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I have been miserable at my job - or at any job. I am paid just above minimum wage, I work sometimes long into the night (almost 1:00 in the morning, and for normal people, that is unreasonable) and it is not always exactly EASY. Washing dishes, taking out garbage, cleaning a greasy work-place, never sitting to rest or getting a break for eight hours.

So, I did a Google search to see if there would be any ways to mentally distance myself from reality and pretend that I do not exist in order to dim the hatred and frustration that is endless, from the moment I awaken until I go home.

I noticed - and this is the main point of my entry - that most of the pages said something akin to, "Hate going to work on Mondays?"
What is THAT supposed to mean?
I thought that Mondays are the number 1 day that no one on earth likes going to work.
Is that question supposed to be important? They might as well ask, "Do you hate burning your finger on a stove, falling over while trying to impress a girl, or listening to the same noxious music every hour of work?"

It is just as sensible.

No, to be honest, it is not Mondays that I hate. It is every single day that I must trudge out of bed and prepare to go to the only place I can imagine that I do not want to go.
I would rather go to SCHOOL than to work.

This is what I tried to tell the people at my last job: Work is a stupid concept, because it accomplishes NOTHING worthwhile most of the time (Great, we allowed another fatty to eat his greased-up chicken at an exorbitant price; we should receive a medal) and the pay is laughably low.

I work, generally, three times a week, and get less than three hundred (sometimes less than two hundred) dollars in two weeks.

I'm already miserable on the days I do work.

If I was working EVERY day, I would get around five-hundred dollars. . . in two weeks. Working EVERY day.
That's ABSURD!

It's like all of the money in this economy is going to athletes and movie stars.

And according to every website on the internet, don't even try to be a writer if you want to sustain your livelihood, because you'll have to be a writer, AND a fast-food employee.
Joy.

Life does not cater to those who want it to be easy, nor does it make it easy for those who would like to accomplish something worthwhile, and especially not for people who want to do what they love.

Man, I hate this life. Hate it.

Really, EVERYTHING these days is pretentious.

Jealous because a person writes better than you? Then the work is 'pretentious'.

Someone using atypical wording? That is definitely pretentious.

Someone using a spelling of a word (grey vs. gray) because the author prefers that spelling? Pretentious.

Someone like classical music or classic literature? Pretentious.

Someone use symbolism in his writing? Pretentious!

Someone use the word 'he' instead of 'their' because it is correct grammar? WRONG! It's not 'correct grammar'.
It is a pointed, ostentatious display of one's knowledge, or, more simply; pretentious.


Don't know what a word means? Then the word is, inherently, pretentious.

GIVE IT A REST, ALREADY! The basic idea is this: If something seems intelligent, but unorthodox, then it is AUTOMATICALLY a person attempting to show off his ostensible skill. Period.
No one is different than you, unless it's in a negative way. No one is smarter than you, they are just pretentious.

I used to get annoyed when people would write 'vampyre.'
I could tell myself all day that I got annoyed because it was improper and stupid, but in reality, I was just jealous.
"HE DID SOMETHING UNORTHODOX FOR NO REASON! HE MUST BE PRETENTIOUS!"

Or maybe he's just someone who likes things the way he likes those selfsame things. Perhaps he's just a kid. Maybe he doesn't CARE what you think.

It's not 'pretentious,' it is (and I never thought I would say this) an expression of volition and self-will.

I don't expect anyone to change, based on this rant; no one ever does.
I just needed to say it. Why must we feel so high and mighty that we consider ANYTHING that seems a little more complex than what we are accustomed with to be pretentious?

Just give it a rest. Stop it. Cease and desist. Quit. Halt.

- Atari

I am growing weary of constantly being told to not write in a particular manner.
I have read enough books that bore me to tears at many, many places to last me a lifetime. It has also made me wonder if anyone in the universe knows what he is talking about!

How can one say to not do a certain, stylistic thing as long as it is not confusing?
I have seen Tom Clancy do odd things that would be frowned upon on Writing forums! Perhaps even laughed at!

Sure, sure.

"If you want to get published, you have to start by being a mouthpiece for the wealthy."

Thanks for that tip, I will be certain to remember it while I write my first piece. Nothing like a good old fashioned mediocre novel to start off one's career, right?

Bah. Perhaps we have merely forgotten what it is like to truly be engaged, or to simply relax and indulge ourselves within a richly descriptive scene! And I am not even referring to scenery or pages of history upon the life of a wooden chair. I mean from the characters themselves! Writing out almost every minuscule motion, causing everything to be significant; conveying emotions and character with the movements!

A person placing his fists on his hips can convey a hundred words worth of meaning. A roll of the eyes, a slow lowering of the head, hands burying into pant pockets.

