Farthest

Well, isn't it? The farthest I've gotten? I wouldn't think so but it actually may as well just be that. The farthest anyone or anything has gotten. Eh, now is not the time. Good luck, though.


It brings up a good point. A charity organization that updates its followers with inspiring quotes. But how often is too often when it comes to reading quotes? How far do people actually want to read? What if it was a celebrity updating what is going on in his or her life with quotes that got them to where they are now? Would fans be annoyed or inspired? These words (of wisdom or even phrases that result in "heh") are literally what go on in this person's head, but I am imagining that somehow these words can go unheeded. Ah first, though, if you literally don't see it then that's a different story. I am talking about pure annoyance with someone that you are a fan of. What the hell could it possibly mean to be a fan of someone? How far do you reasearch into someone's life without either: falling in or out of love, or using this knowledge to enhance your own? Then again the latter type of person couldn't even be considered a fan as much as a soon-to-be colleague. Whoa. Look, really I am specifically recording my thoughts immediately after seeing the page for To Write Love on Her Arms. Then, I thought of how what they post differs from what one average citizen might post. It's kind of merging with my thoughts of friends getting offended that I might be able to quote certain things as they come up. Eh, that's something else. Not far off, seeing as it deals with annoyance. I believe you always happen to read quotes at the perfect moments. Whatever that means. Here, the point is that you should kind of follow what would even provoke one person to quote another and at what moments. "Should." But not necessary. No should is really too necessary.

Companionship. You can't really be with someone that you don't really connect with, or someone that you can't easily talk endlessly to. Any relationship, basically. I'm not saying these opinions are mine. I'm thinking, one can have a dog as a companion and of course feel unfulfilled in the conversation aspect. But what about forgetting the qualities you're looking for? What if you begin to talk to a dog or anything else so much that you've just become busy? What if you let the human-thing set it, and you create your own motivation to keep on talking or keep on sitting-next-to. Maybe even the life-partner sense can work out. How have people been ignoring that their spouse "doesn't get it"? Maybe someone who "get's it" can only be with someone who "doesn't get it". The people closest to them will get it. That can be fine enough.

Well, I wonder if this worked at all. Those are my points. Just to keep me going, for like a split second, you know. Other than that... Heh well, just got word that I might be doing.... something.... in January. I hesitate to explain that I'm not giving exact detail yet.

I'm in the school registration process. Oh yeah of course. You know by know, right. Ugh. You. Still, if I can keep my head out of the mucky idea of what college used to be and what college actually is, then I'll be good. What college actually is versus what I'm actually doing are really perpendicular. Not necessarily clashing though. Fine. Skew. Hah irony. I've been talking about how horrifying Geometry was to me, and now look. Eh. Very small irony, yet big also since I used geometry humor. Wait, but that wasn't a joke. Ok stop. Like I said. If an academic career can be foiled simply by a chance disappearance of a classroom's folder, then I'm forced into skepticism.
What?

Last week is over. Haha. Good. It was very tyrannical. I didn't even know it. I cured. It must have been a good weekend. I still have a big off egg white crust on my sleeve. Possibly still a little bit of dog poit on the bottom of my shoe, as well. You can tell Matthew is going to be in the picture more often, soon.

This just in.. My mom just brought in an envelope, asking "Could this be for you and Tash?" The envelope was addressed to: Big Bro and Sister. There's no return address. I, eating leftovers, just said something about the possibility of anthrax. I'm not even sure what the state of the anthrax scare is, anymore. The post mark says it's from Michigan. I just finished eating, so I am more willing to try to open it. Gah. I hope it's a letter from the future. That's always my hope.

Wish me luck.

