There is Only Cereal in My Cereal Box

I have failed so many times. Even when I try I still fail. I am not been able to succeed, never winning the grand prize, and always missing the toy at the bottom of the cereal box. In my depression of being a loser, I will seek the advice of a peer and what I hear is “If at first you don’t succeed try, try again.” So I try again, expecting a different outcome.  I will soon fail, but then I try again, expecting a different result than the previous. This process will continue till I finally win, till I finally become the Man. I fear my sanity is at stake, but is it not worth it? My sanity for the grand prize, how can I say no? However, if my mind has not vanished in my quest to be a winner, then it will surely be lost somewhere else.

Its So Shiny

It would be easier for me to fight an army of Yeti in an epic battle to determine the fate of world, then to force my writing process. It is something that flows from the mind, and if that river named creativity is not flowing then I must admit defeat for its stubbornness could rival a mule named Ted. Speaking of the name Ted, would that even make a good mule name? Maybe it’s a great goldfish name. Speaking of fish, sushi sounds quite appetizing, but so does McDonald’s breakfast burritos. I better go with McDonald’s, for if I get fat I can sue. I must focus; I’m here to talk about my writing process thingy-bobber. Wow, have you ever noticed that Wrigley’s has changed their gum wrappers. Sorry, I must focus. Why does everything have to be a distraction?

Tick Tock

What is it about time that makes people crazy? People will think the world is about to end when they turn 30, and they are knocking on death’s door when they turn 40. At 50 they are having tea and biscuits with the grim reaper every other day and by 60 people are sleeping every night in their newly bought coffin. Yes, that’s how we act toward our age, but when a foundation turns 100 years old we rejoice, as if no one has ever done that before. We seem to forget that time, at least time as we perceive it, has been around since the beginning of forever, and will be forever. Time will always tick by, even if there is no clock to keep track of that infinite thing. It is so vast, and so infinite, that to even try understanding the life span of Time may push a few of us to the brink of our sanity. Yet, even a little bit of Time is valuable. The measly few years we will spend in life are more precious then a world of gold. But at times, Time is worthless.  In large portions, like years, it is valuable. It is something to envy when others have more of it. But in smaller portions, like minutes or days, it is so insignificant and thrown away like an old newspaper that is only used to let a dog potty train on.

-

My First Restraining Order

I still remember those words, those words that humiliated me.  It was not what she said, but her logic behind it. I must have been extremely sheltered, for her logic simply astounded me. It was my 9^th grade year, and there she was, Brittney Schmults, the girl who was more beautiful than the other girl I had a crush on. That day she wore a shirt, for if she didn’t I’m sure my adolescent mind would have been blown, and some sweat pants that had the word “All-Star.” If I remember right, it was a gift for being on the softball team. The rumor was she was horrible at it, but at least she looked great. Anyways, I looked, and not realizing I was talking out loud, said those words, “All-Star.” Now if life was like the movies, she would have taken that as a compliment and she would say thank you and soon we would have gone to the spring dance. But alas, it was not meant to be, for she turned around and slapped me while calling me a “nasty pervert”. In all seriousness, I replied “I thought you wanted me to look, you’re the one walking around with words on your butt.” “You’re not supposed to look,” she exclaimed as she stormed off to the next class, leaving me behind in the spot light of embarrassment. How was I supposed to know? I thought she was silently saying to all the people of the world, “Please, look at my butt.” Let me say, as a guy I will look at almost any woman’s rear, or her cleavage, but it’s a guy thing, that’s what we do. The problem is, apparently, I can get in trouble for doing that. If a girl thinks I’m threatening her safety, whether I am or not, she is encouraged to report me to the authorities. So, out of fear to be called a stalker, I take out-of-the-way routes to class, I end up trying not to follow anyone, and I do my very best not to stare. When it does happen there is a voice in me that says “soon your face will appear on the sex offenders list, and your life will be ruined because she was paranoid”. I feel it is dangerous to be a guy.

“Ahhh You Taste Exquisite”

If he could have said anything it would have been “ahhh you taste exquisite,” or maybe he would have said, “This is delicious.” However, these words were not the ones he chose. “Brraaaiinnss,” left his throat like a sparrow joyfully singing the song of spring; He was truly happy in that moment after his first bite into that brain. Yes, he was a zombie. He never cared that the brain could have belonged to anybody; white, black, Asian, Ethiopian, American, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, fat, skinny, straight, gay, man, women, old, or young, It didn’t matter. He had his brain, he didn’t want the world. He was content with that brain. But he was not always this way. Before his rebirth, he was a greedy business man who would rob his own mother for an extra dollar. He, at the time, was like many other sad, dying humans. A human could be handed the world, every insignificant wish granted, and would never be satisfied. A person could be a god, and it would only please them for while, soon leaving to find that next best thing. Yes, a zombie may eat someone’s brain, but humanity can be true monsters, always hungry and never satisfied.

