My Life Goals

-Not die
-Kick down a door
-Get a hole in one (in golf you perves!)
-Catch someone when they fall (preferably a girl)
-Own a house with a hammock
-Own a house with a library full of books I've actually read
-Play a facemelting guitar solo
-Hit a home run
-Save something from harm (preferably a girl)
-Have a two dogs
-Name one of the dogs Steve and name the other one Alexander the Great
-Grow a handle bar mustache
-Solve a mystery
-Say something really really really freaking cool (freaking wasn't the word I was going to use)
-Win the game (crap, I lost the game)

Where Am I?

Breast Stroke

How to Dance

If you don't know how to dance, that's okay. No one really knows how to dance, and as soon as you realize this, you know how to dance. You just have to make stuff up. It's kind of like when you BS your English paper. No one cares how good of a dancer you are. What is important to guys is that you don't look super gay, and what is important to girls is that you try and at least act like you're having fun. It's that easy. Sure, you feel awkward. Deal with it.

What the Weekend Is All About

Chaos on a Street Corner

Macbeth, Act II part ii

Jamien Macduff, a head assistant to President Duncan, arrived early the next morning in Macbeth's sector of the station to awaken him, as per orders. The president had made it clear that he was to be awakened early if anything out of the ordinary occurred. The out-of-ordinary had occurred. Rumors spread like chickenpox concerning that fateful night. Some said gravity ceased to function in some sectors, which is absurd, considering that the station's gravity was supplied by centripetal force created by the station's spin. The gravity could not simply stop in portions of the wheel, could it? It did. Similarly, there could not have been animals' howls through the night—the only animals on Olympus were Human and Velda. Neither of which regularly howled. Reports of black birds of varying sizes flying around were submitted for review, as well. Several of the reports included detailed descriptions of the smaller birds violently attacking the larger ones and barbarically consuming them.
Macduff arrived at Sector C-6, and called through the intercom to Macbeth's room. Macbeth, awake, staring intensely at nothing with a dull look of utter emotionlessness, took several moments to notice the intercom's beeping. “Oh!” his eyes moved toward the panel, and his forefinger tapped Accept.
“Good morning,” came the voice of Macduff through the speaker—Macbeth mumbled a quiet sarcastic comment about the morning's lack of good, and the voice continued, “Is the president stirring, hero?”
“Not yet.”
“He did command me to call timely on him: I have almost slipped the hour.”
“I'll send you to him.” Macbeth lit the colored lights in the hallway, illuminating a path to Duncan's chamber.
Within a few infinitely long minutes came a panicked voice over the intercom; “O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee.”
Macbeth, knowing full-well what the matter was, inquired, “What's the matter?”
The beloved president had been murdered, and—with no functioning security cameras that night—there was no one available to blame for his death. The virus that had disabled the cameras was so well-written that Lednars were the only possible culprits. Macbeth had even thought to use an archival, slightly-altered, video and time-stamp it so that it appeared to have been taken the night of the murder. The video, along with a fabricated log, showed that some people mysteriously arrived and left in the dead of the night. He covered all his traces, and placed the blame on untraceable people. His plan was infallible. There was no doubt.

This doesn't make sense.

Ah, the paradox of high school. It sucks. And you can't leave unless you are really really bad.
School just is not enjoyable, overall. And isn't it ironic that the good kids, who probably are done learning from it and have no need to be there are stuck going until it's all "done." However, the misbehaving, unkind, law-disregarding kids get the opportunity to not come to school for periods of time. What the heck? So, you are rewarded for misbehavior and punished for kindness and intelligence. What is the deal?
"HEY! You're smart! Sit here for 7 hours everyday!"
"HEY! You! YES YOU! You did something stupid--you don't have to come to school anymore!"

Graduation Is Coming

The Theory of Frienship Between the Sexes

This might turn into a rather lengthy scientific paper, but you guys deserve something after Cam and I didn't really posting anything all of finals week.

The Theory of Friendship Between Sexes

This is a theory I've been working on for quite a while. Thesis Statement: Friendship between boys and girls is always in a state of homeostasis. Perhaps you remember homeostasis from freshman biology when we studied the deer population on an island. The population would get really big really fast, but then there wasn't enough food so they all died except for the few who could find food and reproduced and then the population got really big again and then they all died again because they couldn't find food and so on and so forth and do you like my run on sentence?

Point is, it would go up and then go back down. Being friends generally works the same way. We meet someone new, our relationship improves with them, keeps getting better and better until we have an argument or get tired of them or don't see them anymore, and then the relationship weakens. It can be represented in this graph:

As you can see, there is another line on this graph. It represents what I will call it the Intergender Cap Upon Pals (ICUP for short). The ICUP line is basically a glass ceiling. It is impossible for any relationship to get higher than ICUP line. When a relationship reaches it's highest point, it is impossible for it to get any higher, so anything you do, whether perfect or not, makes your relationship begin a downward trend. It's like when you have a really high A+...like a 120%. Even if you get a 100% on everything that you do for the rest of the grading period, your grade is still going to go down. You just can't sustain that high of a grade even if you do it perfectly.

