Span of Nihility

Journal Four!

2005-11-08T21:28:00.000-08:00

9-30-05

Yo yo yo. What it is, motherfuckers.

Alright, that propr sentence is really a quote. I am in no way insinuating that you share that type of relationship with your mother. Because, seriously, that insult is one of the most disgusting things imaginable. But let's not dwell on the unpleasant nature of Oedipus. We're here for business.

And that business always eludes me. Maybe if I wrote for myself instead of for you, I'd have a higher success rate, but I doubt it. Writing is writing, in my eyes, no matter the mood.

In fact, I was somewhat nonplussed today in class when you said how most of us should feel like it's more 'profound' when we write when we're sad. Like, it means more, because we're sad. Personally, I think that's complete bullshit. For me, there is little difference between my moods. I am a rather constant person, and I like to think it reflects in my writing. I mean, the only thing I remember having written that even hints at melancholy is that paper 'Salute' I wrote last year about Brad.

Where to go next? I already touched on my dead pal, I mean, if I chose to continue it I'm sure I could find something meaningful to write about. However, any words I could put to this bastard sheet of paper would be wholly inadequate, so I shan't bother. Not to say that thinking about him depresses me, or anything. In fact, it's more of an odd calm. Not that I think he's in a better place. I remain almost completely atheistic, though it would probably be more accurate to call myself an agnostic.

But that brings me to my next point. Religion. It sucks, and I hate it. I have often before said to my friends that, "Faith is the bastion of fools", and some of them agree with me, but I'm not exactly militant about it. I respect their natures, but when we get into debates involving the topic, I'm not shy about saying what I think about it.

Well, I have almost exactly ten minutes left, and I have a killer headache. My brother's attempt at warbling doesn't help at all, I'm sure. I'm trying to drown him out with music, but it doesn't work. I can hear his off key caterwauling from all over the house, and I fear I'll have to choke a bitch before the night's out. If I can bring myself to wrap my hands around his greasy throat. Ugh.

Oh ho! An interesting song just came up on my playlist, and I think I can ignore my brother now. "Rape Me'', by Nirvana. An interesting piece, all things considered. Even if it can be a little disturbing. But, hey, it's Nirvana. It reminds me all to much of how Courtney Love sucks. She did it, and she knows it. Her and OJ are best friends.

Music is important, as you well know. I still remember that music activity we did last year in creative writing two. Why do all of my journal entries hint at the ramblings of a reminescing old man? Ah, well. Fond memories are always pleasant to dwell on, and I have only one memory that is not of that variety in your class, by no fault of yours. It was that one Lisa girl in CW I last year, who apparently hated me so badly, even if Mark was my pal. She was a total cunt, if you'll forgive my language. Again.

Some people are like that, though, and nothing I could do is going to change it. But they shouldn't expect me to walk on eggshells just to please their over-inflated ego. Ah, well. It's not quite fifteen minutes yet, but I think I'm finished for now. I'm going to go take a nap.

2005-11-08T21:21:00.000-08:00

9-29-05

Well, shit. Wasn't that just the bee's knees. Forgive my unexpected expletive, but I just cleaned up at least two full cans of Cherry Pepsi on the carpet next to the computer. Filthy cats, spillng my pop and the can my brother had left there to waste. Naturally, I get blamed for it. Ah, well. It could always be worse, I suppose.

Anyways, on now to business. This is my first typed entry, and the first entry that will technically be saved, since the storm hit and I unceremoniously lost my binder. Well, to be fair, this is the first journal I've really done since then at all, not counting the one in class, but come on. I lost all that work. It's rather disheartening.

But, as always, I ponder incessantly the nature of the night's writing. Normally it's just enough to let my fingers be a direct link from my brain, yet, sometimes, I wonder if perhaps I should persue something more... Meaningful. Not that I intend to do anything with it, you understand, or even really care about expanding my already prodigious writing skills. It's just that the normal journaling style works for me very little, as my two prior entries show, and my mind has a tendancy to wander where it will.

Say what you will about it, but at least I'm writing.

And it's not like I'm dropping the f-bomb every other word, graphically depicting myself butchered by my own hand over a lost love, or writing smut. A little bit of these might make an appearance either now, or in a future journal, but undoubdetly only in jest, as is my nature. Satire for the win, afterall.

