A Reflection

End of the semester for the most part. Don't know what to reflect on, truthfully. Nothing is like it was and nothing is going as I expected. Guess that's why a friend of mine is big on "no expectations". I'm a bit more bitter and cynical than I would like to be. Not too proud of that or any of  the fracturing relationships and isolation that took place. But what can you do? Blog about it, lazily wait behind a monitor, hoping that the best falls into my lap similar to how the worst did? Neh. Not me. I plan to try to forget the view from here and seek out more promising verandas. And for more online classes. But I'm on the fence about that currently. Can't decide whether I'm more unsatisfied with social anxiety or craning my neck to look at my laptop screen. I suppose both are personal problems that I should surpass though. Smough. Smaug. Smug. Dadgummit. I done lost the top to my 20 fluid ounce soda cola. Reflecting on that, I should have been more careful. Reflecting on the last few months, I could have been more careful. Reflecting on everything, I tried my best and I need to accept that sometimes no amount of precaution can prevent life from unwillingly sodomizing you. Not sure if there's a willing part to that but I figure we all get the gist. Writing these journals has been curiously liberating, and I feel dumb saying that again. I don't know why I enjoy nonsensical ramblings or always going off topic. I'm probably a pain to read, that is if anyone ever reads these. I think I was trying to be optimistic and talk of progress early but then I got distracted. I should squash that habit. I don't need to be so long winded and stray from the path. Be precise. Be concise. Be aware. Be moderate.
Die young, die dumb; but not soon.

Decadent Homosexual Activity

I think I chose this title because I heard Bill O'Reilly say it once and it made me laugh pretty hard. That guy has to be a contrived character that only stays on the air because some people unfortunately subscribe to the terrible beliefs that foam at his mouth, and because of the stupid people, like myself, who occasionally check in to hear such outlandish claims just to laugh or rage at. Regardless of being a fictional character, he is a character nevertheless. There was this one time where he was steaming mad and questioning the sanity of the Padres, yes that baseball team, because they had some irrelevant weekly special. Well, normally it would have been an irrelevant, unimportant event, but since it happened to include gay/lesbians in the mix that angered the ever pious Trill O'Reilly. It was something dumb like "Monday is kids night, kids half off! Bring the kids!" then Tuesday was mom night, then some other random sponsor night, then Thursday was "gay night" and that's when the fecal matter smacked the paddles that stir the air. Okay, I should have just said poo hit the fan but I got too wordsy with it. That's my bad. Is it normal to digress and break narrative as much as I do in these journals/stories? I am terrible. Anyways, once it was the night of the living gay, Bill O'Reilly was outraged that the baseball team would ever consider trying to congregate all of those grody sinners into the same social environment that all-american little boys and girls would be. Can you believe it? They purposefully and spitefully gathered all of those people where they knew there would be CHILDREN! Think of all the parents that would have to take the time to explain to the kids! I meeeean, c'moooon. You have a wholesome, traditional family: one dad + one mom = one baby boy + one baby girl, and you have to tell those kids that some times people love someone of the same gender! Blasphemous! You'd probably be forced to watch the game after that with that terrible wet blanket hanging over you family..
Or, as I imagine, you would watch the game and move on because it truly isn't anything that should cause so much hullabaloo. It does not affect your life whatsoever. If someone at a restaurant ordered cake, would you tell the waiter to cancel that order because you subscribe to a belief system that deems cake as unholy and shameful? No, because you would seem like a senseless dingus. For your health.

