59 am, in tattered clothes and ripped jeans. This is my evening wear; my noon wear is still at the Laundromat’s. I think it’s been there since yesterday or Friday at the least. I know certainly in that period of time that the pink shirt with a blood splat on it and the plaid jeans have to be in the cart at the Laundromat’s, I just forgot to collect them. They should still be there. Anyway, I’m feeling pretty confused right now. I can hear the electrical surge from the neon sign, attempting to advertise a product at the worst possible time. People can read the sign since it’s in huge letters and it’s daytime. Why would you have the lights on at this time of day? I blame the restaurant owners’ laziness on this one. For some reason, everyone who’s passed me in the seconds I’ve arrived here has chuckled when they saw the sign. It’s a stereotypical neon sign, an aggressive shade of orange, in all capitals, nothing original. It has to be an inside joke of some sort, a city-only kind of joke. I would never know since I’m from Cincinnati.

48 seconds have gone by. Make that 52. I look in both directions to see if the girl is coming. It would be a better impression on her if I was already there, with a rose in my hand. No, too clichéd. Chrysanthemums, she’ll love those. Maybe.

The door handle feels like it was imported from Antarctica, my fingers are magnetized to it, and it feels as if every cell in my hand is becoming converted into frozen drops of water. It wouldn’t be a superhero kind of thing since only my hand would be affected; it would actually be a deformity.

The place looks okay, but I don’t see what the big deal is. The walls are painted professionally, but I sense an illusion happening here, that I can grab a part of the wall, tear it right off, and discover…something. Each waiter, despite having a fancy appearance, seems to be the kind of people who spit in your water, many times so I wouldn’t know what’s up. But I can tell. They are the gossiping individuals who continually complain about the client they had, pointing out every single flaw they could detect from him or her. I don’t know where they can get to with that information, maybe use it as a conversation starter at a party. Stepping into the place gives me an instinctual reaction to grab something and pull me out of a pit. The poor guy who took his time to paint this abomination on the whole floor. I commend him or she to have carefully dotted the floor in different colors to give a realistic interpretation of what sand may be like. What a shame. My table’s not too bad; it is right at the window with scarlet red squares and circles as part of the fabric’s design. The lighting reminds me of a theater, with the closing monologue seconds away from happening. Bit terrifying in a strange way; I can’t really see any of the other patrons. I can hear them, but it seems as though as I am all alone. That’s an exaggeration. It’s not that bad.

The only thing I know about this girl is that she’s a grammar freak. Contractions, prepositions, if it’s not in a sentence, it’s not hers. She gave me an unenthusiastic answer towards what she would be wearing when she comes here. White shirt and blue jeans. Lots of ‘Shelly’s have passed by, some of them guys. When the world at my normal field of view becomes boring, I begin to stare at the chand-no wait, ceiling…FAN! That’s right, ceiling fan!… I look at the fan. Such a fascinating piece of furniture. Wooden in each ‘blade’, a redwood oak kind of color, held together by a cylindrical figure of the purest white chemical science can deliver. Vrwhrrr, vrwhrrr. Such a peaceful noise, you could get a group of toddlers to stop crying simultaneously with this miracle from non-existent heaven. I can look at this fan for ages. I try to find one ‘blade’ and wish to join it on its never-ending journey by circling my head in rhythm with the fan.  Achieving Nirvana…

“Hey, stupidass!”

Damn. I stop moving my head to search for the origin of the screaming banshee. It’s a guy, at the table across from mine, mid-30’s, facial hair apparent, brown hair, blue business suit, and the typical ‘much too expensive for your own good’ type of watch. Can’t quite see the company name, maybe a Ro-

“Hey! Dumb fuck, over here!”

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“Do you have some kind of mental problem or something?”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to know that kind of information.”

“Well, there must be something wrong with you. Why the hell are you looking at the fan?”

“The, the fan?”

“Y...yes?”

“Well, um, you see that, um-”

“Whoa, what’s the problem? Can’t admit you’re a dumb fuck or what?”

"Is this the place for that kind of language?”

“Just answer the question."

“This fan…means a lot to me. It is a part of me, the indescribable part- Wait, who are you calling?”

“My girlfriend, Betty. She’s not gonna believe this one bit, that I finally met a client for her services.”

“What’s her job?”

“Psychiatrist. Ugh, this takes forever.”

“Wait just one goddamn minute! I’m not crazy. I’m just in love.”

“In love with what?  Something that in a few years will end up at the dump?”

“Hey, you and I are headed towards the same place, too! Cept mine will be nicer and with a marching band to boot. And…1, 2, 3...19…13 mourners!”

