I attempt to do nothing, save to entertain my readers.

If you enjoy an entry, please, set aside a moment of time to send a comment, whether it be long and verbose (which I personally prefer) or short and simple (which, mind you, is sometimes just as uplifting).

I would take pleasure in knowing, of the eighteen or so views, which of those people was entertained.
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  1. 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.

    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.
  2. 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.

    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
  3. 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.
  4. 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?”
    “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.
  5. 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?

    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