In The Mouth of Madness

I don't think I've done any of these journals appropriately. I don't think this is how I was supposed to record my thoughts or ideas, and that's weird because I don't know what template I think I should follow when leaking out of my brain. I feel lost, especially in my thoughts. Is it because it's unfamiliar territory? Is that why it's called lost in thought? Silly rhetoric, tricks are for kids. Take your silly inquisition elsewhere. Or Elsweyr, the home of the Khajits in the continent of Tamriel. I've decided that if any of these blogs aren't done properly, it will absolutely be this one. Hence the title of this. Have you ever seen that movie that this is titled after? Crazy movie, don't know what else to say about it because I haven't watched it in what some might consider "a long time". Cause after all, what really is time, mannn? Time's just some craazy thing that we were taught in elementary school to keep our schedules taught and responsible. That's another crazy intangible noun they teach us: responsibility. Who needs to be responsible? Surely not me. I scoff at such language and wittily refer to it as "responsi-bile" because I spit at such preposterous terms. Yes, wittily. Let me indulge in my wordplay. Did you know I did theatrical performances over words? Yes, yes, they were indeed "wordplays". Wit, again! Are you Hebrew? Cause Jewish Israeli cute, girl. HA! Puns. I would never have garnered such a high capacity for high brow comedy had I never discovered such immaculate puns online. I can thank the web for whetting the sword of creativity to unheard of degrees. Now, we need not create our own humor or jest, we merely need to reblog and recycle former content as our own so we can receive praise for finding someone/something of merit! It's wonderfundle what a bundle we receive! See there? That's a reference to an old cable commercial that aired for a provider that only airs in midwestern states. My references are off the hook thanks to the internet. Are you an election? Cause I'll hold you any day. OK. I'll admit that one was melded in the iron works that I call a brain, but at the same time I can't be sure that someone else hadn't smithed a similar joke throughout the ages. What is originality? What is individuality? Should such troubles pollute your mind? Because it seems that those who are most concerned with the two are the farthest from them.

It's Late and I'm Watching Movies

I solemnly swear that I am up to no good. It's three in the morning and I am watching Harry Potter. I started reading the series again over the summer but lost time and stopped at some point. The books are always so much more interesting than the movies. Something about words and imagination are much more powerful than their visual/live-action interpretations and I truly believe that. I say truly because I feel like it's because a lame trend among people to consider books superior to movies, kind of like how the internet started the idolization of pizza, cats, and being "introverted" the last few years. I wish I hadn't stopped reading those books, and I wish my chinchillas hadn't chewed them up. They either despise J.K. Rowling or, more than likely, love paper. I love that woman, though. Especially for releasing an acclaimed book under a pseudonym. I question whether or not it's praised because of the hoopla surrounding the reveal of it turning out to be good, but choose to believe it's something of merit since everyone hated Garth Brooks as Chris Gaines. One of my teachers in high school told me that my name sounded like a character that existed in the Hogwarts universe and that's kind of stayed with me since then. Few people have told me my name was interesting in a similar respect, but to hear Harry Potter worthy was unbelievably more interesting. Maybe unbelievable is a stretch, but still. It tickled my fancy. Maybe we can consider this entry as an open letter to J.K. Rowling, and as an offer of my name and likeliness for her to use in writing another book of wizardry. Mrs. Rowling, if you ever stumble upon this garbage piece of writing, I would like you to know that I would like to be place in Ravenclaw. I do not require a sorting hat event, or even much back story or character depth. The sheer mention of my name a handful of times and my character not having any points deducted from my House would undoubtedly be enough. You are a sweet woman, I love you, be safe and have fun. Keep writing books for me to read then struggle to find time to revisit.
-With much sincerity and gratitude, Alexander Nethercot of Ravenclaw

p.s. I hope you end open letters in that way

1,440 Minutes of Fog

*waking up for the first time*

It's about 7:45ish, and I'm awake to move my car so my mom could go to work (quite redundant but is my morning routine) and there is a noticeable mist. Or fog. Isn't very thick so I'd consider it a mist, but it also might be silly of me to think that the thickness would be the difference between the two. Either way, I haven't seen clouds on the ground in a cool minute and I don't plan to spend my morning wondering how to differentiate between fog and mist. Back to bed. 

*waking up about noon*
No mist. No fog. No real importance. Menial chores and errands to be done, sustenance to be consumed.
Nothing of real value to be recorded for a few hours (not like the rest of these entries or stories are, though)

*leaving my house for no particular reason at 6ish*
Ahh, the ol' mist is back. Still not too dense, but yet everyone is driving like there is kangaroos in the streets. Terrible idiom. Or simile. I know it's a simile but not sure what qualifies an idiom. Uncertainty will end me.
Anyhow, I'm at my destination now.

*leaving destination*
This is stupid. Cursing stupid. I hope someone's God damns this fog. Yes, fog. It is no longer mist; it is easily thick and tangible enough that by any definition it is a fog. I can't even see thirty feet forward to the stoplight. I hate everything. If there are other vehicles, or worse marsupials, on these roads, I would be none the wiser. There could even be pirates. I've seen the movie this stuff is named after, and pirates will soon fill this city as much as the fog itself has... luckily we're landlocked, and thankfully I have my wits about me to remember this. I'm really hungry but also really scared of dying (not of pirates, but of other fog drivers) so I think I'll take refuge in my abode.



