Mitch

[size=1] It is obviously a stupid rule...but what can I say. So many people that are at the top of the school boards think stuff like this is right. I carry all my books in my backpack this year; it is pretty heavy, but I don't care. I'm mostly used to it now anyways...it will also improve my upper body strength lol. Because it definitely isn't as strong as my lower. Carrying around all the books you listed isn't [i]that[/i] bad..I did the same thing last year and the year before. You just live with it. Such is life, suck is life, and so on.[/size]

[size=1] One human emotion? Well...words are only words. They cannot describe an actual feeling, an actual emotion. I suppose it would be Apathy for me. That eats on me all day, chewing me, festering in me. It's a really empty feeling...but I love to feel it all the same. Apathy I guess then.[/size]

[size=1] No, I do not believe in Angels, at least in the religious sense. It doesn't work in what I think...prehaps there are, but I am not going to falsely believe in something my whole life. I'd rather stand in the middle of it all...basically not care either way. That is what I say to things such as God and angels. You, truthfully, cannot believe in something with all of your mental, spirtual, and physical well-being until you first experience it. Whether you think that you have experienced God, or what not, I don't know. But I haven't. So no.[/size]

[size=1] This definitely needs work...but I'm satisfied. [i]You need to get a job[/i], the little happy voice would say to me. And I'd grin back like a little happy person and say that I guess I did, and that I guess it would be good. The little happy voice came from so many different places. Sometimes it smiled its little curvy tooth up to me from my parents' faces. Other times it was like an internal demon doing its demonic little sneer at me, beating me down like a hammer with large [i]thud thuds[/i] as if as soon as I had gotten what it wanted, it would be able to finally complete its process of creating something special; something different. Something that was complete. So, as summer collapsed and crumbled out at me like a bleeding, festering wound I decided it would be right to listen to that little happy voice. For it would not only shut it up if I did, but it would also change me. It would make me a maggot becoming a fly in the web of things. I would be born. It would be my debutante. But I wasn't a woman so I couldn't use that nice little word. It would just, simply as can be, be my debut into society. I began filling out applications very methodically and as slow as I could. Being too lazy to put forth any real effort, I became something like Barney the Dinosaur. I had all my I love yous and hate yous yodeling out from me in deranged and collapsing tunes. I scribbled my scribble like I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. And really, I didn't. My signature on the end of every application was my certification that my soul was going to be given. That I was theirs forever and ever cross my heart and hope to die. But at the same time I didn't care as I signed it. It was just me signing some piece of paper. It didn't mean anything. I filled out about four applications all at once in some brave courage. For weeks I didn't hear anything. Then one day as I was asleep the phone began ringing. So I picked it up. And just like that, two days later I had my job. I was certified as a colonel at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was given my habiliments and wore them along with my hat as if I were enlisted in the army. I learned to cook chicken. I learned to appeal to the crumbling Berlin Wall that is the masses. I became from a maggot to a fly. I buzzed around doing my tasks, earning my money. Five weeks elapsed like a wide-eyed, howling moon. During these weeks I learned to prepare chicken, pack chicken, and to mop up other's messes. Then, suddenly, as if hell had no guttural love for such wastes as me, I was fired. Diane, the Queen of the KFC for which I worked at brought me into her office that day. Right away I knew something was wrong. Diane, while I had been working at KFC for my five weeks, had been on vacation time, living it up on some beach of sand, sun, and fun. Walking into her office I knew just what was going to happen. It was all over her face like some casual mess trying to not crumble all over a cleansed floor. She sat me down next to her, staring at me. She began by explaining that she had gotten some "complaints" from my gracious fellow co-workers. One had complained that I had a bad habit of always putting my hands in my pockets, she said. Another had claimed I didn't know how to pack chicken good enough. And then it was like a boxing match, her fat girth suddenly transformed into lean, muscular being. She hit me with the last and finally degrading punch. "I don't know what to do. I've wasted all the hours training you already. You should know how to at least work the till by now." I just stared at her, everything seeping in like blood seeping back into an open wound. [i]I should know how to work the till by now? Well just look here now. You're the one that sets the pace at which I learn my job, you are the ones that train me. So you're telling me it's my fault I haven't learned the till? If you wanted me to learn it, then you should've done so. [/i] I didn't say a thing. I only sat there thinking that, telling myself that I was sure that part of it was me probably. But lookie here, lookie here. Ms. Queen of the Chicken was on vacation. I'm supposed to pick up the slack of your absence and learn as fast as I am supposed to? Then it was time for another punch. "You haven't even learned how to pack chicken yet. You should have that nearly mastered by now." I just glared at her, not saying a word. "Do you even know how to pack?" "Somewhat," I said. I could've said that I did. I could've told her that I actually mostly did. But what was I? I was a little colonel, I was a yodeling cajoling little Barney the Dinosaur. I didn't know jack. "Somewhat. So you see, you should have it all down by now. So I'm going to let you go. You could've been a cook, but Arnold already has that." So then it was all over, and I left. I drove off and drove home like a maniac. I was pissed. Yet I didn't know what the hell to feel. Defeat? Anger? Hate? What was I to feel? I had loved working at KFC. I had met friends in my coworkers. And just like that, bang, I was gone. Here's to the maggot that turns into a fly. I'm still trying to eat enough dead wounds and tissues to make it back into another job. It just won't be fast food this time. And when I do finally get another job, one that will be the one I will have for nearly all my life, I will have to pay Ms. Queen of the Chickens a visit. I'll have to wring some necks and laugh because in the end I was better than she could ever be.[/size]

