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?