...and that's the tale of how a day of fog almost killed me, but it dissipated and I decided not to commit suicide.

obviously written in retrospect and not while operating my votor mehicle

The Closest to Kingdom That You Will Come

You are a portrait of perfection. A beautiful masterpiece. While all of us..? How impudent we are! Foisting our inferior forms upon your eyes. We are merely scribbles and squiggles; the very sight of us offends your eyes! Even those who have held privileged, sacred lives upon the highest pedestals hold nothing in regard to your splendor. Even with all our spit and polish, we make for but crude drawings on the wall in your comparison. It really gets my goat to think there are some who would consider contesting your beauty. Are they oblivious, or simply in denial? Can they not see that we are not to be exalted and should remain nothing but chalk stains on the sidewalk? Our colors will always be drab and ordinary, forever paling in comparison to the brilliant white of your artful creation. It's truly a shame what sad, dreary paintings we all make when displayed next to your magnificence. We are complacent. We are corrupt. Do not be deceived. We are the spitting image of monsters, and must don the masks rightfully so.. I'm sorry. Please, excuse my digression. I know you haven't time to listen to my prattle. Farewell. I'm sure you're off to acquire what little perfection you can find in this gaudy world of ours.

written from no real point of view

#basedblog

This is a totally and completely #based blog. I apologize if this journal is inappropriate or does not resemble what a typical journal should. I will not be backspacing and I will not be spell checking. This is tough for me, I hope you understand. What is #based? Well I'm writing very based and very rare rihgt now. That mistake will cost me later.. Being based is a conscious flow of thought streaming forth uninhibited by any sort of restriction of any kind or of any sort. Hold on. I have to move my bed closer to the wall so my pets cannot cause mischief. They are very mischevious creatures that I love and want to be safe. I cherish them more than some people I know because they are soft. I'm going to move the bed now then take a break to re-enter my state of completely based consciousness. Sorry. I know it wasn't a long time for you, since you just read the next sentence after all, but for me it was a rigorous trial to scoot my bed and come back to based world. So, how are you feeling? Oh, this is sad and lonely. I have no 'you' to direct this at.. I will just remain based and continue to drink this decadent mixture of the heart of an oak tree and vanilla coke. This song is incredibly pleasing to my ears and I wish I had words that could aptly present it's beauty in words. It's very atmospheric and has some odd chanting in the background. The chants are crescendo-ing, I hope they do not intend to mount my spirit, body, and mind because they will be sorely disappointed. My mental integrity is currently impregnable, no matter how fertile the intrusive voices may be. I wish I hadn't been so sick on my birthday so I could have had some cake. It was a lovely, pristine cake. That it was. It was entirely edible. Which you would expect from a cake, of course, but this cake had edible bows and other toppings. Not sure why a bow since I'm a 19 year old man-boy but it was definitely an edible arrangement. I'm quite ravenous for that cake now. I would swim through a lake for that cake, mostly because it would be the only thing to calm this fire in my belly that longs for that cake-y substance. What doth life.. 

The Flow of Time is Distorted, Here in Lordran..

Its very fabrics waver, and relations shift and obscure. We are amongst strange beings, in a strange land. We are all undead slowly slipping into a hollow madness. Freaks living in recession. But you don't look hollow, far from it.. Me? I am an adherent of the Lord of Sunlight. Now that I am undead, I have come to this desolate land to seek my very own sun. The sun is a wondrous body, like a magnificent father! If only I could be so grossly incandescent.. then you would know the brilliance of our sun, and I know you would fancy it. Never mind my ramblings, there's no telling how long your world and mine will remain in contact. But the way I see it? Our fates appear to be intertwined. In a land brimming with hollows, could this really be mere chance? Why not help one another on this lonely journey? We could maintain contact in spirit, cross the gap between worlds, and engage in jolly co-operation! Do you find that strange? No need to hide your reaction. Not to worry, I do not mean to impose. I was in the wrong. However, anytime you seek aide, do not hesitate to call upon me. You have a strong faith and, most importantly, a strong heart. You've left me with quite an impression, and I would relish the opportunity to assist you in the trials that await. It would warm my hearth to see you traverse these lands with your humanity in tact. No matter. I shall stay here at the Altar of Sunlight, praying for you and pondering my poor fortune. But if you change your mind, the offer is open.
Hah hah hah..

