Lawdy Lawd lawd.

By now, I assume that many (by many, I mean majority, and by majority, I mean 2 of the 3 people who consistently read this) of you have come to believe that I have abandoned this blog, in pursuit of other past times and activities.

You, my dear reader, would be correct. Many a fortnights has since passed from when I last posted, and I leave many empty promises of fulfilled ideas and posts.

It appears that I have lost what I once had; ideas. Whereas once ideas and thoughts flowed liberally from my mind, I find myself blank, empty, with little to no original thoughts. Even now, I find myself spouting redundant and overly descriptive sentences in hopes of fleshing out a post that is assuredly lacking in content.

Upon which, I realized my problem. This blog, it has no focus. It has no topic, it has no content. All it is the ramblings of a slightly hyper teenager, with no clear purpose, focus, or actual theme. Just random ramblings, and that is something that is rather hard to elaborate upon.

But what? For someone as indecisive as myself, it is hard to choose a topic, and then stay upon it. I figured it would be a wise move to choose something that I feel passionate about, but what? Difficult answer, as my passions are terribly mundane and require very few insights.

A writer, I have come to find, without a purpose is much like a seamstress without a clear idea of what it is she is actually making, who ends up with a terrible abomination that we call a Snuggie.

A New World Record

I have a vast collection of books, and I wonder to myself; What exactly is the purpose of writing fiction? They are meaningless records through which we (the reader) can imagine that we are escaping our rather bland lives into something that is much more exciting and reliable to have a happy ending.

Twilight, for example, is a popular book written by a Woman for Teenage girls. I had the chance to skim through it sitting on a bus, and while it did seem to have a decent and articulate writing style, the only thing that particularily screamed out to me was that Meyer had created an impossibly perfect boyfriend figure.

The very mention of the title "Twilight" elicts screaming fans from across the room to butt in and mention just how wonderful and delightful Edward Cullens (The main character) is. When asked about the particular nusances of the writing style, I feel as if I had asked several kindergarten school children Where In the World Waldo really is.

My favorite fiction characters are wonderfully complex; they have flaws, personalities, and feel as if they're actually someone on this world; it's mindboggling how by creating a flat, two dimensional character, Meyer managed to be one of the most popular authors in our generation. He's mysterious, he's caring, and he's definitely hawt, but that's about all there is to him.

And on a final note, I realize that this generation will forever be remembered as the generation that grew up with Harry Potter, Twilight, and "lik omg!" texts.

I refute that, and post this blog for future "I TOLD YOU SO!" reference.

A Return, No Less Triumphant.

Over the summer, writing turned from a rather enterntaining hobby, like skateboarding, to something I would find difficult and unattractive, like watching Oprah.

I sat here, preparing myself to write something, when I found to my surprise that I had no ideas. It's worrying at best, terrifying at worst, to think that my apathy during this two month break resulted in lack of any fresh ideas. Has the moment come where I am to close this blog for years to come, only to return in several years to post whatever small number of ideas I dreamed up? Perhaps this blog will fade into further obscurity, yet another worthless effort by a teenager to express his feelings, overshadowed by blogs about Oprah and her fanbase (which, incidentially, is nearly as large as her double chin.)

I kid, enough of the Oprah hate. I rather dislike her, but I find no reason to bear grudges against her.

That's it for now; a rather meaningless post discrediting Oprah and her many flaw.s

Please, No Salt On My Fish

While originality is all good and fun, I must oft remind myself that unpredictability does not equate to complete and utter chaos. While somewhat related facts strung together in an unpredicatble manner is often funny, it's not quite so funny to throw in some random facts along the way, breaking the chain.

Monkey.

It is quite often the situation when a desperate internet user will cast around randomly for some sort of thing that they might find funny, and write about it in the most haphazard and eratic way possible. I, for one, am quite tired of it. Just like the internet learned Poop Jokes and Your Mom jokes aren't funny anymore, it must also learn that random humor is rarely funny.

Diarrhea.

Internet, when you brandish your fictional character, so lovingly named Poops McFart Butt, it's really not that funny. It's even less funny when he has a biography that was apparently written by a dyslexic 6 year old who had a few more caffeine tablets than is the suggested dosage for your average full grown elephant.

While pouring buckets of live morray eels down his pants.

It's really, not that funny.

Music!

Random note, but I noticed not too long ago that the New Boyz refer to Jim Crow laws in their You're A Jerk song. Last place I would expect to ever use 8th grade history.

Yo', who was that?

Oh, he's just a friend.

So yeah. Summer! Yet, it feels like winter, in both the fact that it's been damn cold out, and that it feels just like a long ass weekend.

Don't give me that! Don't even give me that!

You! You've got what I need!

I begin with practice; unbearable torture that inevitably leads to a wonderful season that I always look back on and think "Hey! That wasn't so bad," yet I find myself wishing death upon my oppressors during the summer heat (Or rather, this strange fog?)

You say he's just a friend, you say he's just a friend

Oh baby, you've got what I neeeeeddd,

Plans? No plans, other than to go places and do things. If you call that a plan, then you would best stay out of any kind of management position, my friend.