There is one exception to this rule. The only way to get over the ICUP line is if it becomes a romantic relationship. Since a romantic relationship is pretty much based off of friendship, it basically follows the same trends that friendships do, only when they reach their peak, they keep going. When romantic relationships go down on the graph, they hopefully do not fall back below the ICUP line. This often results in breakups and divorces.

Since homeostasis is a self regulating force, it is important to notice that the higher a relationship becomes on the graph and the faster and steeper that the graph goes up, whether the growth is over a short period of time or a long period of time, the faster and steeper the graph should come down. Everything is proportional. The bigger they are the harder they fall. That's why when you have a romantic relationship that ends in break ups or divorce, it's always bad.

Of course, no relationships travel in straight lines. They move a lot like the stock market. One day they're up, one day they're down. But over time a general trend can be seen, just like in relationships.

It's also important to note that this theory DOES NOT apply among guys. Friendships (men do not have relationships with other men) generally are much straighter. The peaks are higher, the troughs are lower, the spaces in between are not nearly as steep. The application of this theory in relationships between girls remains unproven. The data collected from girl girl relationships is inconclusive. Relationships among females show eratic shifts in the relationship graph for no reason at all. Further study will be needed to make a conclusive thesis.

I welcome comments and questions about my theory. Being scientists, you may now all test my theory to see if it holds true. I would also love some data about girl friendships.

Prank

Let's say you borrow a screwdriver from someone. You hold onto this screwdriver until they say, "Hey, Scott, when are you going to give me that screwdriver back?" Then you say something like "Oooo...riiiiight...uhh...it's kind of a long story, but I'll get it as soon as I can." And then you just walk away. The other person will be very confused at this. They will wonder what happened to their screwdriver. When they see you and ask you for more information, you just say, "it's a long story." Then one day give it back, but first, make it smell bad. And I mean bad. REALLY BAD. Just AWFUL. When you give it back say, "Alright, there you go. I got it back. Just don't smell it." And then walk away. You know they'll smell it. They won't know what happened to the screwdriver, but they'll be very concerned and confused. They might throw it away. Owned!

Smiley

Then the city was broken up, and all the men of war fled, and went forth out of the city by night by the way of the gate between the two walls, which was by the king’s garden; (now the Chaldeans were by the city round about:) and they went by the way of the plain.

^smiley after "about"^

King James Version of The Bible, Jeremiah 52:7


I guess typed smilies have been around longer than I thought.

Finals

Finals are like vacuum cleaners. THEY SUCK!

Prayer in School

Gossip

Cam said this, and it's so true:

The Door (another assignment from Creative Writing)

That looks carved in there. Impossible to move. I wonder what it's there for?Is it just chilling—just being a door stuck in this tree? That doesn't even make sense. That makes about as much sense as ... as much sense as... something that doesn't make sense. Calculus. A door in this tree makes as much sense as calculus.

The forest around David was vast. How did I get so lost in here? The trees' shadows swayed across the forest floor and up and down trunks as the wind softly pushed and pulled the branches above. The sunbeams shone here and there throughout the woods, but a large beam fell directly onto the doorway from above and behind David. The door was carved into the massive trunk of the largest tree Jarad had ever seen—why haven't I seen this before?—and had an organic aesthetic to it. As though, almost, it hadn't been carved, but instead had grown thus. Wildly growing branches grew out of the doorway around it—for the door was embedded deep in the trunk—and took advantage of the sunlight that seemed to call David to the doorway, casting light shadows over it. The door itself had an imperfectly shaped round handle and rough bark jamb. By the looks of the jamb, David noticed that the door would have to open inward.

The wind gained force, causing the shadows to dance wildly—David heard, or thought he heard, very quickly-spoken unintelligible whispers. The voiced gained volume, and lost clarity. The wind continued blowing harder. Harder.

Stop.

The wind stopped. Trees halted: frozen in their bent over state, appearing as though they would topple over at any moment. But it didn't matter: moments weren't passing, so the trees could not fall.

David looked up. Woah. The wind had not just been blowing that way—at his back—but it was blowing from all directions toward the door. all trees and plants were bent toward the door. Where are my friends? I need to show someone.

The whispers came back—but now as a conversational voice, and slowly.

“Knock and it will be opened unto you.”

“Knock and it will be opened unto you.”

“Knock and it will be opened unto you.”

The phrase repeated, each time in a different voice. It continued.

I can't not go toward the door. Nothing was physically holding David. But his mind could not bear to consider anything but opening that door. His mind had lost interest in anything but opening the bizarre door. There was nothing else. Only the door. One step closer.

Suddenly, his eyes widened. I've seen this. Grampa drew this door. This is the door I saw in a letter I received from Grampa. He drew it and mentioned the wonders inside. I'm stronger than he was. I can handle it. But he was sent to the asylum for his stories about this door and the effects the world beyond it had on his mind.

Let's see.

David knocked.

Surreal

Cellophane trumpets blast.

The stuttering rhythms burn through the soul. All is being lost.