“287.”

“That’s impossible! That can’t be the amount of people who love you.”

“Oh, but it is…and counting.”

“Good for your ass. I’m gonna go back to what I was doing.”“Telling your beloved Kenmore how you enjoy kissing her 4 extra arms? What are you even looking at anyways? There’s no point in following one ‘blade’ around in circles. The quick rotations of the blades make the whole fan seem like one unit. There’s no need to go around in circles when you can just look at ONE, single unit!”

The spectators around us shouldn’t be letting this happen. Just like in a dogfight, all they do is watch patiently as the two dogs bite into each other’s flesh. They don’t care about the emotional connection between me and my beloved, and for that, I don’t care about them. I was seconds away from pushing the dude’s chair, when the waiter walked up to him, holding his dish. Sandwich at a restaurant? Whatever, it’s that guy’s life, that guy’s choice, and…that guy sucks.

“Here’s your sandwich, sir! Hope you enjoy it!”

“Yeah. Can you get…a bag, a doggy bag, please? I think I’ll eat it later.”
“Um…sure. Let me, um, direct you to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Strangely enough, my hatred towards this person made me that much more curious about him. Why is he really uptight? Did he have a difficult time at work today? More questions kept popping out, some of which I began to write down on a napkin. I wanted to see this guy again, still hate him, but more learn more about him so that my hate seems sensible instead of careless. The guy turned around and approached my table. Casually, but I still felt alert and grabbed the salt shaker.

“Here.”

“What’s this?”
“Betty’s card. You might want to hold on to that. Just in case.”

The smug bastard. I can’t believe he…Ooh, she’s cute. 

Pt. 2

Shelly should be here any minute now. All she’s told me about her so far is that she loves horror movies, preferred junk food is raisins, and plays part-time basketball, so for some reason, I can imagine her as a tall person. There could be many possibilities as to what a person can be if the only thing you've seen that's theirs is digitally reprinted text on a screen. Maybe it's her imminent appearance or the argument I had with the jackass, but suddenly I'm not very hungry. Strangest thing, I had a craving for a turkey sandwich with pumpernickel bread, slathered with honey mustard, and now, nothing. Not even water.

Shelly comes, skipping into the restaurant, politely speaking to the-wait...who's the person called? whatever, she talks to him, the guy points toward my table, and she walks to it. Turns out I was wrong about Shelly. She's pretty short, actually, reaches my neck, at least I think. Much cuter than Betty at least. Brunette, one line of hair that covers 5% of her left eye, pretty outfit. She's pretty. Oy, I'm a jackass. There's more to her, absolutely, but...right now, nothing particularly descriptive jumps out about her. Her shirt's blue, has a pocket protector, don't really know. Oh god, look at that color. Blue on every finger. Why do people do that to themselves? Does that really make them more beautiful, painting those already hideous abominations. I can't even look at my own  group of those bastards. Shelly sits at my table, on the seat right across mine. She...oh, it's not a shirt-takes off her jacket, revealing the white shirt she promised. Cept its more white than I imagined. I don't know if it's her Mona Lisa-esque face, or her simply divine combination of colors in her eyes, but something is making that shirt so damn bright. Ach, my eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Some dust flew into my eyes."

"Are you sure it wasn't sand? Ha, ha, ha!"

I get it. Floor looks like sand. Ha.

"So, what'd you do to get here?" I asked politely.

"I drove."

"You...uh, didn't...have any trouble? Didn't...um, crash in the middle of the way? Pick up...a murderous hitchhiker or(cough, cough)"

"Are you nervous, Darren? There's nothing to worry about. It's just us and other people we don't know."

"No, of course...(cough) Waiter!"

She's so fucking beautiful, I can't comprehend it. Suddenly more descriptions about her appeared like menu options, right in front of her face. Hair: Each strand could be used to knit together the most beautiful sweater fit only for Venus' apparel, but, then Shelly would be bald... ...hm. Nose: Only the likes of Michelangelo could carve a perfect replication of the curve on her nose. I would kill any other artist who would attempt such a feat. Eyes: The amount of colors in her eyes could be found and identified in a Kandinsky piece, yet each color meshes together into a united front of... color! Brown has never been this beautiful. That's just the face area, being described right now, I could spend weeks, literally weeks, describing every definitive aspect of her body, except then, I would have to assume a new role: Darren, recently graduated college student, mama's boy, stalker. Not worth it. 

"Do you need some water? I have a water bottle in my bag."