But you say he's just a friend, but you say he's just a friend.

Don't ever talk to a girl who says she just has a friend has a friend has a friend

Hmm. Perspective! Why must we draw an oval when we know it is really a circle? Why must we draw a rectangle when it truly is a square? Perspective is tricky, both physically and mentally. Physically, a miscalculation in perception could result in a stubbed toe, a poke to the eye, or a loss of mental stability. Mentally, it causes us to hate others, to dispute, and to destroy what we do not understand.

Yet, without it, we are no longer individuals, but a single uniform entity, as perspective is what keeps us unique. Take it away, and we have a perfect society, but we lack what makes us human, making it not a truly human society.

Respect. It is the key to perspective.

Word Play.

Sexual innuendo used to be funny until commedians started to shove it down my throat.

Just a few quick notes that I'll expand on later

• Perspective. My perspective is an outside one of everyone else, so how do I know you're real? You can tell me you are, but my brain would create characters to do so, thus making everything possibly fake. 
  Same goes for you. This may just be a creation of your imagination, and there's no way of knowing because I would tell you so. Persona creation.
• Present. The past is irrelevant. Right now, all the time leading up to right now, only took a second in the present. Which is always. It is always the present. Therefore, everything is irrelevant?

Infinity Squared.

Imagine the universe as being infinitely large. Now, know that the world as we know it, had a random probability of occuring.

As in, there is a 1 in a 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.... chance that it has turned out eactly the way it has.

Assuming the that the universe is infintely large, which it must be, considering outer space must be endless, then we must assume that that 1 in a Ga-Jillion chance that our world took to occur is being reproduced somewhere else.

There is, in other words, another clone of me somewhere, due to random chance.

There is, in other words, a person that has done everything I have done, but in a world where McCain beat Obama, where George Bush didn't go to war, even where I decided to wear a green shirt instead of a white shirt, all due to possibilities in a infinitely large amount of occurances.

Disattachment

People aren't equal. 

Humans just can't accept the fact that some people are born better than others. I'm not a racist, but if Mike is a bit smarter than Larry, I would rather have Mike working for me, regardless of how hard each worked beforehand.

Sure, it's not fair, and due to my inherent selfishness, I would get annoyed if I felt I was "wronged," but in the grand scheme of things, nobody is equal.

Everyone, however, should be granted certain natural rights, but beyond that, everything else is a privelage.

In thinking this, I've noticed a distancing between myself as a person, and my intelletual self. When considering things such as this, it is as though I am viewing humanity from a distant planet, as a solitary alien observer. I no longer consider myself as an individual, and categorize myself as just another Homosapien. 

Some might argue that we each have distinct characteristics that seperate us from each other, but do we really? 

All of us have had years of experience between distinguishing, but when thrust into a new enviroment, this ability dissapears. Many people state that "All Asians look alike," while my parents will staunchly claim that "All Blacks look alike." They are, in short, not used to distinguishing the subtle differences between others of different nationalities. Physically, we are not individuall disalike, despite being able to seperate into significant races and groups.

Clarification

I also feel that I need to state the following.

There is no mathematical, scientific, or any kind of backing other than logic, hopes, and creativity in most of these posts. 

These posts are here to 

1) Give myself a way of viewing the world in creative and different ways.

2) Give you, the reader, a different perspective on many things

3) Allow myself to think in ways that defy normal convention. Since I have little/no scientific background, I try to think in ways that are a bit fictional. 

In other words, they'll work great in a fiction novel, but probably won't fly with the scientists.

Just to let you know.

Favorite Pastimes

Are your memories really in the past? 

What is time? Untangle yourself from conventional thinking. Unfix your thinking, and think with me.

What happens in the "past" has already happened, correct? Yet, what happens in the past is merely what we remember, as it is what our minds feel important enough to process, digest, and present. 

Stare at the wall. How do you know, that at this exact instant, there aren't aliens crawling around on the wall? Your senses tell you so, but it is entirely possible that your eyes aren't processing the information to your brain because your brain has been trained to believe that aliens are nonexistant, thus impossible, thus rendering this information as irrelevant. First mathematical FACT of this blog: your brain processes 2,000 bytes a second, yet it is capable of 2,000,000,000 bytes a second. Something like that. I can't remember the exact numbers, but it was similar to that.

The past is nothing but a memory. We tell ourselves what has happened by what we have percieved, and thus it no longer becomes real, as it is what has happened in our own minds. I might percieve the past differently from you, thus making us process the past differently, giving two different realities. Because there cannot be two different realities, they must no longer be realities, and only different perceptions on realities. 

Now, conventional thinking tells us we get older as time goes on. However, time is an abstract concept. I personally feel that the passing of time is not so simple as to be able to confine it to clocks and lines. It is not, in fact, a river, but rather a sea. 

You also happen to be riding in a Yellow Submarine.

More on this later. 

Empty promises...

Decisions, Collisions.

Remove the human element. Imagine a time line, and everything moving forward through that time line. Now, things can move through dimensions. Take a step back, leap forward, lay down, or jump up, all these change your position in a physical plain. However, no matter what a person does, it is physically impossible to take a step backwards in time. 