Avoid the Noid

That might seem like meaningless rubbish to most but it is actually a goal that must be attained by all former and current employees of Domino's Pizza. The Noid is a ridiculous looking man clad in a red, skin-tight, rabbit eared suit with a cheesy black "N" insignia in the middle of a white circle that is centered on his chest. This figure was a physical manifestation of all the challenges of becoming annoyed (uh-"noyed" = Noid) that are inherent in working, as Wikipedia as told me. I've tried to remove him from the workplace, mostly because I've removed myself from that insufferable place after two and a half years of employment, and apply him to pretty much every aspect of life. Because why worry? Life is what you make it. Take time to relax and assess things from a clear perspective. If you can't, don't worry or be annoyed. Just be done with it and revisit it later with a different perspective and perhaps a different understanding of the situation. I haven't done this yet because every time I think I've got a moment of recess it seems I lose my fingers, but I do intend to expand my nexus in the near future. It might be a trying process but nothing with meaning is easy, is it? I don't know how else to elaborate on that, or how I would've left this line blank without this sentence.

I don't read or check for the amount of words in these journal entries usually, but I got less than halfway through this one and noticed about 50 words. This is one of the shortest pieces I've written and I don't think it's too much to assume that it's already 200 words. That makes plenty of these other posts very silly in length, and probably waste of my time. I'll allow it, though, because it's surprisingly calming to write all of this dreck. Finding the voice in your head and permitting it to flourish is a pleasant sensation. Not that there's multiple voices. I only mean that crafting and working on your own individual is fulfilling.

A Week in the Life of a Dancer

I've been secretly dancing (in private) everyday for the last four years. It started out to prove that it was foolish and displeasing but I found myself unusually given to the act. I then began practicing dancing on my own. A few friends danced too, and we danced together sometimes, but overall I found it more relaxing and enjoyable to do in my spare time. It was relieving; alleviated me from most stresses. I was too cool for dancing before and was the embodiment of an ice cube, but once I started it watered me down till I drifted abound and found the beauty of basking in its sunlight. I don't legitimately mean everyday, obvi a hyperbole. Hip words, dancing makes you say 'em. But really. Everyday, all day, would burn me out, make me a burn out weirdo dance addict, and would be unproductive if I lived and breathed dance. It's just easier to say everyday since the days I don't are few and far between. Like I said though, my days aren't a daze of dance. I dance then proceed to do other activities. It's practice. Practice makes perfect, right? We all just want to be perfect, and dancing makes me feel perfect. I wake up, shower, eat if I'm hungry, dance, eat a snack, go to class, come home, do a little dance, play some games or music or tv, dance dance, eat dinner with my family, dawdle, brush my teeth, wash my face, do a jig then fall asleep. Of course since I'm an all-american teen, painful to type even in the most tongue-in-cheek sense, I refresh my social media feed, hangout with my friends at random moments of the day but those aren't guaranteed on the daily. I've made myself a rut, and the monotony has yet to strike me as monotonous. What's that? Dancing that much isn't normal and my parents might be worried? It's fine, they see my accomplishments and sincerity. Besides, they know. Don't be such a dweeb. There's much more wisdom and moderation than I portray, I promise. I just don't know the words to say that would properly convey the convictions I know to be true. I don't know what to say to convince anyone of what I believe. If there's a goblet of the right words lying about, I please hand it to me.
I am so thirsty.

Mass For Shut-Ins

I've read a lot of books and could tell you things you never knew, especially about places you've personally and previously live in. That's a small jab at the kid who was in junior Olympics judo or whatever and tried correcting that girl on the climate/weather in Washington that one day. Sorry if that's petty of me, but that guy seems to hold his opinion abnormally high and should consider taking a nap some time. Anyway, here's what I wrote in class: I'm not sure of a work of literature that has made a noticeable impact on me. Honestly haven't read as much as I would of liked to in the last three years, and that's disappointing now that I think of it. All of the last few that I read in AP English my last two years of high school were pretty interesting and fantastic though. Most people didn't read at all, or read a few pages then sparknote'd and wrote the summary off as stupid, but I typically enjoyed whatever weird story I ended up reading. Well, not all of them were that obscure, except Crime & Punishment (still great), but I guess I felt weird for liking the them. Crime and Punishment, Atlas Shrugged, Gulliver's Travels, 1984, and the Grapes of Wrath being the books I read in class. Dunno why I feel the need to explain that, or this sentence itself either. Free writing is a whimsical thing. I also reread the first three books in the Harry Potter series and started reading Red Dragon, the first book in the Hannibal Lectar series, but that was of my own doing. Red Dragon is really dark and the detail is more than likely sickening to some but I'm not very affected by it. I love how the author describes it. That's something odd that I think I get from my mom. She loves horror movies so I guess after watching so much gory cheese, it's somehow refreshing to to read details that make you cringe or would look ridiculous recreated on screen. Not like I love murder or immense violence, though. I just have a fascination with detail and words to a certain extent.