Back. I opened the envelope, carefully. Inside was a folded white sheet of paper. I pulled it out, and inside were two portrait-like photos of two young boys. Christ. I hate finding stuff like that. On the backs were their names and current ages. My first thoughts (I think even before turning them around to see the actual photos) were that I was supposed to be some assassin or bounty hunter. Now listen up. I don't even like that type of fiction. All I can say is that anyone else may have had the same thoughts. My minions told me that those were the first two options :). Really, that thought went away as soon as it arrived. Then of course came the "letter from the future" thing again. Well. These two boys are brown. I'll be damned if they're my offspring. Especially the one marked "Zach". I hate this kid. Hah, actually he looks like the boy from the George Lopez show. The sitcom, I mean. You know. I had to watch it on my Chicago trip. Rabbit ears.

Nope. I'll never have those two particular boys. They're no good. See, there's no telling though. An envelope with no return address. That's either attributed to forgetfulness, lack of envelope etiquette, or hell. From the future. Come on. And in the end of it all- please just let me have my imagination. I wonder whatever happened to that one girl that I met a couple times as a kid. Her uncle or family friend or just some older guy kept teasing her about having an extra toe. No telling if she actually did have an extra toe. But then I guess it wouldn't be a tease-able thing if it were true. I think I was just sitting off to the side, bored. I wonder if I actually made friends with those kids. I think it might have been their mom that was friends with my dad. Now I remember the lady's name because it was the first time I ever heard the name Reina. My dad told me it meant "queen". I keep visualizing this.. these streets that kind of look like they belonged in an unfinished neighborhood. I remember walking around... or being forced out of common courtesy to walk around... with her kids. Something about juice, too. Gah, that's just going to make me think about Ralph. And Beverly. Weird periods of time with my dad's friends. My dad's friends who just happened to have kids for me to play with.

Wait. I'm still talking about these two bastards that got sent to me in the mail. What, am I doing charity now? Christ, who are these kids? The obvious answer would be to send them to the correct address, right? Nah. This is the address that was written on the letter. Minus the "northeast" part. Wait, there were previous renters. The only reason I didn't think about that is because I had heard about the guy who was here in between us living here. He kicked holes in the walls, apparently. Who the hell would send pictures of young men to a man like that? In that case, the family... or friends.... will sort that out, amongst themselves. It's probably just some pathological gift someone just sent me as a cruel, Hank joke. Other than that, I'll just exploit the hell out of these pictures... no, no, they bother me too much. I would just kind of jokingly use them as placeholders in books at the most. And I won't burn them. I won't burn these pictures literally because I'm suspicious of the fact that I'm even thinking about burning them in the first place. Sigh. Look. I'll leave them where they are. I don't know the name for that particular article of furniture, but that's where they are. Sort of tucked under the paper towel my mom uses to collect incense ashes. There.

No one could have possibly expected this, but this is what happened. It happened to me in the middle of some odd writing practice I was doing. Good enough. I won't forget it. And speaking of which, I don't want to forget the other details. On my way to the piece of furniture I just mentioned, I did stop in the kitchen. I almost placed the envelope and pictures on the counter. That would have been too much. No, but my mom had just cooked these little apple tarters or something. Very good. A thin pie crust with chunks of green apple, with some sort of caramel-like (it very well may be caramel. or home-made caramel) sauce, and toffee chips. I've already forgotten them. There's plenty left, but I wanted to test whether or not I could hold off on devouring a dessert immediately. See. I'm good. Thing kinda have to be good. Gah, to think. The one thing that I have a tinge of doubt about right now is just.. my other life. My 1st 'other' life. I'm feeling iffy about.. ok there's got to be a different 'venue' for me to talk honestly about the..ugh.. comedy team. There's nothing "ugh" about it, but a very harsh change of pace. Minions telling me "no, don't." but I've got it. There's no right way. I'm feeling very good about the state of this topic (and we all like to think we're caring the most out of anyone) but there are very tiny little frays that could become problems later. I don't know. That's something I'd have to talk about. "Talk" about.

Well, then. It's good. Plus, I'm offended by the word "good". Plus, I can't tell if I'm saying "I'm offended" as a habit that Nick has rubbed off onto me. Now, if I was really in a paranoia-ish mood, then I'd completely change my wording of that last sentence. Current mood: lounge. Back hurts, and I'm just now realizing I didn't take the walk I planned for today. Craig. Ah well.

This worked.