The Day I became a Man

They stared at me, waiting for my answer. What could I have said? I never got to order for myself, my parents somehow always knew what I wanted. They were asking way to much me at the time. “I... I... I want… this.” Those were the words that I had told the waitress, as I was pointing at some picture.  She must have been in a rush for I don’t remember her asking my parents to confirm or deny the order I had made. She took my menu and left. I soon felt like a man, I had ordered my own meal. I was a grown up now. I thought I had entered man-hood, and the bright side was I didn’t have to grow facial hair first. I sat there like a man. I crossed my legs when my dad did, drank from my drink when my mom did, and offered witty comments to the conversation. Of course when I did make a comment it was received with puzzled looks, or comments that said “that’s not what we are talking about.” Other than that, everything was great. I was finally an adult. I had waited a whole 5 ½ years for this. I was going to enjoy it. When the lady returned with our food, I was given what I had ordered. I looked at my plate and realized that this didn’t look at all like the picture. I was disappointed. So I took a bite; I was disappointed, again.  This didn’t taste at all like I thought it would. I had ordered a meal, like an adult. I sat still, like an adult. I had commented on the conversation, like a young adult. How could they get my meal wrong? So I, being an adult, said “Mommy, I don’t like it.” “Well why did you order it,” she asked. That caught me off guard; why had I ordered it? I realized the answer, “because it looked pretty.” My mom started to laugh; how could she laugh at me like that, I thought, I am an adult. My dad, without saying anything, handed me his pancake. Like when I was a child, he knew what I wanted. How a Dad could do that was beyond me. I had decided that I would never go to there again. One week later, we went back to Denny’s.

She's a witch! She's a witch! But how do we know she is a witch?

The death toll in the suburbs has increased rapidly over the past few years. The bear attacks in the suburbs have frightened many people, but what if it’s not the bears fault. What if the true blame lies with the idiotic people we call fair citizens? These citizens, who live in these suburbs, have left out garbage every week. They have left last night’s barbecue on the picnic table, being beacons of hope for the poor bears. As the bear’s eat these “throw a ways”, these citizens come and startle the bears; the bears attack in fear, not anger. The citizens blame the Nature lovers in America, or the forest rangers; they do not realize it’s their fault! But do are fair citizens realize anything is their fault? American schools have produced dim-witted who don’t think for themselves. Who blindly listen to, or read, our politicians or popular individuals. Like James Patterson, “but I digress for to speak his name is to summon his awful presence” (Whites Kid’s U’ Know). I understand he is liked by many individuals, but does any author need three whole bookcases at Hastings. Come on, we get it; you like to write, but really, three bookcases? At the least he is not like Stephanie Meyer, who has brought around a craze that needs to die now; for the good of the country, and the good of the world. Now, before you crucify me, I do have a confession to make. I have read all of the twilight series; I have also read a few of the Maximum Ride series. I read these books in moments of weakness, but have since been seen the error of my ways. But our fair suburbians have not. They still read twilight, and are now wearing “team Jacob,” or “go Edward,” shirts that further frighten the poor bears.  So in a sense, twilight is to blame for the bear attacks. This is just another reason this craze needs to be demolished. If twilight has this kind of effect on our suburbians, then the only conclusion we can make about Stephanie Meyer is "She's a Witch!!"

Who Am I?

For me to pick one essay style would seem easy enough. Unfortunately, I myself would have to say that it may be a bit harder, but as I keep filling this blog with straight up nonsense, which roams around the topic of this post like a bee around honey, I find myself revealing the type of essayist I am. Then again, it could all be bull and I’m just trying to fill the void. I may find myself to be a number VII (The Idler Figure). The reason being is that I am a bit of a Loafer, or just someone who likes to talk about whatever comes to his mind. Now that I think about it, maybe I’m a number IX. Who cares if one moment I’m talking about birth control and the next purple elephants? Does it really matter if all I really want to do is make fun of Twilight fans? Wait, so if I want to make fun of people, does that make me a number VI? I can see this is still an utter failure, for I still don’t know who I am. That could be considered a flaw. I’m talking about my flaw, which happens to be me not knowing what kind of essayist I am, so I could be a number III. Number III also is about revealing your extensive knowledge on a particular subject, and I have some extensive knowledge on the coming zombie attack. Alright, this is getting nowhere. So, to anyone reading this, goodnight and long live the Empire!