Within context you have the ability to convey so much, but instead I get, "Why did you put 'so much' description here?"
It is because I am crafting a scene! They are not mere lifeless vassals whom I can toss about as if without weight! I want you to see the things I write, not just hear about them, but be engaged!
And here is my attempt. Do not FIGHT the description as you read, but take it in, picture it, go with it. The personalities of the characters are conveyed in their movements, and the feel of the scene.
When you are done, THEN consider whether it was verbose or inspiring:

Mia put a hand on my shoulder as I simultaneously began doing the same to her. We paused, arms outstretched and interlocked, palms on one another’s shoulder, and while it felt a bit awkward I was certain we were doing it correctly. Mia’s expression softened. She glanced at our dovetailing arms with dispassionate observation, then moved her eyes to me with a slight, cute tilt of her head.
“Do you know this dance?”
I grinned, causing another one of my slicked-back hairs to spring upward, which Mia quickly noticed with a small, amused smile.
“Slow dance,” I informed her, returning her smile with one of my most inexplicably pleased ones.
She opened her mouth, drawing in a breath to speak, but, my oblivious words sinking in, she breathed out without a word. Her head returned to proper position and she withdrew her arm. As she put her hands at her belly and clasped them, she spoke, “I shall put my left hand on your shoulder,” she opened both hands palm-up and pushed them gently and slightly toward my shoulder in indication, then daintily clasped them together once again, “and you shall place your left arm on my waist,” she made an encompassing gesture, each hand on one side of her left hip, “see?” She focused her gaze on my own eyes, and I could not help but notice her purple-hued irises, intelligent and patient. “Yes. . . .” I replied solemnly.
Mia drew close and placed her palm on my right shoulder, fingers clasped around it, and a shudder pulsated up my spine. We stood for a moment, her biding, me waiting until the shiver left. When it did, I slowly put my hand near her waist, my fingers constricted in the air as I hesitated. I brought my hand up, but it was more near her shoulder blades. I brought it down, and hovered over her posterior, then came up to a spot I thought was unobtrusive, and settled down into the warmth of her lower back, warm even through the form-fitting, torso section of her white dress.
I was now acutely aware of her chest being inches from mine, and my hand actually grasping, albeit gently, her lower back. I gulped.
“Now,” Mia said, beaming with enthusiasm, “we shall dance– you do know the steps, I presume?”
My mother and father had both taught me the steps; this I knew. “Y-yes. . . .” I told her, nervously, with a bit of a nod. We waited. She waited, looking at me expectantly. I looked at her expectantly. The wind of a nearby dancer passing behind us brushed my back lightly. The orchestra played a soothing ballroom ballad, and we stared into each other’s eyes.
“Will you lead, or shall I?” Mia finally said.
“Oh–! Yes! I– uh, you may lead, if you want, I. . . you know, not very good at – uh. . . .” I lowered my eyes and finished in a quiet voice, “leading. . . .”
“My, my! Atari!” Mia suddenly exclaimed. I nearly jumped back, but only flinched. I am quite tactful.
“You are terribly nervous! Abate your anxiety. It is, after all, only a dance. You want to make a good impression for the king, do you not?”
I furrowed my brow spontaneously, defiantly, “What king?” I hissed.
Mia smiled politely and began to step, to dance, to lead. Impulsively, I followed, and soon the girl in my arms and the music in my ears overwhelmed my indignation. We would spin, at times, and her dress would flutter outward, desirably. Her long, royal blue hair did the same, shining in the light of the golden chandelier, the spiraling curls of hair in front of her ears bouncing lightly as if gilded ear rings.
I could talk for hours of her wonderful, bow-shaped lips, (a compound bow, to be precise) and gently guiding footsteps, but alas: No good thing is perpetual; indefinite, perhaps, but not perpetual.

I was interested in writing something and my brother like Naruto, fanfictions, and Naruto Fanfictions.
Also, he likes comedy.
Well, one of the easiest thing to write is absurd comedy. (Don't think "Uncle Buck," think "Hotshots".)

So, I wrote a paragraph and showed him. He laughed. So, I wrote another and he laughed, again.
So I wrote a couple pages of sheer comedy. Some of it I feel to be so brilliant that I must record for the sake of posterity, so I am placing it here, as well.
I would love to see what you think.

The two main characters are non-canon, both from stories created by my sister and I.
Remember, it's inane, so you should have no complaints about discrepancies.

Here it is:

“Oh, really?” Sacuna said in disdain, giving him a disdainful look that was very clearly of a disdainful nature, “If so, then where are your kunai?”
“Hah!” Naiko said in a way that might be construed as derisive, only I don’t know what ‘derisive’ means, it just sounds cool.
He continued, “I need not italicized weapons. I have my Monaton Blades.” He demonstrated this, to which Sacuna appeared unimpressed, though he presumed she was inwardly.

A group of ninjas suddenly surrounded our unreluctant heros who were, in fact, itching with highly contained impatience, as it had been a while since either one of them had mass-murdered; for Naiko, it was three years ago, and for Sacuna, it was somewhere around lunch time in a place where a noodle shop existed at one point, but is now spiraling wildly in a zero dimension gravity well.
Naiko slashed his arms to draw his weapons and Sacuna prepared several kunai, though somewhat reluctantly, as she could only remember how passively he felt about weapons that had to be italicized, and it somehow felt that she was being manipulated, though she had no idea in what way.

“Well, we can fight, if you’re interested,” Naiko said, gritting his teeth.
“Sure,” she responded, but questioned him because she heard the way his voice sounded, and consequently knew that he was biting his teeth together, “Are you that worried?”
“No, I gotta use the bathroom, and besides, if I am any judge. . . it has been at least five minutes since the ninjas first started approaching. Are we in slow motion?”
Sacuna nodded. Slowly.