[size=1] Eh. Now this is a story I don't like lol. I doubt I'll ever use it, but here you are: [center]"Religionish."[/center] The man heavily crutched the cross dangling nondescript about his white shirt. He looked at me, his eyes were blue, a bright blue: like that of the sky. But through his eyes, this blue-sky color was now being hidden away in his tears. These tears fell from his face, clear and cleansing. I looked at him through the lighter I was holding in my hand, striking back and forth in a click-clack of metal. I let out a smile. "Why're you 'fraid of me?" I said. He continued clutching the cross, and began to chant under his breath that familiar prayer I'd heard so many times in my useless life. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n?" "?answer me, damnit!" I screamed, striking the lighter into a flame, and moving over to him slowly. "?hallowed be thy?hallowed be thy name?" he continued chanting. I ripped to his hands, breaking the cross necklace forcefully from his neck. He yelped in anger, but still stammered in his reluctant corner. The metal and wooden beads that had held the necklace as one beaded and broke onto the floor, making a small and heavy tic-tic sound. With my hand on what was left?the string and a few clinged beads?I held the cross to the flame of the lighter. The reaction was not instantaneous, as is metal to flame, but slowly and surely, the flame gave the cross a florescent yellow-orange hue. When this came, I heftily shut off my lighter, and threw the damned cross on the ground, and scrunched it between the soles of my black shoes. Steam slowly whisped out of what had been the cross, tickling my nose. I smiled again. "Hallowed be thy name indeed," I said, removing my shoe, and spitting on the marred and melted hell that had been the cross. "Care to answer this time? Why're you 'fraid of me? Hm?" This time, the man looked me right in the eyes. His tear-blue eyes reflected at me dismally. He then began to slowly stand up, and moved closer to me. Soon I could feel his naked breath on my face. "Why am I afraid of you?" he said between short bursts of his breath. "Why am I afraid?" he said as he began to bring up his finger, slowly, uncertainly. I followed it, moved my eyes with it. It came to the tip of my forehead. Almost touching. I moved my eyes away from his finger, coming to his eyes, letting out a sneer. "And what about it?" I said between clenched teeth. He looked at me, still pointing, still tears. "Why, it's the mark of the devil. Six six six. Don't you know?" I laughed at him, still in my sneer. "Why, of course, dear friend. Haha, why, I've had it since I was born." "Since you were born?" he fell back.[/size]

[size=1] I am [i]anxiously[/i] awaiting Tony to send my some of their stuff by snail mail...but until then, I have only downloaded a few random songs. They definitely sound wonderful from what I hear.. So yeah. I have seen [i]Pretty Hate Machine[/i] in stores for about 13 or so bucks..and that's about all. The other CDs of theirs I saw were too damn expensive and were at places like Fye. Which blow in their prices. So yeah..once Tony sends me some of their stuff, I will post here. I also plan on trying to buy all of their CDs if it is possible.[/size]