I have now been writing for six minutes, and my fingers are already tired. It doesn't even look like I've been writing for that long. Surely the content, which by now could be classified entirely as 'drivel', is entirely lacking in the sheer length that the former (but not first) entry was able to bring about. Maybe it just looks longer because I quote Captain Planet.

He is a hero, afterall. And such splendor could account for quite a number of miracles.

And, again, I must continue writing. So I'll simply write about nothing as my mind desperately sends it's probing tendrils into the vast, and often disturbing region of my subconscious that most likely holds the secret to my normal way with words. It seems to me that it is lost at the moment, writer's block and all that shit, but I shall keep writing as I hopefully fulfill my quota.

The prospect is bleak, for only an additional two minutes have passed, bringing the total up to eight. Certainly it's past the half way point, but Jesus. There are far more interesting things I could be doing right now that could otherwise be relevant to the class. And these things have nothing to do with gerunds, I assure you. That particular part of speech shall forever be my enemy, no matter how often I am making use of it.

What I really would like to do at the moment is hit a very bad, but very, very open online forum known as Gaia Online. If you ever bring this up in class, I'm sure you'll get recognition. It's some forum that's reputedly for all ages, but more often than not you get people posting bad microsoft paint renditions of their genitals, which have a very unhealthy colour to them, or starting a thread with this title. I shit you not.

"I'm going on thirteen and he's going on thirty-four. Am I weird?"

This does not even begin to display the depth of my hatred for this forum. It's also a known recapticle for the shittiest of poems, some of them even include netspeak. If you want to see bad poetry, my dear Ms. Rachel, I'm sure I could easily hook you up with the worst humanity has had to offer.

Speaking of poetry, our school library has no copy of Beowulf. I had tried to find a copy, as I've been attempting to for the past however long, and it has eluded me once again. They have a literary, historical, and creative analysis of the piece, but that's shit when I just want to read the fucking poem. Kim, one of the women in the IMC, said that they had placed an order, but that it could take one damnably long time. Ah,well. I'll simply have to find it somewhere else, or sit myself down comfortably until my second senior year which will undoubdetly find it's way to me, no matter what I do to defend myself from it's terrible clutches.

Life's a bitch, neh?

Journal Two!

2005-11-08T07:01:00.000-08:00

Once again we make a foray into the magical, whimsical land that is my cerebral cortex. You know, that strange, fancy filled place that has a two way gate leading directly to that most terrible place that is, by all accounts, owned by Ted Turner; a place where, in accordance with the myriad groups of eco-terrorists controlling my mind , Captain Planet plays constantly.

Earth!

Fire!

Wind!

Water!

Heart!

Goooooooooooooooo planet! Captain Planet, he's a hero. He's gonna bring pollution down to zero! Gotta help him put asunder, bad guys who want to LOOTEN' PLUNDER!

Alright, seriously. This is the shit that has to stop. This is what happens to me when I let my fingers be a direct link from my brain, without the natural censor that the majority of humanity imposes upon themselves for the hopeful betterment of their fellow man. Or, more likely accurately, to keep their fat faces from being bashed in when they tell the wrong gaggle of girls who constantly hover around my... Er... Their locker to go stuff their booze and sex when they won't move after a kind request, well...

Ah, fuck. I lost my train of thought. That happens often enough these days. Wandering from topic to topic as I am so often fond of doing. I remember back last year, while reading a journal entry similar to the two of these, that you had made a comment that was something along the lines of "Adam has mastered the art of the 'train of thought' style of journaling". Personally, I think this is one of the easiest things in the world. Even this excercise, designed to help me, and the other, considerably less nerdy students, write every day, falls short of the writing I do daily.

If I have internet access, I write for at least two hours a day. I'm an involved member of several online forums of my peers, most of which don't use that horrid netspeak, and I have contacts all over the world. Technology is neat.

And, looking back on my previous entry, at least a little, I realize that it was no where near fifteen minutes of writing. It was fifteen minutes at the computer, nothing more. This is seven minutes of writing up until this point, and my fingers have been moving non stop since I had entered in 'once again'.

At this point, I wonder on the spelling and grammar of my previous words, sentences, paragraphs, and quotes from eco-friendly cartoons. I normally never use a spell checking program, nor do I make very many typos that aren't instantly corrected with a reflexive backspace hit. I don't even look at the screen to know that I've made an error. I mean, Jesus. Sometimes I should let a mistake go, right?