Phishing With The Innernette

There's plenty of fish in the sea. Unfortunately for me, the waters I throw my lure in just so happen to be in a complacent sea populated with average flounder who are content with their complacency. You would think with this big e-Net forcing us to mingle in social seawater that the selection would improve but it all seems like a facade. We all merely put up profiles and posts of who we ideally wish we were but aren't. We see a ripple in the water, bait our hooks, cast our lines, and wish for the best. We struggle, we reel, we pull, we put forth effort than more often than not end up disappointed with what we caught. Or in a different situation, some of us keep anything we catch but can't understand why that fish might be upset that we keep fishing. You can argue that just because you ordered doesn't mean you can't look at the menu, but then you could also argue that Pluto is still and always be a planet; you can wish, same as we all do, but you're still wrong and should stop where you are. But, to put this train of thought on a straighter track, we don't always catch what we expect. This is a poor extended metaphor, though, because I'm not a very picky person. I only require that you be a nice, honest, fish that is loyal. I don't care what fishly activities you partake in, it does not subtract from your character in the least to me. (unless you are a meth addicted escort of a fish, I might have to consider otherwise) Instead, conversely what happens is that the fish tire of their captor. This might be a creepy and the worst thing to call myself in this comparison, but it's how I end up feeling. I'm a pretty selfless fella and fishes seem to fall victim to their short attention spans when that occurs. When the air is thin, their minds begin to wander like a lazy eye then I feel foolish and feel the need to show myself out. Yeah, this is a terrible metaphor. Start over and imagine that I dug a hole, labeled it 'love', and waited for someone to fall into it. Well, someone did, stayed a little awhile, latched onto my arm, and begin breaking my bones starting at the fingers. I could have gnawed my arm of at the joint in the beginning, started to actually, but found it more fitting to let her break the entire arm and crawl out on her own accord. Now I'm at the bottom of a hole that I dug myself and trying to crawl out with one arm. That's a more apt description than looking for phish. I'd be thankful to be at the point again, but for now I just want out of my current predicament.

Choppy Values

Cheese. Dancing. Dancing over cheese. Silliness. Weighted actions and words. Solidarity. Loyalty. Honesty. Trust. Respect. Humility. Sincerity. Successful endeavors. Expressing myself through other people's descriptions of life. Sanctuary in the eyes of another. Altruism. Genuine introversion and introspection, retrospection in recollection. Interrupting serious moments. Serenity and tranquility in sunrise and sunset. Appreciation of the brunt. Passion. Dusty anecdotes and borrowed tropes. High strung memories like tattered and frayed ropes. Concession. A lack of pride. Exfoliation. Exhaustion, of experience rather than boredom. Warm beds and socks. Dry clothes. Staying up later than I should have and hating myself in the afternoon. The luxury of being able to do that. Unhappiness in my mediocrity. Being a decent person without someone looking over my shoulder. Integrity? Uncertainty. Frequency. Being a creature of habit. Occasionally being spontaneous. My many gigabytes of music. Multiple genres of books and music. Artists of any type that can evoke different emotions with their work. Being able to stream and binge watch entire series on Netflix. Progress, of any kind. Hopefully writing most of these journals. Chinchillas and their soft fur. The cuteness and smile those things bring me. My family and everything they've provided for me. Feeling weird that it took me this long to mention them. My friends, naturlisch. Deutschland auch. Getting hyphy on decadent mixtures. Saying queer things like that. Not meaning queer in an offensive but quirky way. Tolerance of others beliefs. Giggling. Laughing. Chortling. Snorting. Cackling. Any other synonym for audible joy. Almond Joys. Almonds in general. The RPG/bazooka lamp my dad had when I was a kid. The dog I've had since I was a kid. The cat I had when I lived in Georgia. Living in Georgia for that short period of time. Interacting in person without going into a panic. Sneezing without a bloody nose. All things good. Relativity. Pen dances and pendants. In the pendants? Independence and penance. Gifts. Selflessness. Repeating myself. Not really valuing that last one. Esoteric humor. Hating myself for feeling pretentious for most of the things I say, do, or write. Wondering and wandering, pondering and squandering. Running on when I should have stopped awhile ago. Knowing when to stop beating a dead horse. Yeah.