[size=1] They are okay depending on my mood. It's kind of hard to like anything when you don't completely understand it...but it also give it this nice, "Wow, I can listen and draw my own pointless inclusions!" vibe. All I have heard is [i]Mutter[/i]. I haven't really gotten to translating any of their stuff other than the song "Mutter" itself. Not knowing much of anything of German, it's hard to really get into this kind of music. But I do like them when I'm in the mood.[/size]

[size=1] Yeah, I really enjoyed [i]The Silmarillion[/i] more than LoTR in most senses. It's so hard to keep all the names that Tolkien has straight lol. I was confused at times during LoTR...and [i]The Silmarillion[/i] is even more crazy, so many names. O.o. Melkor is so the mac-daddy.[/size]

[size=1] Heh. I'd seriously eat Ketchup on [i]anything[/i]. When I have a hamburger, I put a whole lot of it on the bun, both sides. Then I put a large smudge of it on the plate and dip the hamburger in from there with the ketchup still inside the buns as well. I also use large amounts of ketchup when I eat chicken fingers...nearly drowing the things so much that they appear to be bloodied. I also like to put tabasco sauce on anything as well. Eggs. Hash Browns...Tacos. Those are the usual things. But I also put it on other things as well. I like hot. It's a good taste.[/size]

[size=1] After telling myself I wouldn't post in this thread, I guess I won't...at least in the manner I wanted to, I guess. All I have to say is that it is good that you have God to hold onto then. May it make you want to live longer and fuller and die stronger and happier. Basically, the matter is that you, as well as I, do not know if there is such a place as heaven or hell, or God. But it certainly isn't my place to tell you that's wrong...and it certainly isn't. I just hope that you get heaven then, and see your son. But you do not know. There may be nothing. But I could be wrong in my faiths as well...there could well be something. Yet that doesn't matter. If you believe in something, it makes you stronger. That is not what I believe, obviously...we even discussed it in our few convos we had. That is nearly all I have to say. I am sure after a long enough time that you'll be able to be fully over this chapter of your life here on this Earth. Perhaps you already are coping; because believing more fully in God is certainly coping. That is all I have to say then.[/size]

[size=1] I mergered your remaining double post. As many have already said in my absence, double posting is [i]strictly not allowed[/i]. As for your poems, they show good. What I have read, I have come to the conclusion that a lot of them are very vague...which is definitely something that can be worked on. Make them more focused and better describe whatever idea it is you are coming from...because as a reader, I do not know exactly what it is you are trying to say from a poem...and the vagueness makes it even harder to really find the meaning I want to find. That's only for some of the poems I read...but otherwise, your poems seem fine, if not great.[/size]

[size=1] Heh. I'm trying to remember exactly who Eomer is again. He's from LoTR you say...so that discludes [i]The Silmarillion[/i]. Ah well, it has been a long time since I refreshed my memory on this stuff lol. Isn't it Boromir's brother? I kind of pulled that from thin air, lol, but the names seem to rhyme somewhat...which happens often with the names that Tolkien picks. *shrug* Yeah. Seriously. There's too much crap out there about Legolas. He blows now because of it. *snicker* Perhaps I'm being evil, but whatever. I still can't see what's so good about Orlando Bloom either...but that's off topic there. I'd like to see some about Sauron or something...that'd be cool. Or Aragorn, he's nearly my favorite character in LoTR at least.[/size]

[size=1] I say just let things be the way they are. It's sort of taken that bad things repeat themselves, so in the end you might end up in some paradox of what already happened by changing what you did wrong. And by that, you might even regret changing that venue. Mistakes are what add up to success. Nobody just magically becomes the best at something, or has the right fix for something. Sometimes you just meet things by mistakes and wrongs. Sometimes things just find you like that. But in the end it's pointless to try and make yourself perfect. There isn't a such thing as perfect. I do not understand why people so regret what they did wrong, because even if you know now how to fix it, it doesn't matter. Things, I'd like to think, happen for a reason. And by them happening you become a stronger person or a weaker person. Whatever the case being stronger and weaker are both different spectrums, but I don't believe it matters which end you end up on. As it is said, when the mighty sleep, the lowly prowl. Just because you haven't been able to get yourself up to some amazing benchmark because of some stupid choice doesn't mean you won't be able to get there. It is pointless to worry about what's already done. You cannot change it in this day and age, so you just have to walk off. Even being perfect itself still wouldn't be perfect. Do you get me? Reaching an ideal is often the wrong way to think...just simply live life as it is now and hold onto it day by day. It is so much easier that way than to worry endlessly about some far away future ocurrance.[/size]