But no! I shan't lose hold of my anal grasp of my native tongue! For, if I do, I become what I hate! An illiterate net nerd who cares not for the appearance of his prose, not caring how it reflects back at him. I pray to the god that nestles deep within my nose hairs that that never happens.

And, to be honest, it's not really a god. It's more of a gnome.

That I made up.

Hey.

Hey.

Hey.

...

Shut up.

Don't you knock my gnome, Tholen.

Alright, now my brother's talking. Do I tune him out, or answer him absently as I write? I elected the latter. What he says isn't of much import, anyways, being an antisocial child who cares for nought but his own entertainment at times. He closely resembles my older sister, who neglects friends, family, and even dropped out of school in favor of her self imposed electronic prison. She's older than you, and she's a cashier at Target.

Yet, somehow, she's getting married. Ah, well. I won't question it, nor will I offer her any more advice. She sees advice from one many years her junior as condescending, whether or not it be founded in logic.

All I can do is make sure that I don't follow her path. When I finally get my life back in order, get constant, regular sleep and excercise, and keep a passing grade throughout all my classes, and, as I so dream, go to college in Sweden to teach there, then, and only then, will I be worthy to lecture my sister.

Oh, how it will be sweet. And yes, I did say Sweden. Or, more accurately, Sverige, as they call it. Pronounced Sver-ee-yay. That's really about all the Svenska, er, Swedish I know at the moment. Save for the word for 'meatball', and the phrase that lets me ask for beer. So I'll never be hungry or sober during my first few weeks. Joy of joys.

Anyhow, now it is exactly 9:19 P.M. Meaning that I'm totally done writing, and I've hardly cussed at all. Neat, huh?

Journal One!

2005-11-07T14:50:00.000-08:00

I will introduce all you prying eyes to Adam's 'At Home' journal. Some of it is quite sexy, I assure you, but you'll see none of that. I'll simply show you the first few journals I did at home, because I'm lazy.

9-7-2005

A’ight, Tholen. Here’s my journal for the night. To be truthful, though, I’m only really doing this because, quite frankly, my internet is down. Otherwise I’d be doing other, I must admit, much more interesting homework. That is, interviewing the father of a friend of mine about his educational career in Sweden through the magic of the internet microphone.

But, I digress. Right now, I don’t really have much to say. My back hurts, but I’m always in some minor amount of pain, in some part of my body, so I’m certain to live. I’m also tired, but, once again, that’s totally to be expected. I’m always tired, after all. It comes with the whole baggage of being a tired teenager.

Even with school having started, I’ve got nothing. My class schedule is terribly easy, your class included, and there’s not too much to complain about classmate wise. Yet, anyways. There are a couple of bigoted idiots that I’ve been able to spot but, like the rest of the human race, they’re mostly harmless.

And now, as I sit here waiting for time to pass, listening to my very, very homosexual Spanish disco, I notice that every one of these miserably excuses for a paragraph is somewhere in the four line range. Whether almost five lines, or two words over three, they all take up four lines of space. Spooky.

Now, I’m just wasting space. And time. I wonder what’s for lunch tomorrow? Hopefully not that shit rolled in dough that served as a beef burrito today. That shit was, well, shitty. I’ve had better bad sex. Well, not really, but work with my foul mouthed yet predictably virginal self. Also, this sentence exists solely for the purpose of the fourth line.

Know what pisses me off? Netspeak. It is teh absolute gay. Like, seriously. I have read 'lol no' more times than I care to count. That, and, 'omg u r a n00b u feg'. I mean, Jesus. How fucking stupid can some people be? Or, is it merely a matter of sloth; perhaps their admittance of not caring about, nor respecting, their native language.

Ah, who gives a flying fuck. My fifteen minute sentence is up.

Creative Writing for the Win.

2005-11-07T14:29:00.000-08:00

Hello, fellow creative writers. We are all here, joined by our forced labor of the written word. Are we better for it, we ask ourselves nightly, before we cry ourselves to sleep in our beloved fetal position.

This is what we shall find out.

This travesty of eletrical information that we create shall be the judge. We shall lay our souls, our talents, and, some of us *coughAshleycough* will lay our bodies bare to be torn apart by the merciless peer critics. This, friends, is why we write.