The two warriors walked away from the blood-spattered battlefield arm-in-arm, laughing at the different anecdotes of how they brutally contorted, twisted, murdered and annihilated their individual foes.
“One time,” Naiko squeezed between bursts of laughter, “I stabbed a guy in the chest so hard! Hah hah! So hard that–“
“Go on!” Sacuna breathed through a hail of laughing.
“That I stabbed him, AND his partner! And they walked around like a shischabob for a week! HAHHAHA!”
Sacuna regaled him of a time when she had poisoned her sister with a deadly poison. After her sister coughed blood and was laying on her death bed; only then did she produce the antidote with a flourish.
Everyone, she said, ahd a good laugh.
Naiko reconsidered the practical joke he had been planning.









They returned to the noodle shop. Sacuna remembered, then, her assailing of the place after a man asked her on a date.
“What did you DO here!” Naiko asked, incredulous.
Sacuna shrugged, “I glared at them and the place suddenly broke asunder and was hurled into a zero gravity-well.”
Naiko reconsidered traveling with her, at all.
“Do these things often happen when people. . . uh, insult you?”
“Oh, I wasn’t insulted. If I was insulted, I would have done something horrible.”
Naiko gave a forced, sickly smile that sweat with nervousness, “R-right. . . .”
“Wait a moment!” Naiko suddenly said, putting the back of his hand on her chest to still her as he looked about, searching for a signature of chakra he sensed.
Sacuna, fortunately, did not notice the innocuous gesture which could be misconstrued and taken entirely out of context to have some sort of sexual connotations.
If she had, you may not b e reading this story. Instead, I was able to write all of this down from the bushes as I observed.

As it happened, it was an entire hoard of ninjas, “Oh, no!” Naiko exclaimed, “It’s a gaggle of ninja!”
“A gaggle?” Sacuna raised her eyebrow in a decidedly disdaining manner, as you may have noticed by now, that she is prone to do.
“Yes, a gaggle!”
Sacuna grunted, “I think the word you want is a passel.”
“That’s ridiculous! Maybe it’s a hoard.”
Sacuna looked at the ninja rumbling toward them, then looked back at Naiko, “How about a school?”
“It doesn’t sound very impressive,” Naiko said absentmindedly, “I think it should sound cool. . . how about– a herd!”
“Oh, yes!” Sacuna exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm which was filled with–
“Disdain, yes, I get it.” Naiko glared at me and I huddled further into the bushes, chanting quietly to myself, “He can’t see me, he can’t see me, he can’t see me–“
“Of course! A herd! No, better; a flock! How is that?”
“Fine! Just shut up, I don’t need you insulting me when a flocking herd of hoarding ninja are rumbling toward us like a gaggle of vampire-like raptors!”

Sacuna took the harsh words gracefully and turned away.
Naiko came to her side when he had pulled his foot out of his mouth, position of which was courtesy of Sacuna’s grace.
“Alright,” Naiko said breathing heavily, “no more nihilism! We’re a team, here!”
“Since when?”
“Since just now when I suggested it.”
“Well, I accept your thinly-veiled attempt to patch things up without actually apologizing.”
Naiko refrained from removing her spine with a swift kick to the butt.




And then they were upon them.
And then they were gone.
“What just happened?”
Sacuna shrugged, “They were– apparently running away.”
“From what? What could cause an entire flock of ninja–“ Sacuna glowered, “– to run scared? Also, why are we talking about them as if they were herding animals?”
Suddenly, the quiet pattering of distance footsteps on dirt sounded. They grew steadily louder until on the horizon they could see a guy running toward them.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t know.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I didn’t ask you!”
“I’m the only one here.”
“I’m here.”
“So you were asking yourself?”
“No.”
“Then, you must have been asking someone, and because you weren’t asking yourself, then you must have been asking the only other person here, which is me!”
“Which is I.”
“I thought you said you weren’t talking to you!”
“I’m not!”
“Then why did you say you are!”
“I didn’t! I was correcting your grammar!”
“So are you talking to me or not?”
“No, it was an outward introspection.”
“That’s a contradiction in–“
We shall never know what it was a contradiction of, however; because at that moment a guy in an orange jumpsuit came running up to them.
“Did you see a gaggle of ninja running through here?” He asked between panting breaths.
Naiko gave Sacuna a snide look, which she ignored gracefully. While Naiko was prying his fist from his own eye-socket, Sacuna addressed the kid, “Who are you, neon-clothed wearing runner?”
“I am Naruto! I’m a ninja and one day I’m going to be–“
“Yeah, that’s nice, kid. You fancy yourself a ninja?”
“Yup! I’m terribly fast! Super strong!” He demonstrated these abilities with wildly flourishing, incoherent motions, incidentally, “And stealthier than–“
“No one. Look at what you’re wearing! You could light up the night with that orange light-bulb you’re wearing.”
“Hey! I can be stealthy when I want! And it’s not all that bright!”
“AGH!” Naiko shouted just after prying his fist from his eye, “My eyes! Something orange is so bright I can’t see!”
Sacuna swayed a hand demonstrably toward Naiko, to which Naruto glared, “You want a piece of me, woman?”
Sacuna gave him one of her most disdainful looks, “Sure, but I am afraid if I took a piece, there may not be much left.”
Naruto was getting angry.
“Naruto, you’re getting angry,” Naiko informed him.
Sacuna glanced at Naiko, then put her hands on her hips as she looked back at Naruto, “How can you tell?”
Naiko put a finger up as he used his other hand to dig in his pocket, whereupon he withdrew an egg. Casually, he sauntered over to Naruto, cracked the egg above his head, and Sacuna nodded, impressed, as it began to simmer, “Hey, you’re right.”
Naruto screamed, suddenly and flailed around, “Listen! I don’t have time to deal with you two! I have ninja to destroy!”
“What? You mean those ninja were running from you?” Sacuna asked in disbelief.
Naruto puffed his chest, “Of course! No small feat, but easily done with my–“
“Right, sure,” Naiko interrupted, “So, tell us the real reason they were running.”
“They were really running from me!”
Naiko and Sacuna blinked, then looked at one another.
Then laughed. Loud.
“What ever!” Shouted Naruto, “You don’t have to believe me! I’ll just show you!”
He pelted away without another word, though he threw some dirt and unintelligible sound effects behind him as he tore away.
Naiko and Sacuna looked at one another, shrugged, and began running after him at a casual lope.
“This lope we’re running at,” Naiko said, “It’s rather casual.”
“That’s what the man said,” Sacuna agreed.
“What man?”
“The one running with the bush disguise.”
Naiko threw a look at me, and I stopped suddenly, tripped, rolled and quickly threw some small furry animals from the disguise to make them think it was just a rustling of critters.
The two watched as the mammals flew from the bush and sailed careening through the air, looked at one another in bemusement, then shrugged.
I snickered. Fools had no idea.