[size=1][i]Great[/i] idea for a thread, Kat. This forum really needs it as well. I will see what I can dig up. I have some things laying around...how much I'm not sure exactly. We'll see. This really isn't a dead story...I don't think any story is dead. I believe they are always there for you to dig up. Always there for you to have. They might not turn out the same as they would've if you dig them right up...but they will always turn into something good if you let them fester long enough. But some ideas just are so great that they demand to be dug up right on the spot...whatever the case, I believe that no story is ever dead. It is only dead within the eyes of the those that can't see treasure where others see nothing. Saying that, I will post a story I've had for months and haven't touched called "Cigs." I posted it earlier...someplace. But it's gotten a tad further along, and I even just started typing of it out of nowhere. This is what I love about stories...it's like a friend. You know where you want it to go, and how it should be, so its face never changes. It only festers and grows by being left alone. [center]"Cigs."[/center] Come over here, to the bathroom. If you look close enough you can see him right now. On the stall on the far left, the one that's been broken since who knows when. This is Ben Coper. He's worked in this building for thirty-five years of his wasted life. And everyday he comes here. Comes to this stall on the far left, the one that's broken. What does he do here? Well, if you'd ask him, he'd smile his fake smile and tell you he's simply doing his job. That he's just cleaning the bathrooms. But that is a lie. In the stall, his stall, he usually lights up a cig. A Marlboro Light. Nothing too bad. He sometimes even smokes another two or three. Or even four. The cigs really clear his head. They allow him to think. And his thoughts are usually clouded. But with the help of the cigarettes it's like he can finally breathe in his dead head. First it all gets fuzzy. Everything. The way his hands feel as he sits on the toilet gets fuzzy and farther away. His vision gets farther away and all fuzzy too. All of it gets fuzzy. If you were to walk into the bathroom right when he was smoking in his stall, you'd see smoke almost all over the bathroom. A large and billowing monument of it. Ben doesn't take chances though. He locks the door each and every time. This time is no different. But soon it is different. Soon things don't go like they have for thirty-five daring years. As he's smoking his mind and everything gets fuzzy. Everything starts to dance with an asphyxiation that falls right into Ben's eyes. Right into his soul. It goes like this for a long time. He smokes slow, uncertainly. Then his first cig is smoked to a small ashy stump. From his denim jacket smelling profusely of smoke he reaches into the front pocket. He takes out his package of cigarettes. It's a fresh pack. Only is missing the first cig that Ben just smoked. That's when it happens. His throat begins to feel like it hasn't ever felt before. His mind begins to think and flutter. His hands begin to shake like there's some earthquake all over the ground. He falls over. When he opens his eyes he can hear someone banging on the door. Shouting. Their voice is too muffled though, he can't understand a single word they say. He is about to stand up, about to go and unlock the door when his eyes fall on them. The cigarettes are still all over the ground. Without a single afterthought or a single second feeling he reaches out for them. That is when he is tapped on the shoulder. As he looks up, his entire body shakes as he is shocked in a sudden fear. He almost lets out a scream, but he holds it inward, not wanting to look too much like a coward. That's always been Ben's way. Just stay it cool. Not just staying cool, but he's always been one of those people that wanted to be cool, that wanted to be accepted. Wanted to be known. So he keeps his cool as much as he can?holds everything inward as he looks at it. At first the thing looks like what Ben had always feared. He'd always feared clowns. Not just any clowns, but ones that were scary. With big teeth, sharp teeth. And a snarl to match. That's what he sees at first. He's quite certain it can't be real as he stares it down, looks at it. But, as he rubs his eyes and touches the thing's feet he realizes that it is real. He almost screams. Almost. But the clown first puts his hand over Ben's mouth, blocking out what would have been a scream. All that comes out is dead air that falls to nothing in the stall that's always been broken, the one on the far left. Ben just stares at the clown. It's all he can do. He