I... am an artist.

I was recently posed with a few perplexing questions, with which I thought about thoroughly for maybe five minutes, and then had an epiphany. Thinking is pointless; writing is pointy.

Who/what is your muse?
The straightforward answer would be basically anyone who reads my blurbs. I'm like a vicious black hole, sustaining my suck-filled life with your comments, ratings, subscriptions, etc. I get a high when I see that someone commented on a post of mine. If I was a hobo, I'd probably die of hunger, because I'd stand out on a corner with a sign that said "PLZ RATE/COMMENT."

What inspires you to write?
Let me first inquire of you: do you know what it feels like to have a purple elephant sit on your head? Of course you don't. You crazy, Gary Busey. What does all this have to do with writing? Everything. Writing is like a portal to another dimension, except without all the science nerds chasing after you and government conspiracy theorists theorizing conspiracies about the government. Once my literature teacher told me that people have a tendency to cut off their corner of the world and stay there. Literature makes people leave their little box. It's possibilties are infinite, and I'm in control of it. It's like playing God, but with words instead of lives.

Why the vim and vinegar?
I can only assume that this question is directed at the little bite I add into my writing. Cynicism and sarcasm, you see, are two of my favorite words. Nostalgia is another one, but at the present time, is irrelevent. Not only are the two aforementioned words entertaining to read, but they're a whole lot of fun to write. For instance, nobody wants to read about something great Obama has done, unless in that same blurb they poke fun at some of the ridiculous claims made against him. I'm sorry Mr. President, but you're the laughing stock of the world. People like to see the bad in others (cynicism) and people like to make fun of you in an indirect manner (sarcasm). Cynicism is an art, and I am an artist.

I encourage any perspective readers to come up with their own answers. You could even blog about them, and post a link in the comments. Yes... post in the comments... *evil cackle* (This means you, Matt. Blog it up.)

All the cars in my train of thought II

The second installment of this experiment. Parental guidance is not really advised, but it really couldn't hurt. I say the word bastard a couple of times, even though it's totally in a joking way and not at all serious. If that's offensive, you can just skip this.

Third hour, Biblical Exigesis thoughts:

Right now I've got that song "You're so Vain" stuck in my head.
I'm trying to cheat off Matt's thoughts. Teehee.
I just saw a glimpse of a circle, and now I can't get the words "oblate sphereoid" off my mind.
Why does my teacher have a stuffed puppy on his desk?
Did you know that in the middle ages, peoples last names would be their occupation? Cook, Miller... I even know a Shoemaker.
My teachers name is Mr. Tracy... I wonder what he was...
Maybe an artist who traced other peoples work and passed it off as his own.
What a bastard.
That's my favorite insult, bastard. It means "an illegitimate child."
I don't really think Mr. Tracy is a bastard. I like Mr. Tracy.
I hope he doesn't read this...
I know it's a vulgar word, but is it still a curse?
Vulgar comes from Latin, and what it really means is when language is "vulgar," it's the language of the people. Like, the common language.
A lot of denotations have been distorted over time.
You know what I really like? Natalie Stukenborgs curly hair. It's so awesome.
Sometimes, I feel like my body is an asteroid, and my stomach is a cave slug, and all my foods are tiny Millenium Falcons.
Sometimes, my teacher doesn't finish words he's writing on the board. Apparently, the "Catholi" view of communion is "transubstant" while the "Luther" (supposed to be Lutheran) view is "constubstantia." Interesting...
I consider myself a charismatic person, but I have no idea what kind of religious system that is.
I swear, the last five minutes took twenty minutes to pass.
The law is the ground of which we stand, but it issues no roof over our heads.
Every year, we vote for the king and queen of Winter Court. Kings don't get voted in...
Once I created a hypothetical situation, and I haven't been heard from since.

All the cars in my train of thought

In reply to Fahrenheits post, "Stream-of-(un)Consciousness," I have taken it upon myself to jot my thoughts in not just one, but two different hours of class. I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me which one was more entertaining.

2nd hour, Algebra II thoughts:

Winter Court's coming up. That's spiffy.
Quiz? What quiz?
"Fail, fail! That's my goal in life!" - Mrs. Swenson
I really hate when the teacher starts talking about me and I wasn't paying attention, so I don't know why.
I had a fun conversation with an ex last night.
The terms "fun conversation" and "ex" are contradictory.
There's a good chance I'm missing something important right now.
Man, I'm sleepy.
Makeup makes girls look pretty, yeah, but there's a certain attractiveness about an all natural girl.
I like it when the teacher gives us the answers.
I just bleated while trying to laugh.
I just failed a quiz... probably.
And when I say failed, I mean with an F.
I'm not one of those people who says that they think they failed and end up with a B.
A B is not an F.
It looks like I've got a chili stain on my pants.
Chapped lips and orange juice are like Vin Diesel and a romace movie; while seemingly having no correlation, you really shouldn't put them together.
I've got seven minutes till class ends. I will now write seven facts about my life.
I cried the first time I ever listened to Listen to your Heart.
I secretly hate Santa Clause.
I spend a good deal of my free time reading the thesaurus.
I have double jointed thumbs.
I can like my elbow.
The neater I try to write, the worse it looks.
I want to be a trashman when I grow up.
Done, and with time to spare!
Also, I enjoy petting soft animals.
But that's an obvious one.
It's starting to hurt my arm to write.
Matt just growled at his math paper.
Class status: over.