A while back I went to a Youth camp run by a youth pastor from my church. (Family Worship Center, actually)

While I know that these people love God, I will NEVER return to another youth camp for the rest of my life.

The rules were deathly strict and we had these two guys who were roomed with us that couldn't shut up when it was time to sleep. Agh. Man, I hope to forget that week.

In the Youth camp, you HAD to be awake at a certain time, you had to go to ALL services and BE ON TIME, and you had walk in orderly fashion with the rest of the students (I say 'students' because this was more like a third-grade field trip) AT ALL TIMES.
I can't emphasize enough how restricted and closed-in I felt. The smugness of some of the. . . I can't think of a word for them. They are basically one level higher than a mere 'camper,' and they make sure people are in the right place at the right time.

They were some of the worst.

The entire experience was like living in a police state.
Once you got to know the teenagers, however; you understood why it was so heavily handled. You don't send wild, disreputable teenagers out to a camp without severe supervision. (AH! That's the name; supervisors)

But what did this tell me? Me, a kind, courteous, generous young man? One who doesn't lie, cheat, steal, murder or so much as tease people?
It said, "You're a potentially bad person, and need to be controlled in every manner of your life."
And, oh sure, when I was a little late or not quite on the ordained path, the supervisors were immediately there, ushering me into line like a stray during the Thousand-mile death-march.

But when my roommates kept me awake all night? When they swore constantly and persistently? When they spoke vulgarities? When I asked to be moved?
Silence.

Because they didn't really CARE about me. They were 'busy,' I am sure. They were concerned only with being certain they did not get sued or lose a kid or what ever.

I was so controlled-- agh!

And the whole time I wondered, "Are people so terrible that we just ASSUME they are evil and should have every faucet of their life controlled?"


Then I came to the writer's forum.

I saw the topic about wanting to make a debate thread, and IMMEDIATELY I was dismayed to see that the general consensus amounted to:

"We are all pugnacious, rude, argumentative lunatics. If we had sub-forum for simple debate, there would be animosity, anger, flame wars and hate because we CANNOT BE CONTROLLED! So instead, let us opt to not have the topic at all, because everything that can potentially be bad in some regard should automatically be either heavily policed or terminated preemptively."

I just feel like there is no FAITH! I understand the arguments for why there should not be one, and honestly, I don't care about a debate sub-forum, necessarily. What DOES annoy me is that we all just ASSUME that everyone here is a raving madman with nothing better to do than stalk people, hack into computers and hate everyone out of sheer malice because there's a debate forum.

Incidentally, 'debate' and 'argue' are mutually separate words. (And don't give me the SECONDARY definitions of 'debate' which mean 'to argue,' because you know that those definitions are not the ones I am referring to)

debate >noun 1 a formal discussion in a public meeting or legislature, in which opposing arguments are presented.

That is the kind of debate sub-forum which should be issued.
Calm, rational discussion of apposing viewpoints. Debate.

That's all I wanted to say.

- Atari

I have been looking around this forum and realized that-- I really don't like pussyfooting descriptions.

When a person tries to be vague or mysterious or add some kind of pseudo-mystic wonder to his description of even the most simple thing.

He is not even attempting to create the serene atmosphere of a man standing before a huge body of water that is lapping at the sand then drawing back again while the sun -- so big that it appears to sinking directly into the water -- lowers in the horizon, making burning red reflections on the clouds while the wind rushes by, tugging at the man's loose shirt.