Something I wrote a while ago. I wrote something about the subject, but after further thought, I expanded my hypothesis. 

Assume, for a minute, that what you percieve as the world is false. How do you know that the person in the room next to you is really there? How do you know that you aren't just a random thought floating in space, imagining all of this happening? There is no real way to tell for certain that the person next to you is really there. You could touch them on the arm, but your brain would tell you they're there. You could talk to them, but they might just be figments of your imagination. He, or she, is something you have created with your mind. Not entirely unplausible, if you consider the fact that everything you know is through your own perception.

Assume that you are the center of the universe. Less difficult for some than for others, but for the moment, that is what you are. Everything around you is what you've created with your mind, thus everything around you is merely a memory. 

What happened 5 minutes ago? Think back. Now, what tells you this really happened? Your memory tells you that you you wrote something down. Now, how do you know this really happened? Your memory informs you of what happened. What is recorded in your memory may not be entirely subjective. There may be millions of things that could have happened in the past 5 minutes, but you merely forgot about them. 

Going back, because you may merely be a formless and shapeless thought in space, there may be millions of instances where you remember what else could have happened. 

Confusing? I hardly get it myself. I don't accept it as any kind of hypothesis, as there is absolutely no scientific or mathematical background to nearly any of my thoughts, making most of this blog ramblings of an overcreative teenager, yet everything I write about is perfectly logically plausible. Your brain tells you what you want to know. Therefore, it may be tricking you into what is happening at this precise moment by percieving certain things. 

My Shoes (First Person Fiction)

Dear Owner, my wonderful Owner,

            I represent the epitome of form, and function. A presumptuous statement, to be sure, but not one that is entirely unwarranted. A collector’s item, but the general apathy associated with those bums the Baseball Cards does not apply to me. You'll take me out to the longest of jogs, but I don't need the constant washing of those sweaty Shirts. Everywhere you go, I follow. I'm definitely more loyal than your average cat, and even a dog would be hard pressed to be more loyal than I, unless this dog happens to be a combination of Ol' Yeller, Lassy, and your dog Tutu.

            What would you do without me, your shoes? Sure, I may be more than a bit smelly at times, but I never leave your side, or more accurately, your feet. The padding, cradling your feet in what seems to be the softest of sensations, brings to you a bliss rarely found on this Earth. Every movement is a yet another perfect moment of absolute ecstasy upon your feet, my offering to you, and I ask nothing in return. I am always there for you. I will never walk away from you, as long as you never walk away from me. I happily wait for you when you need a rest, never being impatient. If you run, I shall run with you. If you creep, I shall creep with you, even if you are one yourself.

            Without me, what would come to your feet? The numerous foot afflictions, such as flat foot, frostbite, or even god forbid, a stubbed toe, make me nervous just to think about them, much less to have you experience them! Every scuff mark I suffer, every stitch that is torn, every square inch of soiled fabric is a badge of honor. I gladly endure the winter chill, the endless rains, the blazing heat; the elements are all endured for you. Even on the occasion when you left me outside overnight, where I must play host to spiders and night crawlers, I forgive you for your forgetfulness, and continue to perform at my best. It is a dangerous world out there for a pair of bare feet, and I shall be your ever vigilant protector.

             I must admit, though, I often feel nervous as time goes on. I often see you throw out other of my comrades in a painful selection, yet you often skip past me in this process. Whether for nostalgic or cosmetic reasons, I have yet to be submitted to the Trash Can, a place of mystery to us who reside in the shoe rack. I fear that perhaps one day, this state of affair will cease, and you shall discard me as you have so many others before, resigning me to the mystery of the Trash Can and whatever heaven lies beyond.

            With Love,

            Your Shoes

             

            PS: Excuse me for the recent stink. I blame your socks. Please change them more often.

            Because you and I both know you wouldn’t change me.

            Or would you?

Hm. Experimentations with size, font, and color.

Leave a comment, tell me what you think.

Thoughts. Much like everything else.

Perception. What do we hold of it? Is everything really as we see it? Is this shade of green the same for everyone? People will all see it as "Green" because they were taught to see it as green, but perhaps my green looks like my blue, from their perspective.

Fear. A survival trait, or a deeper human emotion? Some fear spiders, while others do not. Once again, a matter of perspective, it is often difficult to rationalize a fear. 

Comfort. Why become comfortable when it all ends the same? We, as humans, live for the moment. We fear the future, the past, and anything else that isn't now. How do we know that what we know to be the "past" is really the past? We know that something happened, but the only reason we know is because we tell ourselves these things. Lying to ourselves is tremendously easy, as anyone who has suffered through a traumatic experience may (or may not) be able to tell you. We percieve what has happened to ourselves, and with no one to check it, it can quite often lead to imperfections.

Art. A reflection of our culture, and how we percieve it. We show changing views about what is accepted, how we percieve the rest of the world around us. It can show us the greatest of joys, or the harshest of fears. 

Don't get comfortable friends.