Interesting Title

I need to write a journal. I need the premise for a story. I need characters to be in this story. I need a thick plot and character depth. I need a structured outline to develop a story upon. No panics, no worries.

We have a house. A Victorian house that could use some renovations and exterior maintenance, but a quaint, tranquil house nonetheless. A mother and her two children live in this house. The father had passed away in an accident that occurred on his way to the second job he had taken up to help support his family. The mother, Hilda Lorule, was a tender woman and crushed from the loss of her husband but was determined not to let it erode her mettle. She was a woman of valor and pride, and would never let such harsh circumstances squash her ambitions of becoming a tight rope walker or deny her of providing for her kids. She had never had a real job or any possessions to call her own, except her kids and her aspiration to walk on ropes. Luckily, they had a nice lump sum coming from the life insurance to cover the living expenses for a couple of weeks. The kids were spitting images of their parents. The daughter had many of the same mannerisms her mother had, and the boy held an alarming resemblance to that of his father. A sickening, haunting resemblance, thought the mother. So much in fact that one day while the boy was drawing pictures in the window sill, the mother crept up behind him, pulled out a kitchen knife,
a n d s  t  a  b  b  e  d  h i m..

Peculiar, isn't it? Not so, thought Hilda. For she had secretly been the cause of her husband's death that day. Hilda secretly loathed her husband for working so much for their family and forcing her to stay home to manage their offspring. After all, she could have been hundreds of feet in the air stepping on ropes and receiving adoration from a fanatic audience who was in awe of her devilish feats. She could neither bear to be restricted to that Victorian cage nor to see the ghost of her former lover in the face of that boy. She felt no remorse for her actions. The only thing troubling her was explaining this all to her daughter. Surprisingly, the daughter felt coldly indifferent about all of the events and confessed to sharing the same hopes and dreams that her mother did. The two then disappeared to a world only Barnum and Bailey truly understand.

Transient Living

I wish I had intelligent critiques of life, but I don't. I have little biases based off of what I've seen around me socially and what developments I read about online. I love technology and the advances we've made, and all the accessibility that surrounds our daily lives. Who doesn't? But it seems that the more we advance, the more we start to seem like we're actors in the story of an neo-noir story. It seems that we take one step forward while keeping the other foot planted. What advances have we made, really? The number of hours women devote to housework has not changed since 1930, despite all the advances. All the vacuum cleaners, washers, dryers, trash compactors, garbage disposals, wash-and-wear fabrics.. why does it still take as long to clean the house as it did in 1930? Because there haven't been any advances. Not really. Thirty thousand years ago, when men were doing cave paintings at Lascaux, they worked twenty hours a week to provide themselves with food, shelter, and clothing. The rest of their time? They could play, or sleep, or do whatever they wanted, and they lived in a natural world with clean air, (relatively) clean water, beautiful trees and sunsets. We've had four hundred years of modern science, we ought to know by now what's good for us and what's not good. But instead we choose this life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, mp3 players and electrical tin can openers. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into our mouths. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing away your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats we spawn to replace ourselves. People need to wake up. It's time for a change. Choose your future. Choose life.
this piece brought to you in part by Jurassic Park and Trainspotting