No, he just writes awkwardly and boringly. In a way that makes you want to skip it because you really get the point long before he is finished and the superfluousness just drives you up the wall.


Writing is so much more enjoyable when people just write what is happening instead of being ostentatious, writing the equivalent of singing with flourishing hand motions, head jerks, and entirely inappropriate vocalizing.

Moreover, it is a shame that the English language, giving a writer so many ways at his disposal to express himself, is being suppressed by so many people.

Here is a list of some things that are quite useful in expression, but seldom used or are often misused:

The ellipsis, (How could you. . .?)
the dash, (I-- don't know.)
the italic, (You are a jerk!)
the exclamation point, (What are you talking about!)
and, finally, the run-on sentence.

That's right, the run-on sentence! Before you discredit everything I have said, consider:

A run-on sentence can be used to denote a sense of manic, or a sense of frustration, or a sense of comedy.
It all depends on how you use it. Of course, you are always going to have people who frown upon these things, regardless of how well they are used. You cannot, of course, shun a run-on sentence in a quotation, though I would be willing to wager that people would, anyway.

I am considering a style of writing that demonstrates character's speech patterns with a colorful use of punctuation.

Take this, for example:

"And then! . . . well, I looked him, right, in the-- wait! Are you looking at me! There are a thousand people in this place, and -- what's this? -- you just happen to be looking in my general direction well my. . . well, my good man! Let us have a drink!"

With context, one will immediately get a feel for his drunkenness, or craziness, or what ever he is and why he is speaking this way.

That's just me, though.

- Atari

I really. . . I'm disheartened and appalled.

I thought that blogs were personal, or at least looked at as no one's business but the authors.

Yet, one of my entries was deleted and the other, apparently, only BARELY got by without offending the moderators.

I am not allowed to express myself, even if I happen to be a little harsh with it? If someone doesn't like my opinion, then here's a tip: Don't read my blog.
I just don't get it. There is a difference between a site being FRIENDLY and it being POLICED.

It was that every time I entered this site (as short a time ago as it was that I joined) I would rush to see my messages and what others have posted on the boards.

Now, at being warned because I told -- a person here that her opinions were, in fact, her own, I no longer feel welcome.
I don't feel as if I can say what I want to say. I never once attempted to harass or annoy anyone. I didn't stir up controversy for no reason, even if my fingers sometimes wrote without properly consulting with my brain, first.


Now, when I enter the boards, I feel like everything is stale. It is as though all of the happy kindness felt before has now been peeled back to reveal the icy stare of subjugation.

Remember on Annie (I think that's which movie it is) where the children would come down and say, "We love you Miss Hannigan," or what ever her name was, even though they did not really love her?
It was just a requirement so that everything would be on the up and up.

A mere pretense of jovial kindness and a personable atmosphere is worse than if people were honest and a bit harsher.

Every time I want to make a post, now, I feel as though it is being scrutinized to make sure I haven't disagreed with anyone too harshly, or given an opinion that isn't TOO far different than the orthodox.

Not only those posts, by my bloody BLOG!? I mean, why?!
Because I have a wide range of views on many different things, I am held back! That's prejudice, is it not? To say that because people MIGHT be offended by my beliefs, because they are reading my blog which THEY DON'T HAVE TO, I must be subdued and contained.

It's not like you don't get warning.
On the homepage of this website, you can see the title of my blog entry and systematically avoid clicking on it.

I heard that people actually COMPLAINED about one of my entries, which was subsequently deleted.
Why complain? Why not just-- not read it? I don't get it.


Anyway, as I was saying before, I just feel stifled.
My chest is twisted into nervous knots every time I enter the site, for fear I will be once again castigated because of some trivial comment I made here or there.

I am glad that this place is different from. . . other places, because it IS more friendly-- with sincerity!
But I somehow doubt that it is the terribly strict rules that keep the place so friendly.
I believe it is when people are obviously rude and harassing, and our moderators berate them; that is what keeps things friendly.
Don't let people become pointlessly rude or obnoxious or start needless controversy over everything.

But when a person posts a blog entry that happens to rant and it is deleted? That's just. . . silly.



I was so excited for this community that I dearly desired to be apart of, and now I simply feel as though I am being limited and held back.

I fear that I will abandon this place at some point, but I worry that I will never find a place as good as this.
Sadness is overcoming me even as I write this.

I hope that whoever reads this will not feel compelled to have it removed simply because my opinions offend them.
My heart merely speaks for itself.

- Atari

Akira stood with broad shoulders, soft, handsome features and at six feet and change. Short blond hair was cut neatly atop his head and his blue eyes shown with dignity and kindness usually found only in the insincere looks of the noble and royalty.
Draped over his back was a black, heavy leather cape, buckled to his shoulders with maple leaf pendants that sparkled with gold.
He was built athletically, having more grace and maneuverability than one would expect possible for his size. Muscles lined his arms and the word 'perfect' comes to mind when I attempt to describe them. Lean and tight, his chest adorned with solid, masculine bosoms and on down to his stomach where the abdomen muscles ripple thick but not bulky.