also tries to grab his cigs on the ground, but somehow and someway, he isn't able to?his hands fall right through them. Just like a ghost. As Ben stares at the clown in bewilderment and makes his wild grab for his cigs, the thing's face begins to change. It isn't an instant change. It's more like a slow change, a very slow change. The thing looks like a maggot as its face melds into nothing . It sits like this for awhile like it's thinking of what to change to. To what, though, doesn't matter to Ben at all. All that is going through Ben's mind is to get the hell out of the bathroom. And, secondly, to have a cig. Just one more, he wants just one more. Wants and needs it bad right then. He needs it like he'd always desired to have sex. Like he'd always desired to be cool. He needs it bad. But his wild grabs are doing nothing. His fingers, his arm, his entire body won't feel anything. It won't touch the cigs. They just go through them hopelessly. They just go through them without any feeling. The maggot-like face of what had been the clown now rebegins drastically changing. Not just its face anymore, either. Its entire body is changing, melding, molding. To what, Ben has no clue. And what it's changing into is the last thing on Ben's mind. Ben finally gives up on his cigs, and he begins to climb onto the broken toilet. But in his stupor and panic, he'd forgotten to close the lid. He falls right down as he clambers up. Right down onto the tile and hits his head. Hits his head hard. So hard that, as he later learns, he fractures his entire skull. For now, though, all he is left with is an extremely large open cut on his head. It's over almost his entire head. All of it except for maybe a quarter. A quarter and even less. The blood begins to flow. It flows all over the small stall, seeps under the crack of the door. The blood's also clouding Ben's eyes. He can barely see, and he feels like he's going to pass out. His entire body feels like one big nothing. All he can feel is the endless and numbing pain of the wound that's on his head. His breathing becomes loud and hard. It's like he's breathing through a mask that's hooked up to some loud and hissing bottle of oxygen. Every breath to Ben's lungs burns and makes his body ache. He's about to pass out. Then he looks up with the last of his strength. And, to his surprise, there stands the principal. His name is Mr. Hanning. He'd always been nice to Ben. Especially nice. Through the blood and blurred vision Ben barely makes out that it is Mr. Hanning. He squints more, and he can see that Hanning's holding something out to him. Something white. It's a cigarette. Ben soon realizes this, and he lets out a large wail. It's a lusty wail. A wail of extreme want and need. Through the pain all over his body, he manages to outpour his hand. His entire hand shakes in this attempt, but he manages to reach out just enough so that he can reach the cig. His hand touches it?or tries. Not surprisingly to Ben at all his hand falls right through the cigarette. And he cannot hold onto anything any longer. He passes out. Again. Ben doesn't know where he's at anymore. For a long time there's blackness. A blackness like his lungs probably look like. Then he starts seeing things again, starts dreaming again. Or whatever you call what he'd seen?the clown and all. This time it's more of a memory than anything. He remembers it very well, this memory. It's something that he constantly went through all those years he'd sat in the broken stall in his lonely school. He sees himself in a restaurant. This isn't just any restaurant, it's quite special to him. He had only gone there about three times in his life, but it's still quite special to Ben. The restaurant's name is Chile's Bar And Grill. It's a simple and homely restaurant. It smells like barbeque sauce. Pretty much breathes it. There's also peanut shells all over the ground like hair that dots a barber shop's floor. And just like the hair on a barber's floor, these shells are just there. Most people don't even see them, they're just there. To Ben, though, it just makes this memory even more surreal and lively. He walks into this wonderful part of his memory out of the blackness that he'd so recently had. He enters and finds himself sitting down right there smack in the front, finds himself waiting for a table. This version of him is much younger. He doesn't have the rough and white beard. He doesn't have the sandy and crude wrinkles all over his face. This Ben is younger. A lot younger. He watches the younger self with open eyes, sees how ignorant and stupid he looked. How hopeless and without a cause, a reason, or a place. The younger Ben is, of course, smoking