Ah. The Novel.

Well, I haven’t gotten any feedback anywhere else so I’m going to post it here. This is the very very very very first part of the my very first chapter of the novel I intend on writing. It’s reached its peak as far as I’m concerned. The only way it can improve now is to get some feedback.

Because I plan on updating it and such, I’m making a page for it if you guys don’t mind. Just click on the page that says “alter ego” and you’re off.

Hm. Interesting.

Why do we consider the death of Anna Nicole Smith to be breaking news? If my grandmother dies, I’m sure it would be a few hours before someone told me and it certainly wouldn’t make more than the 150 word obituary ripple in the newspaper.

Good News, Everyone!

I have recovered from my short-term illness and will be ready to get back to work. Speaking of work, I’ve got some tonight. While the strong urge to pee every 10 minutes is a rather decent excuse to miss school, you have to pass out and/or become hospitalized to miss work.

At least, that is the opinion of my managers.

I would like to point out that this is my first post that is not a journal entry from my creative writing class. As you can see, though, I have nothing else of interest to put here. Maybe I’ll start writing some of that deep thought crap that prompts our journals every morning.

Or I could post Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard and depress all of you by realizing how meaningless your lives are.

While I did post an earlier rant about how I hate poetry, you’ll note that I was talking of the more modern stuff. I actually find myself to be quite fond of Thomas Gray and John Donne. Death Be Not Proud and Meditation 17 spoke to me in quite a profound way.

Or rather, they just made me think a little bit.

Of the poem I spoke earlier, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, I would shake my head at the fool who does not find this moving. After all, it poses the same question everyone else asks.

“What will everyone think of me after I die?”

Click here to read Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.

Ugnn.

My pee sack is infected. Cry.

Everything In This Journal is a Lie

Creative Writing Journal for December 12, 2006

I’ve spent the last several weeks recalling events and people in my life. I remember a russian mafia queen telling me that Buddha had been her roommate in college but he left to find himself. Years later he turned up in a settlement on Mars, reportedly under arrest for public intoxication.

Being centuries old, of course, I have experience many more strange things than simply that. I once knew a supervillain whose dog turned him into the police. We spoke on the topic for hours, sitting in some sad tavern somewhere in the cast openness of medieval Eurasia. God finally grew tired of his whining and smote the traitorous beast.

I found that to be almost as amusing as the time my Uncle Molotov took me to the Incendiary Cow Festival. It was to celebrate an old Soviet Russian tradition of exploding cows to protect from zombies.

The Sweet Scent of Cancer

Creative Writing Journal for January 24, 2007

I once sat next to a girl who believed she could smell cnacer. When I apologized, she looked confused. “You must be choking on your own rank stench,” I explained, “because cancer has obviously turned your brain to a tumor.

Retarded ass people. I’m sorry, but uncontrolled cell growth does not have a particular smell. For the love of God!

I hate it when you make an obvious joke but no one gets it. I hate it because it leaves you feeling like an idiot for having said it and being appalled because no one else understood it.

Example. A woman eating at Buffalo Wild Wings made a comment that her food must be multiplying because every time she looked down, she didn’t seem to be making a dent in the amount. To that her waiter replied, “Really? You know, there was a guy about two thousand years ago that did the same thing?”

The woman, being an average American citizen, exclaimed, “Really? Who was it?”

That honestly shouldn’t have been so surprising and it wasn’t. It’s really just painful. My heart breaks every time I watch Jaywalking because it proves that it’s futile to teach our children because they’ll have whatever knowledge we give them stolen by pop culture fads and half-witted celebrities.

If I think about it, though, I know why we teach them. We teach our children with the fleeting hope that one child anywhere in the world will grow up and not become an idiot.

Modern Trash

I hate poetry, but that’s probably because I can’t be bothered to stop long enough to interpret it. To me, everything must just sounds like everything else. Poetry these days is just people trying to imitate poets before them, writing about ordinary things in a style of grammar and language they barely understand.

It’s like modern artists. They beat their faces against a canvas until some interesting smear of blood appears, name it something like “Hunger Pains of a Starving Artist” or “A Field of Sunflowers,” and sell it to some wealthy family in New York looking to decorate their expensive apartment with lavish, modern trash.

There are no more great poets, artists, or orators. There hasn’t been a sane person for years who could shape the world with his speech or demand attention with just a single word. Those who possess this ability obtained it from a pact with Satan who always adds a lust for power and socially disfunctional mental disorders in with his deals. They start cults, fear the government is persecuting them for their religion, fight or take to seclusion, and die before their later years.

Maybe we could have that sane orator if we could actually speak English. This butchered form we call our English language is just word vomit. Stinky, nasty, dirty word puke that clogs the toilet at Buffallo Wild Wings.

Collecting Medical Problems

Creative Writing Journal for January 17, 2007

I’m pretty sure a blow to the head isn’t really a wake up call. It’s more of a one way ticket to a headache and a severe concussion. Maybe a nice nap. Now, a slap in the face would be more appropriate.

You see, normal people collect stamps and knick knacks. I collect medical problems. That’s right, I just can’t be outdone. According to my doctor, I’m still likely to die from the cancer, but the heart disease might finish me off first. There’s not enough iron in my blood so I have to eat red meat, but my cholesterol is too high so I can’t eat it.

What the hell?!

As far as I’m concerned, a medical problem doesn’t exist until you go to the doctor. They have people who live their entire lives without knowing ther cholesterol and it doesn’t kill them.

Doctors must have this dartboard of medical problems. They just toss the dart and tell you that you’re sick. After all, we never understand that medical jargon, so how do we know if their wrong?