The first man comes up to him and asks, "Why is your name Japanese? You should not have a Japanese name! You are not Japanese! In fact-- I think you're. . . what, pure Caucasian?"
Akira shifted in his light-weight boots that came up to his mid-shins, reflecting confoundedly before replying in a voice that reflected his state of mind, "What is Japanese?"

It would seem that for him to be copying Japanese-- Japan would have to exist. In his world, Glodias, there is no such thing, and his name came about purely by chance.
Could it happen?
Seems perfectly reasonable to me. Reinende (ree-in-in-day) sounds perfectly Japanese, though it was invented by a boy named Joseph who lives in Louisiana. It probably has a meaning in Japan, but it would not matter, because he did not need to hear the Japanese name to create the (nonexistent) word.

The second man approaches as the first fades away, retreating amongst the confines of his own mind to ponder a good rebuttal.
Akira glances down at the man whom he towers over, and regards his height, coming to the conclusion that the man must be a mere 5'5".
"You there!" The short man exclaims, his head pulled back until the base of his skull touches the apex of his spine, "Why are you so tall! You cannot be tall, and muscular, and handsome! Why, don't you know; that's a Gary Stu, or Lary Stew, or Harry Glu!"

Akira, now somewhat ready for another odd question, though not quite oriented as he should like, considered this with two muscled arms across an iron chest; his eyes darted here and there as he thought.
Finally, he put his hands on his hips and responded, "I do not know why I am tall. Neither my father nor mother were tall."

It would seem that you do not need tall parents to be tall, sometimes, that's just how things work out. It happens in real life. There's no big deal about it.


The second man shrinks back, realizing his scientifically fallible and loose arguement.

The third man comes up, having an even height and with dark brown hair cut so short that it spiked of its own accord. A large sword latched to his hip bounced against his thighs and the decidedly huge silver shoulder guards made him look bigger than he must have really been.
"Why," he asked, gripping the blade and pulling it out with a slice that might have taken Akira's head off, but instead halted with the tip of the blade resting on his jugular instead, "are you the center of the story? Why is a guy like you doing so many great things? What are the odds that a person such as yourself would end up accomplishing such feats in succession and in a grandiose manner?"

This time, Akira had no need to think on it. A large, thick leather glove adorned his left hand and, shifting the weight of his body onto his right foot, he turned and grabbed the blade and pushed it harshly away.
As his opponent faltered, Akira took a step toward him and then drove his left knee into the enemies' gut.
The man released his sword and backpedaled several steps away as he held his stomach, slowly sinking to a pained crouch.
Akira dropped the weapon and ceremoniously - slowly - stepped forward, his feet making impressions in the grass, then knelt in front of his broken foe, "Because," he calmly stated in a low voice, though a humored smile tugged at his lips was subtly evident in his tone, "Otherwise, the story would be boring."

I was hanging around with some music fanatics and was forcefully subjected to endure the endless whining of self-proclaimed musical zealots calling each other names and launching hate-injected insults at each other's taste in music in much the same fashion that six-year-olds slap at each other until one of them gets in a lucky hit and makes the other kid cry.

Amidst all of the idiocy, I found a gap, a crevice about the size of a quarter from wherewith a shaft of light broke through. Curious, I slowly waded my way through this flood of idiocy, inching toward the hole as if struggling against a persisting wave of a large body of water.
Finally, I made it and was able to put my face against the floor and peer into the hole, only to have someone jag a sharp object into my eyeball.
Turns out that beneath all of that idiocy is another, deeper layer, filled with stupidity.

And below that is a place filled with teenage girls who don't know good music from a nail on a rusty, metal chalkboard covered in sandpaper scattered with gravel over a hardened layer of concrete.
Not just any concrete, but the same concrete used on the remnants of a broken pane of glass that had been shattered using the carcass of a rigor mortis-stricken porcupine.

Apparently, a ghost asked her what her favorite song was. I say it was a ghost because I neither heard nor saw anyone requesting that she announce aloud the song she likes most.

She says it is 'Kiss Kiss by Chris Brown'.
Had she left it there, we would all have walked away with all of our brain cells, but she had to go and tell us why, exactly, this is her favorite song.
She said it is because 'he is so hot'.

Right, me too.
After standing there like that for five minutes I had to actively restrain myself from bludgeoning her in the head with a door I found.
She honestly likes that song because she is attracted the person who sings it, or even if she's not, none of us asked her what she thought about the attractiveness of the singer.
My guess as to why she said it?

Ghosts. Ghosts are to blame for everything. I'm moving to Detroit. I hear the ghosts up there shut up and leave you alone.


- Atari

Am I to be Humble, Confident, or Pitiful?
The problem with writing is that no one likes to receive negative criticism. Some will unwittingly defend themselves from every single piece of negative criticism they receive, even, at times, if they agree with what the reviewer has to say.

For example, if I have given a person a long list of things that are wrong, they will address each of my points specifically, and it might look like this:




Quote:

You're right, there was supposed to be a period there, I just missed it. And, as for my character having green hair, I was going to mention later why that is.
You said that I needed a semicolon, but I don't use semicolons, so I just put a period.



Et cetera.

I have been attempting to purge myself of this automatic defense system because, really, it is pride. Pride, and the crushing disappointment of being told that all of your hard work was poorly done, in the end.


