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.