a cig. It's what Ben has done since he was around ten and on. And the smoke from the cig is falling all over the place, all over this memory and tainting it for him. Every wheeze and trail of smoke that goes around shakes this memory, the restaurant's beautiful feeling itself, into a blankness. Into vagueness. He watches this asphyxiated: just like he's breathing in the smoke. And it feels like it to him, too. It feels like he can just taste that butt in his mouth, taste all of the smoke going in and through his lungs. It's a wonderful feeling to him, a bad one perhaps, but good all the same. He continues to stand there, everything blanking out, the smoke asphyxiating him, burning through him. Then the younger Ben puts out the butt in an ashtray right next to his seat, and stands up. He's going to sit down at his table along with the friends that Ben used to have. Used to have. Ben could care less about these friends. They had long ago left his life. They were not even friends to him at all, not a bit. Never were. He simply thought so. Ben follows the younger version of himself, he follows the memory. It's a strange thing seeing himself, especially considering how long it's been since he's seen this as vivid as this; but it's wonderful and bitter all the same. Ben comes to the table, and notices that already the younger Ben has another cig out. The same thing happens as before. Ben becomes asphyxiated with the smoke, and it falls all over the memory again and makes it fade slowly. It's like the cold flame of a candle; the smoke falls over everything and only gives it some light, some essence. It causes everything to flicker. But this butt is also soon put out, and as soon as it is, the waiter comes over. She's beautiful. She has long blonde hair that's wispy and thin as wires; yet at the same time this hair is also as full and lifting as a push up bra. Her hair's the first thing that most would, and is what Ben, notices. Her face is also quite entrancing. It's blushy and petite, and at the same time, it's quite curved and round and full?somewhat just like her hair. Her lips are red like a rose, and as bitter and small and closed as a rose's bud. Through her rose lips her teeth poke out slightly as she smiles to Ben and his friends. "Hello y'all," she says. He voice is slightly and, to Ben, sexily drawled like a hybrid of a New Yorker's and a Texan's accent. It's a very slight drawl, though. It's quite there, but can only be fully tasted in hearing at the ends of her sentences and the longer syllables she says. It especially flares up on the "y'all" in this case?very beautifully, in fact. Hellos are exchanged, and the waiter takes out her almost stereotypical writing tablet and pen. "So what'll ya'll be havin' taday," she says, letting out another smile, showing off her paper white teeth. "Soup's on specal, and we've also got ribs on specal, too. But first I'm bettin' ya'll'd like some drinks?" Ben looks casually over his menu as the waiter slowly goes around the table, asking each what they'd like to drink, and jotting down thinly on her tablet as she did so. Then she comes to Ben. "An' what would ya like?" she asks, bringing the pen to her teeth, nibbling on it impatiently. Ben looks her right in the eyes, looks right at her. "I would like water; ice water, m'am, if you please." There's a silent moment as she jots down, and then looks back at Ben as he looks to her. It's a strange moment, a quite feeling moment for Ben. Why they are looking at each other neither of them know. It is a very brief moment, very small. A look at one another like the fiction of wanting to know and give a damn about something. About anything. It's like a moment that was meant to happen. Not just happened, but meant to happen. It's like breathing, being alive, or being saved to an inch of life. Just there?yet, at the same time, looking it on the outside, there's a feeling that you can't look away; magnetism and some driveled, mirrored, and worn meaning of will and shall. And as this moment happens, quite amazing to Ben, he gets so many images in his head. First sexual, sensual images. Then something almost right from a movie, right from a projector. Just like on a projector, the images or quite faded, Ben can barely see them. He can see this lady, no, this person. He sees shadows of who she is more or less. Shadows of the past, and haunting shadows of knowing more about something than is ever possible. And while this all happens in his mind?this nostalgic feeling and knowing?she drops her pen as it falls from her mouth where she'd been nibbling it. He looks at the pen in lengthy detail; as if the memory has suddenly been slowed down to a sloth.[/size]