Some people will find a DIFFERENT system for defending themselves. They will, instead, resort to belittling themselves extremely so that, no matter what you say about their story, good or bad, will result in the response, "Yeah, it sucks," or, "Nah, it sucks."

That way, they don't have to face their problems, but instead, pretend that they are not good in any way, shape, or form.
I believe that there can be a goodness to this, to a certain extent. If you could keep in mind that you are NOT that good, yet; but will continue to gain experience, then you can avoid feeling such disappointment when you discover all of the mistakes in your prose.

The problem, I think, is that we write a huge story, and desire and expect it to be great, before we ever gain true experience.
That is what I did. I learn from my mistakes, however.

From now on, I will write only sections and scenes, possibly short stories or unimportant stories in order to build my skills.
When I am sufficiently confident, only then will I start on my real story.

I need some names for it, by the way. Here are some I have so far:


Swath of Blood and Lightning (what I'm going for)

Atari's story (lame, generic)

Rend -- Slither of Steel -- Asunder (I just thought of that. . . man, that's cool)


I want it to be a name that sounds cool, something eye catching. There is some enjoyment, I think, from having a book that is not only cool, but also has good art work and, perhaps above all; a good title.

When telling your friends, you want it to be something cool-sounding so that they're interested.

I mean, if I was telling my friend that I was reading a book and the conversation went like this:

Me: Hey, this book I'm reading is AWESOME!

Friend: Yeah? What is it about?

Me: Oh, you know, it's a fantasy, so it's got dragons and stuff. But it's kinda weird, because it has stuff that-- well, really, I can only think of the Pokemon games, in the way the weather and stuff is--

Friend: Pokemon?

Me: Yeah-- well, no! No, it's nothing like Pokemo--

Friend: Uhh, huh. . . Pokemon is so childish--

Me: IT DOESN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH POKEMON!

Friend: Fine, so what's it about, again?

Me: Well, uhm, this guy-- I think he's seventeen or something, gets involved in this huge plot to form a monarch, and--

Friend: Sounds complicated.

Me: It is.

Friend: I don't think I wanna read something too complicated.

Me: No, I mean, well, it's not complicated, as such. The way he writes it is really simple. It--

Friend: Simple?

Me: Y'know. . . I mean, not simple, but it's easy to understand everything. Some of the stuff is described so awesomely!

Friend: I like a good description if it's done right. You know, like, if it's written in such a way that I get that mental image automatically. Where the book gives pictures to the mind almost every paragraph.

Me: Yes! That's exactly what it's like!

Friend: Hmh-- what's it called, again?

Me: Swath of Blood and Lightning.

Friend: DUDE! Why didn't you say that sooner? Let's go to the book store and buy two copies.

Me: Two?

Friend: One to display on my desk. The other to read.

Me: Gotcha.



Ooh, man. That's good stuff.

Every time I enter a forum and find a thread about role-playing that has a long list of rules, and the owner of the thread looks like a reasonable person who merely made a small imperfection in word choice, so I send him a private message with a better word suggesting that he may have meant this word but is not obligated to use it at all, the person gets all defensive.

What is the problem with me suggesting a viable alternative that may be more suited to his purpose?
Is pride so rampant that he cannot merely say, "Thanks for the heads up," and then just never use the word?

What is your problem? The humble suggestion always deteriorates into a senseless argument in which the person I am speaking with attempts to make me look like some sort of perfectionist who is only pointing out small incongruities in everyone's writing in order to feel superior.

The next thing I know, he's stumbling back onto himself, dismissing things he had already said and replacing them with other defensive arguments.

He first says, "Well, the word 'vulgarity' means the same as 'expletive'."

I pointed out that it does not, but that it was just a heads up and he is in no way required to use the word.
He then retorts, "WELL! IT'S A GOOD THING I'M NOT IN SOME KIND OF CONTEST WHERE EVERYTHING HAS TO BE PERFECT! AND I MEANT ANYTHING THAT IS VULGAR AT ALL!"

No, you meant 'expletive,' but you should CALM DOWN BECAUSE YOU'RE GOING TO BURN OUT THAT ONE GOOD BRAINCELL!

Instead of blathering on like a buffoon, you would have saved face had you only given me a small thanks, (or no thanks) and been about your way, but now I'm writing a journal entry about all of you morons who are too defensive to take what is not even criticism, but mere suggestions that you have possibly made a poorer choice than you reasonably could have, and it would be quickly rectified.
Most will never, EVER use the word I supplied, out of sheer contrariness.




Defensive, insufferable simpletons.

Yet again I am subjected to the endless preaching of movies that feel it their responsibility to force some stupid, hackneyed agenda down the throats of all of its viewers.
Here's a clue: not everyone believes in the same regurgitated cliche' of 'truth and justice' as you do! Stop trying to make a point and get to the action scenes, already!

Like, for example, Narnia. I was watching the Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspien the other day because it looked a lot less like kids being annoying than the first. (And I was right, this one had less of kids being annoying and more of people standing around staring for at least a combined forty minutes of the movie)
Instead of them going into Narnia, living for eighty years, then going back and becoming kids, then going back into Narnia and living another eighty years, and doing that same thing over and over in order to be immortal, they go just long enough to 'learn all that they can [from Narnia]' and then they have to stay in the real world.