Fahrenheit: It's About to Get Heated

I've recently entered a little competition with a good friend of mine, whom I've already mentioned and you know by the name of Matt Woods. The best word I can use to describe it is one that I totally just made up: a blearitition. An experimental blogging competition. Or maybe this other word I totally just made up: ouplisdodelo (coming for the Greek words ouk, hoplisdo, ode, and f(/ph)ello, coalescing to mean "I hope this doesn't suck.").

The basic concept is simple mimcry. One of us posts a blog entry, kinda like this'un, and the other has to match it on approximate length and contextual goodies. The reader (that's you, my good sir or madam!) may feel free to verbally tear us down by means of pointing out our writing flaws, or just not be a huge hobnobber and give us legitimate feedback that doesn't look like a drunk narwhal tried to type it with his horn. Narwhals are infamous for their horrible grammer, too... illiterate, mythological fiends.

But I'm going to lay down some rules of my own, Woodsey. I'll post when I want, and there's nothing you can do about it (except ask nicely, pwease :3). Okay... that's pretty much my only rule.

So, in the words of Nietzsche, "let the Blogging, begin! Also, God is dead." (citation needed)

To see my noble competetors wondrous blogging capabilites, please indulge yourself by click on this incredibly oversized link.

A Forseeable End

Not long ago, I was enrolled in a creative writing class. Inarguably my favorite two hours of Tuesday and Thursdays, the class included: Jon Matthews, a classic funnyman, Chad Odom, your typical, semi-obnoxious good friend, Austin Talton, a stereotypical cynic and somewhat apathetic humorist, Matt Woods, an extremely eloquent comic and avid storywriter, Annie Matthews, one of the most unique people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and a small handful of others, including myself. We'd often write poems short stories, or small sections of such practicing character development and foreshadowing and other things of that sort. Almost without fail, though, every single story would somehow manage to find it's way to the end result of one of the main characters dying. And also, nearly without fail, someone would ask why almost every story ended in death.

There are three basic parts to any given story. The beginning, in which the character is introduced, the setting is given, and other essential things to any story are put forth here. As the plot thickens, you reach the climax, which is the point of greatest tension in a story, calling for action. Finally, you reach a resolution, in which action is taken and the end of the story commences.

As a society, we seem to have drifted away from the now-risible "happy ending." The drastic change from that to the morbidity so commonly see today is most explainable by the fact that the best ending is one that can't be started up again. Movies in which the main character does not die or run off happily, never wishing to return usually result in one to four absolutely atroctious sequels, when we (the audience) would have been perfectly fine with the well-made original.

Death, unlike getting the job/getting the raise/getting married/graduating/becoming world famous/etc. is a pretty definite end. Death will not leave you on the edge of your seat going "buh..! What's he going to do next!?" It won't keep you asking "what if the villain breaks out of jail?!"It won't leave you thinking "what if they get DIVORCED!?!" Your hero is dead. Leave it at that.

To see my view of sequels, click here.

Counting Crows Colorblind

This song makes me feel all wrenched up on the inside. I can't stop listening to it. I'm in love.

Something Deep

Oh, well hullo there. Have you ever written something, not knowing where it's going, and hoping it turns out half-decent? Story of my life. Not necissarily with writing, but like, with life. As you can see by this so wonderfully named buh-log entry, I'm going to write something deep. "But how?" You may be wondering. "I heard that only philosophers and teh Jesusz can be deep!" Untrue.

I, like many people, am not a philosopher or Jesus. I am, however, one grade above "sophisticated moron" (in case you were wondering, I'm a Junior. One grade above "sophomore." Yay for crackpot etymology lesson!). And so, in the good company of ironic puns, I will now write about something deep. Holes.

Now, whether or not you want to belive so, I think that people are a lot like holes. Holes have a tendency to hold water. Now, since in this hypothetical you are the hole, you can't exactly be the person digging the hole, too. Life, oddly enough, is the person. For the sake of metaphor, this life-person will be comparative to a Jew, enslaved in Ancient Egypt. Now, those Ancient Egyptians were kind of big jerks. Lifeman would be working steadily, digging his hole, and they'd come along and flail him, to get him to work harder.

So lets recap: you're a hole, life's a Jew, and Egyptians suck. The worse things get for your life, the deeper your hole gets. Sometimes, we are fortunate enough to have the pleasing rains come down and sooth our scourges. If you haven't been dug deep enough by the pains of life, you won't be able to hold and appreciate the cool, refreshing downpour of sweet thirst-quenching goodness as much as someone who's been having it rough.

Everyone you see is a hole, each person with varying depths. The worse life is, the more you appreciate the good things in it.