[size=1]We can only choose between the Dragon or the Phoenix? Phoenix.. From what I know of it, it's just beautiful. Look at mankind itself...we are a good metaphor for a Phoenix. We burn ourselves to ashes, and from those ashes we are reborn. Just like the Phoenix. It's just a beautiful way to see things. I also like the Chimera...and the Cockatrice. Both I have written poems about, as well as the Phoenix.[/size]

[size=1]The further i go the less i know where will you run with me on your arms lullabies paralyze swallow chew and kiss the freedom has lost its feeling on my fist bleed swallow and curse the rage in my head has lost the feeling in my fist lullabies paralyze still hasn't died and where will you run with me in your arms the only place we have is in the trees in the forest where we dream the only place we have is in the trees in the forest where we dream hello hello your skin is so beautiful like lovely it irates in my eye i kiss it with a lullaby it still hasn't died paralyzed hello hello your skin is so beautiful just like the hurt that is in my head see how our tender eyes prick and pluck like we'll never taste what we clutch swallow and kiss beat and bump our heart has ended its lullaby the further i go the less i know [/size]

[size=1] I cannot believe in something until I truly see it...so no. OMG TH!S POST@!@! IS SO SPAMMTQ@!y Eh. Yeah. I use this kind of logic for a lot of things...basically.[/size]

[size=1]It has no eyes. No face. Looks at me and it begins to shake. Begins to seizure like a man in a straight jacket. What you can see of it is white. All covered with red spots of dried blood. Its shape is human. A head where it should be. A hand where it should be. A strange noise is coming from far away. Like a fuzzy yawn of a far away snowing TV. The noise hits you and dances over you like a ballet dancer. A crackle like the sound of hollow nothing. A shake like the sound of screaming rape. The sound covers your mind tight. You look at it straight to its empty face and get lost. The endless sound pushes you to nothing and everything. It all fades. It all dies. You watch as the noise crackles over your eyelids. Feel it tuck the corner of your cheeks; pulsate all about the molars of your teeth. Then it comes to your eyes and you shake. Falling all away the sound makes the thing rape up and down. It shakes so hard it goes up and down on the ground. Then the sound pushes you away; your vision fades. The last thing you see is the thing seizure and rape on the ground. Then its all blank and all you hear is the sound. The sound of silence often soothes. But the crackle shakes and hits you. To grow to see the pain too soon. Finally opening your eyes to the truth. your vision turns blank then the sound paints a picture of a budding rose the red of it dangles in your brain The sound begins to paint more. Suddenly a light hits the rose and rain pours. Suddenly the rose opens on the crackled floor and wails with the sound. [i]Thou hath nothing here... Thou hath nothing found Thou hath nothing here... Thou hath nothing found[/i] The sound finally falls and you can see its face again. The thing groveling and raping up and down. A rose on your eyes that slowly melts to hollow wood. Like a log down a hill that rolls for good. And there were no gates. There were no gates. Only a rose has a face. And there were no gates There were no gates Only a rose has a face. [i]Thou hath nothing here... Thou hath nothing found Thou hath nothing here... Thou hath nothing found[/i] So may you bleed So may you bleed And going here and going there and going here (and going there) [/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by XBebop [/i] [B]How could you hate Drops of Jupiter? o.O;; that means either you are close minded and only one kind of music, or you just don't like alt Rock lol. [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] No. It basically means that he isn't close minded and is able to have a taste in his music. It means that he likes alt rock lol. :rolleyes: I think they're [i]okay[/i]. There's a lot better bands, and yes, I also tired of Drops of Jupiter...and nearly any song of theirs that's on the radio. It gets played so often that you just get so damn sick of hearing the song.. Plus they're not that good when you come down to it...they sound a lot more like pop than anything [i]close[/i] to rock, if you ask me. But whatever.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Heaven's Cloud [/i] [B][color=indigo] As for Avril Levine...I don't think she is trying to be anything like Briitnay Spears nor do I think she is trying to be punk. It would be more correct to classify her with Michelle Branch and Vanessa Carlton...[/color] [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] I agree there...but I still like Miss Vanessa and Miss Michelle eons better. But really, they also are sort of in rounds with Britney and stuff. The only thing is they [i]actually have talent[/i]. That's how I see them differently...I guess. But heh, it's up to you to choose who your tastes in music are. So I have nothing against that. I just don't like Avril when it comes down to it. There's certainly better out there that sounds like her music any day. Heh.[/size]