Nobody knows you. I don't know you. I fall through you

there is no feeling—just a falling sensation. forever

and ever.

paint splatters against the walls—creating swirled and mindconfounding designs, vaguely familiar, yet

unknown.

Swirling in a syphon of despair the sun sets... rises. and rises again, bringing new light to a lost world.

Hearts swell.

they crawl out of their owners—no pain. no feeling.

the hearts wish to enjoy the soft warmth, unhindered by opaque clay bodies

a heartwarming sight.

smiling faces stare into the sun.

their hearts bask in its warmth and feel the glory.

the sun smiles back down.

A new world—lost, disattached from the grey world of modern man

visions ballet and war through the processors of those in somnium

faded

jaded

a blurred pandemonic garble of not-needed excesses

mesh messes clean the world of hopes for creation of new

swarles wage battles for themselves and for clearance of individs

nay.

a hole of life

hope

love

appears.

it beckons calls begs pleads invites all who want

Here

-i answer-

here

let me in.

Books

High School Sports Reporters

This Would Be Cool

Does Anyone Know the Answer?

Wii Sports Are Fun Because of the Trash Talking

Hair Cuts

I think it's interesting that we say thanks when someone compliments us on a new hair cut....as though we are accepting thanks because we did the cutting of the hair ourselves. How can we say thank you for something someone else did for us? It seems kind of selfish because you had absolutely nothing to do with it. You were just sitting there. Even if you direct the hair to be cut exactly to certain specifications, the hair cutter is still doing it; therefore, he or she gets the credit. Because really, we're all wearing art on our head. Someone else's art. Your hair is art the same way when a gardener cuts a bush to look like a giraffe, that's art. So when someone says nice hair cut, you should say, "I will tell my barber you liked it."

On the other hand, my hair cut costs about twenty bucks. I decided that's too much to pay for something being cut, even if it is art. What if you got paid twenty dollars for cutting a piece of paper or cutting cloth or cutting the cheese? It's just too much money for using scissors. Using scissors isn't that hard. I'm proficient in the ways of the scissors. I could make that money too, but I wouldn't want to. Why? Because I'd have to touch people's hair...everyone's oily, greasy, unwashed, disgusting hair. That's just gross. That's really what we're paying them so much for...emotional damages.

Another Fair Trade

Macbeth Act II Part 1

II

The night came, and the station’s hallway lights were dim.

Banquo and his son Fleance often enjoyed sitting in the third-ring commons at night to speak with one another and simply enjoy each other’s company. Tonight was one of those nights. During their conversation about the nearby planet and its moons Banquo heard some footsteps—a peculiarity at this time of night. “Who’s there?” Banquo inquired, hand on his vintage, Earth-made sword. President Duncan had outlawed blasters due to the incredible reflectivity of the station’s smooth steel walls and the danger a stray laser blast presented to innocent bystanders.

“A friend,” Macbeth replied, returning from sabotaging the cameras.

“Ah! Great to see you! But why are you awake at this time? The president’s asleep, can’t you rest too?” He thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose you can't, since you are here.” Another pause. “I can’t stop thinking about those Velda.”

“I don’t think about them,” Macbeth lied.

Banquo was incredulous. “But that first prediction came true. Do you think there might be some truth to your possible presidency?”

“It’s impossible to tell, but I’m going to walk for a while. Let’s talk about the Velda another evening. Goodnight, Steeva. Fleance.” Jason bowed slightly to the pair.

Macbeth continued his troubled and awkward stroll through the corridors of the station. The Velda would not leave his mind, nor would the impending murder. Suddenly an ancient dagger appeared before him. Rubbing his eyes to clear them of some non-existent hindrance, Macbeth asked no one, “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.” He reached, “I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Are you as intangible as you are visible? Are you merely A dagger of the mind, a false creation? I can feel you pulling me the way I was headed... and I was to use such a weapon—but why are my eyes fooling me? You are not here.” Macbeth’s eyes widened as blood developed on the blade “This is impossible! The bloody business must be inspiring my subconscious thus. I know you don’t exist! Be gone!” The time-bell rang a single time. The knife vanished.

Macbeth headed to Duncan’s room. Waiting outside the door for him was his wife, weeping and mumbling, “If only he didn’t look like my father. If only. If only.” Macbeth understood, grabbed the daggers from her hands, entered the small room, and proceeded to gruesomely stab his humble and gracious leader.

Macbeth exited, holding the daggers straight out, covered in gore, eyes wide open, and noticed his wife was no longer in the hallway. He ran to his and his wife’s room, arms stiff from shock in front of him. Voices without mouths echoed in the empty halls, chanting softly, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep.”

Juliee welcomed him with a scream of terror and surprise, “You still have the knives! Quickly! Throw them in the toilet; we’ll purge them into space!” In helping her husband with the disposal of the weapons, her hands soon were similarly filthy. “Fret not,” she assured him, “A little water clears us of this deed.” While washing their hands of the homicide, the clock bell malfunctioned for the first time in Macbeth's memory, and rang arrhythmically for several minutes, during which time the remorseful and tearful Macbeth wished the noise would wake Duncan and rid him of the murder on his conscience. Of course, Duncan would never wake again.