Belay that malarkey! Why do they have to learn some kind of lesson in fantasy-land that most people learn in the real world? Why do they have to return to earth? What is the point of that?
If these kids had any sense, which they don't, they would be immortal like I would, only I wouldn't, because people suck and I don't want to be here any longer than I have to without killing myself.

The reason they put this 'lesson' in there is because the producers realized the kids were really just too stupid to stay in Narnia, so they made up some nonsense about how they really only stayed long enough to gain knowledge in an obsolete, unnecessary manner in order to make some kind of sense and to appeal to mothers who lap that kind of stuff up and think it's 'whole-hearted' goodness for their children, not realizing that the kids don't care because they're only there for the action sequences.
And was it just me, or did that movie have the worst camera work ever?

Take, for example, the part where the camera panned to the sky and did a time-lapse to nightfall. At this point, the obvious thing to do would be to pan the camera down to reveal the children and their fire, (or it could have been the opposite and time-lapsed to morning, same difference) but instead, it just shifted from one view to the other instantaneously, making everyone lose the mood and possibly wake up from the nap they took while waiting for the characters to stop standing there with their mouths agape.

Then, the poorly-done scene where that one soldier shot the arrow and it did the 'follow-the-projectile' camera move, only it did it in the most anticlimactic way conceivable, as if the people making the movie just did not care that much-- or wanted to annoy the ever-living out of me. . . which they did.

And then we have conflict which is never resolved, like the whole argument between the prince and the High King-- Pete I think his name is. . . what a lame name for a high king. If I were a king, my name would be Asimoth Leon Grand, with unnecessary accent marks everywhere, so it would look like, As'imoth' Le'on Grand', and would be pronounced 'Jake Terrymore'.
Man, my subjects would love me just because of my name, never mind the monarchy dictatorship.

So like I was saying, we need to stop putting these unneeded, heartfelt tidbits of knowledge and wisdom having to do with abstract concepts such as love and friendship, and instead start making movies that have a REAL point.
Or, if you have to have two apposing viewpoints, why always make the obvious choice the right one?

Consider the end of the Daredevil movie-- the man has already killed two people, one of them in the first ten minutes of the movie-- in cold blood. . . and then tells the world about it.
Then, he gets to the crime-lord himself, the kingpin, fights him in an epic ending duel. The final move consists of the Daredevil sliding underneath the kingpin, between his legs, kicking the front of his knees making him double-jointed but non-the-better for all it does him, and prepares to unleash the final blow which would no doubt have been something awesome such as bludgeoning him over the head with his cane and then tossing him out of the window.
Suddenly, the writers decide that the movie was going too well and the Daredevil has a spontaneous lapse in judgment, gets an over-developed conscious and an excessive sense of compassion and pity, so instead of killing him he listens to the kingpin declare that he will rip out the Daredevil's intestines and strangle anyone close to him with them, then cut off his head and eat it raw, to which the Daredevil responds, "I know."

Wait-- what! "I know"? No! You don't know, apparently, because if you did you would have thrown him out the window!
That is stupid! He could have gotten rid of a great evil, but because he is supposedly 'different' than the bad guys, (that difference being the inability to kill, because, obviously, killing, regardless of what the bad guy has done, is simply a 'bad guy' thing to do) he will probably be mourning over the loss of his dear lawyer associate in the sequel, who has been impaled with a large but finite quantity of sharp and not-usually-deadly objects.

That is what compassion, when staring at the deathly glare of Satan, will get you; more dead colleagues.


Down with compassionate, media-crafted lessons! Down with all of these accursed CHILDREN in our movies!
What on earth!
The next movie coming out where these people have to escape from a city-- why with kids? Why! That movie could be done just as well with all adults!
As a matter of fact, the movie could do with JUST Billy Murray! No kids, no cast to figure out what is supposed to be happening, just Billy Murray being funny and unwittingly stumbling upon clues in a comedic fashion.
That would work-- honestly, what is with all of these movies coming out with kids in 'em? Nims Island, Chronicles of Narnia, that one with the kid in it-- who. . . did some stuff and got strength and at the end had a twin brother.
People have some kind of obsession with kids getting powers or discovering some kind of wonderful destiny.

My brother bought these books about teenagers who become vampires or some such rubbish. Anyone who speaks like this: "Becoming a vampire the first day of school is, like, SOOOO totally the worst," deserves to be shot, not gifted with the powers of a vampire and then left to sit around crying about being unable to go outside in the sunlight.
"Boo hoo, woe is me, I can't go out in the sunlight! Wah wah!"
Then how about we just stake you through the heart and get it over with.

I've figured it out: Hollywood has decided, in its infinite wisdom in the art of making our lives miserable, that it is going to wear down America by making so many movies that have kids for NO REASON AT ALL that everyone will get high blood pressure and be unable to defend themselves when the time comes for the takeover because they'll be too busy counting to a hundred.
Well, not me.
In my book, all of the characters are going to be thirty or older and its going to be nothing but witty dialogue and snappy repartee. That way if it is ever made into a movie, at least the dialogue wont be awful.