"Ach, yes, prease-"

She grabbed the bottle, and threw it across. Bad idea since I'm such a butterfingers. The bottle bounced off the right side of my palm, then the left, hit my forehead, and then stopped. Tightly in between my hands. It wasn't going on anywhere. For some reason, I couldn't get that damn cap off, twisted it, smacked it on the table. I had to ask for her help but, almost immediately as I thought that, her slender, perfect fingers tapped the bottle, a slight twist, and the cap was off. She must've understood my struggle as she threw away the cap. Or maybe she does that with all caps, I don't know. 

"(chuckle) Go on. Drink up." she said, with a humorous smile.

As you wish, my darling. Must've been either out of my mind or trying to impress her as I drank the whole bottle in one gulp. Kept burping the rest of the time, also. I apologized for every burp I would make, even some that we both couldn't hear. Such an interesting woman, obviously I was wasting my time with those chat conversations we had on the intershit. Okay, it's not that bad, but face-to-face conversations are my preference to one-line-one-minute--wait-two-minutes-for-response conversations. Really loves horror movies, she retold the first 15 minutes of The Exorcist in descriptive detail. She can watch Child's Play and tell me all about it so people can stop bitching to me about never seeing it. That  fucking red-haired midget. Plays basketball, but actually is a professional at golf. She could give me some pointers. Grammar freak, maybe two months ago, but not so much anymore. She's trying harder now to switch from her essay voice to her casual voice. It must've been her parents' fault for that, switching from whatchyall doin' to what are you all doing. She actually has a pretty impressive vocabulary; She could help me with some of my job resumes and make me sound smarter than I really am. This could work out.

Pt. 3

"You wouldn't believe this guy. He just starts barking at me, for no reason, just cause I was looking at the fan. He has no sense of furniture appreciation," was my attempt at chit-chat.
"I know what you mean." She puts her arms flat on the table, holding her head up and staring dreamily at me. Or is she bored? Huh. "Once, I came to an electronic department store to purchase cables for my high-definition surround sound system, and I just couldn't stop looking at this fascinating component that hung up on the wall. The-Most-(word to be determined later) component I have ever seen. I still don't understand why to this day."

I chuckled, a bit too loud, however. I just couldn't stop looking at her face, until my neck started aching. This was a chance to really observe the scenery. 

"Sorry, my neck hurts a little. I need to-move it around. You know."

"I don't but, heh, go on ahead."

Turned to the left, the right, up, down, diagonal, oh shoot.

Blue. Fingernail. Paint. I completely forgot she put that on her gorgeous fingers. Ugh, I can't understand why she had to do that to herself. What does that improve, anyway? Is it a beauty issue? I just don't understand. She's definitely not my counterpart if she does that to herself. How dare her! Damn that blue, it keeps tempting me to stare right back at those things, those careful brushstrokes repeating themselves over and over. The crime was done, a few days ago, at 8 pm, in her room, with every light turned on. She had to staple her fingers to the table to do this crime. The light's suddenly went off, but she kept going, torturing those terrified fingers till the deed was done. Heartless...harlot! "Is your neck getting better?"

"Uh, kind of."

You dirty, fucking bitch.

"So...what are you going to get? I think the waiter's getting impatient," said the siren.

"Uh, I don't know. I'm not really hungry."

"I think I'm gonna- Sorry, I mean, going to get something with fish."

Too bad that those fish don't have any nails so you can plaster your shit all over their fins.

" Maybe I’ll get some appetizers. Tiny burgers, or crackers with cheese."

"Mmm, the salmon looks good. Mm,mm!"

I can't take it anymore! I just can't look at those things any further. From my perspective, all I had to hide those freaks was to...well, I can't quite describe it, but with my hands together, I placed them right below my nose, closed, and squinted my eyes for to put the focus only my hands. She wasn't an idiot, she knew something was going on.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry but I just can't look at those things anymore."

"Excuuuse me?!"

"Those things. I can't look at those things anymore."

"And why can't you look at those things anymore?"

"Well, they're right there, right in front of my face, presenting their supposed greatness to the world. And just to make both of us clear, they're not that impressive, either."

It took her a few seconds to comprehend that line, and a split second for a rebuttal. 

"You know what? Fuck YOU!!!" 

She stood up, grabbed a cup from a table, and splashed it right in my eyes. My manliness told me to just stay quiet, and swallow this unfortunate occurrence with dignity, but my common sense told me to scream and never stop screaming, till it was appropriate. A week later, I told my mother about this incident, and she told me, clearly and offensively, why Shelly became offended.

 

Oy, I'm a jackass.

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.