[size=1] I tried to get a definition of what exactly "punk" is...or whatever. This is what I got..from [url]www.dictionary.com.[/url] [i]punk2 ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pngk) n. Dry decayed wood, used as tinder. Any of various substances that smolder when ignited, used to light fireworks. Chinese incense. adj. Slang Of poor quality; worthless. Weak in spirits or health. [/i] You know, I [i][b]seriously[/i][/b] think Avril could be all of these; oh, and hold on, there's more...*goes and gets* These are even [i]better[/i] lol. [i]Slang. A young person, especially a member of a rebellious counterculture group. An inexperienced young man. Music. Punk rock. A punk rocker. Slang. A young man who is the sexual partner of an older man. Archaic. A prostitute[/i] Okay. Let's start with the first one. It says that a punk is one of those things that is used to light fireworks. Makes sense to me...I've heard of them. [i]"that smolder when ignited"[/i] also makes a lot of sense. Basically, I believe she's already had her "10 minutes of fame" lol. So it works for me. [i]Dry, decayed wood used as tinder[/i]. Makes sense to me as well from anything I could say about her. She was basically just another Britney Spears with a different persona...but, like it says, it's just as decayed. [i]Of poor quality; worthless[/i]...I agree. lol. [i]Weak in spirits or health[/i]. Not sure how Ms. Lavigne is doing...but I don't see that this one really counts towards any blows I could give lol. I love the last ones lol. An inexperienced young man/ a young man who is a sexual partner of an older man. O.o. And of course, the archaic, or during Shakespeare's time, meaning. A prostitute. Makes good sense to me there. lol. As you can tell, I hate her. For what reason I don't know. lol.[/size]

[size=1] And this matters to me how lol? Hasn't she already had her 10 minutes of fame with her little "Complicated" song? I hope so. Your description of what punk is is pretty interesting...but I sure as hell don't [i]call[/i] The Who "punk" lol. So basically you're saying she is the most punk rocker today because she fell from the charts and made her fans hate her? O.o Eh..sure. Maybe it's that I don't really care. To me she was just another Britney Spears, Christina...whatever you want to call it. She was just another one of those types with a different kind of persona, if you will. And her music was more pop than anything from what I had heard. Well, as I see it, Punk is a fast type, loud music. But ah well. I don't care.[/size]

[size=1] Well, my Dad recently gave me all of his old CDs... There's Rush in there ([i]great[/i] band), a whole lot of Elton John...basically some stuff that's around the 80s, when I guess he was most into music. I'm sure there's [i]at least[/i] 35-40 CDs there. That's a rough estimate, yeah, but I'm too lazy to look..plus I'm at the library right now anyways. As for those I've bought? About 15-20. I haven't really bought too much...but my collection is slowly growing. As for burned CDs...I have a lot..but most are too scratched to listen to now lol. But I have burned about 5 .mp3 CDs recently (just basically burning songs as a regular Data CD if you're not familiar with it. It allows you to fit about 140 songs onto one disk instead of just 80 minutes like usual). So as for burned CDs, I'd say about 15-20 as well. So about 65, roughly, in total. It's probably over, but whatever. I'm not going to sit there like some geek and count them all up lol. I do hope to really get a lot bigger collection than this...especially once I get another job.[/size]

[size=1] Well, I managed to get one song from your site when you still had them linked up...I [i]was[/i] planning on getting the entire CD from there, but then I got my computer taken away (the first time lol). Yeah. You'll end up sending me their stuff on .mp3 CDs I'm sure...so I don't have to ask that. As for that one song...I liked it. They have, it seems, pretty fun lyrics and nice vocals, like you said. Although...from that one song, I wouldn't exactly call them "punk." What I heard was sort poppy-ish, at least to my ears, I guess. Yeah. They definitely sound pretty good though from what I've heard. Now if I could only remember the song title which I am speaking of... I believe it is "Microstars Save the Day," or something near that. I'm sure you know which song I'm talking about if I'm guessing wrong..so you can enlighten me on the song title. [quote]As of this date, no one can confirm what Apocalypse Hoboken actually means. Sorry. [/quote] lol. I find that oddly funny.[/size]

[size=1] I don't really care either way if there's a God or there isn't. I'm still going to die, and by the standards of my religion (Christianity) I will go to Hell when I've died for "not believing in God." So all the good things I do in this life won't matter supposedly...just because I simply refuse to believe in something until I [i]truly[/i] see it, and because I really don't see God as something that could be real. But then again I don't really care. Either way it doesn't matter. Either way there's still something that created the stars in the sky, and this spinning Earth. It could've been simply a chain of physical and chemical processes working themselves out in the right ways that the world was created. There are some theories for that...mainly the "Big Bang" theory. But in the end I don't want to know anyways...and it doesn't matter to me. I doubt I'll know the true answer as long as I live, and when I die whatever happens happens. Doesn't matter to me..but I'd rather that when I die there be nothing left. I don't want to live forever as some "angelic" spirit, or some "demon" of Hell. Or whatever. I just want there to be nothing...no memories, no sight, no smell. I just want to not exist.[/size]