My Room is Drrrrty and Full of Noise

Another class writing.
My room isn't that spacious so maybe that's why it clutters so quickly. I mean, it's just a square with a horizontal rectangular resting object occupying mostly all the available floor space, save for a few steps to walk and the vertical empty rectangular object that I store my wearing fabrics in. Is that a correct usage of "save" or would "except" have sufficed and been less of a reach for to seem intellectual? Oh, the joys of digression from free writing. I put lines through whatever I wrote here in class so I must have really hated this statement. Tangents litter my writing like the droppings of chinchillas litter my room. Oh, yes. My apologies. Besides the rectangle where I rest my head (henceforth called "the restangle") there are two cages for living stacked upon two other cages, these for inanimate objects. Come to think of it, the confines of my room are essentially an enlarged pet cage except I don't wear calloused feet from living a caged feet like most animals do. So make that two cages placed upon a separate set of cages inside a greater cage itself. Those two upper living crates house the chinchillas and all of their loveliness. Loveliness is a relative term however and is sarcastically defined by a miasma of hays, pellets, and fecal matter, gnawed and disfigured  pieces of wood, and a cantankerous running saucer that lulls me to sleep nightly. Keep in mind that I am in possession of two cages that are rupturing at the hinges with that loveliness, and burst out of those bars they do. These creatures' love brims and pours out in a deluge of affection onto my floor nightly for play time. They zip and smash into all four corners, defecating and chewing on all that obstruct their mad dashes on a track that I have yet to determine. Running isn't their only proficiency either. They're excellent climbers so any shelves and desks are scaled and all belongings no longer belong in their place, as the chinchillas have found better spots for them. If this sounds unpleasant, rest, easy knowing they squeak as cute as possible and couldn't sound anymore chipper as they wreak havoc across my living cube. They ever sound reminiscent of stuffed animals or doggy chew/squeak toys at time. Which is odd because my chinchillas have been known to take out their "urges" on small dogs when they are in heat. I don't know if that's irony but... how does one end a free write?

Limsa Lominsa, Eorzea

Truly a spectacle. What a marvelous, prosperous port we live in. Robust maritime trade routes keep Limsa Lominsa bustling with excitement, being a hub for pirates helps too. I don't stake a claim in either of those occupations but I'm forever grateful that they helped me arrive in such a lovely place. Before I found my way here, I was struggling to make ends meet on islands in the seas south of Limsa Lominsa. We Lalafell are tiny, modest people, that bear a semblance to human toddlers, and lead a lifestyle maintained by agriculture. Sadly, our harvests in the last umbral moon haven't been bountiful. About the time when our crops were yielding all time lows, I had fallen asleep (or passed out from fatigue) in a barrel that found its way onto a cargo ship whose goods were purloined by some unsavory mariners in need of quick coin. They wouldn't have hesitated to cut me from navel to neck had they found me stowed away, but thankfully Serendipity is a kind mistress and I safely found myself awakening behind a more than surprised merchant's wares. Once his nerves settled and he realized I wasn't an adolescent, he was kind enough show me around the city intricate planning. It's buildings and market streets are built atop of pillars of stones that are connect by wooden bridges and consists of three levels, the shore and beach included. I'm typically fishing on the docks by the ocean before the sun has risen then peddling my catch on the second level market place in the mornings when townsfolk begin to stir. Typically. I'm still given to napping in barrels on occasion and sometimes find myself daydreaming of becoming an adventurer. You might argue I've already ventured, having found my way here as pirate loot and all, but I seek a thrill much greater than selling fish. Can you blame me? Have you never felt like you were destined for something greater than your skin? I might not be akin to sages and swordsman but you could never dampen the fire that fuels my ambition for greatness. I know not what deeds would achieve me knighthood, only that I hope my good intentions and righteous actions of the present and future would lead me to a wealth and regal authority that could not be surmounted by the failures of my past.

Riding Through The Galaxy on the Hump of a Camel Whose Name You Forgot

Can't remember why I chose this title. I feel dumb and weird, but that's not uncommon for me lately. I'm riddled with anxiety and panic at the slightest hint of interaction. People say that's what happens with starting college but I don't think I would be struggling the way I am with myself if something hadn't struck me. But I don't know. I'm not sure of much of anything. What an existence. My inconsistency got me here more than likely. I feel oddly inferior and like I fall short of all expectations. I feel worthless and boring, yet manic and overwhelming. That's an odd feeling. Not feeling like enough to open my mouth but then when I do it's too much. I wish I had a single thought the least bit legitimate to open up my mouth and spit accuracy. Close family and friends think I hate them, which is terrible. I hate myself. I never meant to project that hatred onto those closest to me, and did my best to cage those thoughts to my own brain. It backfired though. I ended up isolating myself somehow and my mind became a prison that no one tends to visit. Feeling bad for myself won't help. Feeling bad in general won't help. Beginning to wonder if feelings help at all because they only seem to cloud the objectives and relationships that could otherwise effortlessly be maintained. It's sad that this is where I gravitate towards when idle. I wish I could find some solid ground beneath my feet, or just a stable area to lie for awhile. I've been bouncing from one foot to the other trying to cross a mile of hot coal for the last three years it seems and I would just like some consistency. Continuity. Assurance. Confidence. Any sort of improvement. My insides are copper and I'd kill to make them gold. That was stupid. This is stupid. And since I am the thoughts that make me, I am stupid. My inner monologue is littered with false pretenses, forced vernacular, and archaic notions that create a constant sense of loss. My blog/journals are bad and I should feel bad. Especially for that last line. However, self-deprecation is no longer an option. Hopefully. One day I'll find something that motivates me, something that takes me away from the lethargy and depression. Until then, I'll keep my gaze on the horizon and hope for a brighter day. Or for something else to come and strike me down further. Depending on the day, who's to know? Certainly not me. I don't want to spend all day wondering if a glass is half full, half empty, half and half, or any other poor comparison for a mental attitude. I'd rather pour out the glass of stagnant water and start fresh.

Class Journal of Why I Go To College

"Why are you here?" It's easy to make a blatant remark as to how I came to existence (horrible when a dad loves a mom joke here) but a tad more difficult to answer respectively. I can't do the latter but I suppose the second best way to go about this would be to elaborate on what lead me to attending college here, what my current career path is looking like, and my hopes for the entire experience.
Not-so-shamefully, my reasons for going to school at Rose State aren't super spectacular. In fact, there aren't even multiple reasons. I practically started solely because the road to my career is long and paved with debt so anything to alleviate the stress of that is quite welcome. The Tick(et) to Rose is very helpful since my family isn't what one would call "well off". After that, the only other reason I could muster up is that the school is less than five minutes away from my house. It's great to save time, gas, and a little rest. Though enrolled primarily to save money, that isn't to say I'm reluctant to be here. I'm perfectly content with making things as simple as they can be.
The aforementioned career that plans to wreck my savings is being a radiologist. That is in no way set in stone, despite being weaved into the interweb.  For now I'm starting pre-med and will probably just be a doctor of internal medicine until I decide what I want to specialize in, if anything at all. However, there's still the unlikely event that I'll be young and change my mind altogether. I'm pretty decent at most things, so I'll keep my options open.

Probably the first journal I wrote. Safe to say that when typing this at the end of the semester that I would be happy to get my basics done.

Inherently Incoherent Introduction

Disclaimer: This is a blog intended for the inhabitants of the internet who are proficient in the art of carpetbagging (or my journals for English class). If you are viewing this but are not well-versed in the bagging of carpet, and have come to this page with hopes of learning how to do so accordingly, then you have made a grave mistake. This is no place for you.

As-Salaamu 'Alaykum. I am Alexander Nethercot aka Salamander Necropot aka Namaste Jones aka Martin Burger King Jr. aka Slumball Chinchillionaire aka Flex Luthor aka Pandora's Jock aka Steve Harvey Oswald aka The Boisterous Bottom aka Gawky Spice. The penultimate is less of a pseudonym and more of a typed testament that I have debonair buns that could send one into cardiac arrest; a dapper derriere, one might say.  However, elaboration on that subject no doubt clarifies why I'm also Gawky Spice*. (Though, while touching on the topic, it is imperative to include that by reading this statement you agree that if you find yourself feeling inclined to possess a proper posterior that you are not presently blessed with hardened abdomen or that you will not search for such a stern stomach as you embark on the pious quest of the royal rump. History has shown us time and time again that abs'n'glute power corrupts [ab-so-lutely] so as a magistrate of the moon I am expected to swiftly stave off those who wish to defy the codes set in place by our Initiators.)  On a digressive departure, my chinchilldren currently find contentment in crawling and cramming themselves into any and all of the compact crevices that are accessible. It seems so painful and has become quite uncomfortable to watch. Perhaps this is their penance for plaguing my sleep with the incessant clamor of their wheels.. if such is the case then I must squash any furthering of this odious act. My guilt due to their guilt outweighs their initial culpability, make certain of that. It pains me to type this but I'm afraid this is detrimental to all parties involved and we should disband as a unit. Alright. Now, without that grief weighing heavy on my shoulders, I will be selling*^ my chinchillas for the discount price of $53 (OBO). That's correct. That is a 1000% off markdown steal of a deal; you would be foolish to not take advantage of such an offer. Jesus died for these savings, don't let it be in vain.




*honorary spice girl since '09
*^all transactions made without bitcoin as payment are final, null, finull, fine ole fire knoll, and shall receive neither pets nor refund