So I've been working on this book

Alright time for some Original Content. I've been working on this story for quite some time. Well actually I wrote a ton of it at once and haven't had the time to pick it back up. I haven't really proof-read it, but I'll post the intro. Let me know what you think and if you like it I'll continue to post parts of it (in order of course.) Some background on it, it's about a man named Alan who awakes one night to find out that the world has changed...and unfortunately it isn't at all for the better. Also there is no formatting besides basic grammar and such, so no whining there, I'm aware of it!

We…I, stand on the teetering edge of survival; existing, existing…no room for living. I gave all my goodbyes last night, lost all hope today. I’m farewelling life as I know it, and I’ve already killed too many people to count. Who knows how many times I’ve heard the report of a gun. When was the last time I drank fresh water, probably the last time I saw a face possessing colors other than the familiar grays, black, greens of rot beneath their skin, blossoming in and consuming my sanity. I remember…I remember children, and animals, love, passion. Faded, faded just like the pigment in their skin, like supplies, like hope. What now rings true and clear is the empty wind, whistling at me. Whistling, like when a friend whistles at a buddy who is about to get into some huge shit because his girlfriend found some bar-chick’s panties in his car. Wind whistling, whistling wind, whispering, “Buddy, you are in one major pile of shit.” But who has time to listen? No time to listen, you’ve got to make sure there is ammo in the gun, ammo in your pockets, shells buried in your clothing like seashells buried in the sand. But that’s just it isn’t it, buried in the sand, that’s what I am, buried in the sand! All I have to do is dig, and push, pull, scrape and I’ll get out. That is, if I don’t die of the cancer beforehand, the rotting flesh-hanging-on-bone cancer plaguing mother earth. Mother, my mother, walking around, she died two days ago, came home today. They hadn’t buried her yet so she must’ve been lying in her coffin in some room and the creatures had found her fresh corpse and had a feast. I’ve never been much for reunions, unfamiliar relatives in unfamiliar circumstances pretending to be familiar with every Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin. Reuniting with my mother, at least I knew she missed me; only incorrigible maternal love could drive a person to take four shells to the chest, while on fire, to only stop when hot metal exploded in her head like the dull thud of the champagne bottles opened at her viewing. Although…perhaps it wasn’t maternal love, perhaps it was the never ending, overriding need to feed. Like a baby drawn to its mother’s teat, so was she to my flesh. Who knew such a need existed, such an overpowering drive inhabited some small part of our craniums. I remember her moans, her screams, rotting vocal chords vibrating, tearing. Such dull eyes, I always admired her milky blue eyes, and here they were, misty and swollen, like one of those stress relieving key-chains of some animal with jelly inside of it and you squeeze it and its eyes bulged from its plastic skull. She was blind but she smelled me, just like I smelled her, long gone was her flowery perfume, replaced by the smell of wastes excreted by millions of bacteria slowly digesting every inch of her skin. She was naked, where there wasn’t caked on dirt caked on blood completed the painted on ensemble. Her left thigh had more bone than meat on it, making it so she limped to the point of almost falling over. She was cut everywhere, various bites she received before she resurrected, various chunks of flesh missing. I remember my eyes traveling from her feet to her lips, admiring the pearly luminescent skin, absolutely devoid of blood flow. I remember watching each bullet penetrate her torso: the first took out the right side of her pelvis, she didn’t notice save a grunt; the second blew through her left breast, but no blood came forth; the third hit the left side of her collarbone causing her neck to sink a little giving her that classic head tilted zombie look; the fourth hit her naval directly, ripping open her stomach, allowing thoroughly rotted intestine to spill out, dragged along next to her left leg. So much for reunions; I know I cried, was crying, cried the entire time, cried as I reloaded the gun and took aim between those misty blue eyes. The bullet hit dead on; obliterating the back of her skull, allowing the mush of what was once her brain to ooze out like some thick slushy from a gas station drink stand. I’ve been here two days, and it feels like an eternity. I’ve got to move, the ammo is running low and the undead are flowing strong, pouring out through the woods faster than they ran in when still alive, still hoping. They all ran in, as if the trees and dirt and shrubbery would act as some natural womb to keep them safe, to protect them from the evil that lived outside. But the evil lived inside too, in fact, that is where it was thought to have started. It didn’t make it to the news, it happened too rapidly for the talking heads to milk it for a week or two. The entire country went to sleep one night, half of the world went to sleep while the other half rose, rose with the dead.

Update on the Job Situation!

So I didn't take the job at CiCi's, they offered me "maybe $8 hour" and frankly that won't cover my bills. HOWEVER, after I got out of the restaurant and was headed home another company I had applied for called me and offered me a job that pays 10.30 an hour. It's part time but at that rate it will be fine. Basically I'll be the guy who is at Sam's Club demonstrating products and handing out samples. If this comes through guys it will be perfect.

I was never really good at Limbo

So I have a job interview at Cici's in about an hour, a pizza cook. I don't know what to expect but I won't be able to accept the job if they pay me anywhere near minimum wage. 700 Dollars a month in bills can't quite be covered by $7.65 an hour. Oh well, an interview is better than nothing. It just doesn't seem worth it, working 40 hours a week for minimum wage when I could sell my car, and have enough money to pay my bills until I ship out. Well, that's assuming I could get the price I want for my car. And it's never good to count your chicken's before they hatch. Perhaps I'll just throw my car up on some ad sites and see if I get any takers and go from there? Still have to go to the interview though...eh, I could get a surprise!

So...question: How do you all cope with your bills? Do you have a partner who you split half/half with? Do you work your ass off and hope you have enough? Do you have a well paying job? Are you on disability?

Please make me feel like I'm not the only one stuck in limbo right now ha ha

Thoughts

Well, I'm at a weird juncture in my life right now. I have about 128 days until I ship out for Basic Training, but I am jobless. I mean who wants to hire someone for only a couple of months? I don't really know what to do, I could sell my car. It doesn't even feel like I'm going into the Army because it's so far away. It simply feels like some far-off ominous event that is impacting my ability to work in the present moment. I have enough money for one more months worth of rent/bills and that's about it. I supposed I'll just have to try and get a job at some fast-food joint or try to find some odd-jobs. Do any of you who read this have any suggestions?

BONUS!!!

Now for an all too literal adaptation of getting your heart ripped out:

In rain swept streets, within the tremor of thunder, he walks towards her. The curbs hold against a stream, slowly collecting strength with the passing minutes. Ivy-green leaves try to bounce back against the heavenly tantrum, but can only look downwards. The pressure is immense; it pushes in on his ears and clouds them with a dim roar of kinetic energy. Thin hair clings to his skin with numerous hydrogen bonds while his clothes take on the weight of the storm. His feet displace cold water with each step forcing the contaminated liquid between pruned toes. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, and it’s easier that way. They sky opened up and started pouring rain.” He shivers and water droplets fall from his eyelashes, collecting beneath him. There is no light, and if there is any the liquid fog has consumed it. His eyes do not focus, each lens unfocused, obscured by excess moisture. If only he could let loose and allow the rain to carry him away, molecule by molecule. A proper burial, a natural burial, into the soil, recycled. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, it’s easier that way. Take me there, away.” The mud pulls at his feet as he walks into the street, “she’ll be there.” The road is flooding and it pushes him back slightly, “turn back.” She’s there, a silhouette against silhouettes. The rain looks black as it pulls on her hair. She’s smiling, hopelessly hopeful. He grabs the scalpel, and prepares to cut. “Dear…” She grabs him and kisses him allowing the blade to easily pierce the breast tissue. “Please, don’t.” He begins to cut, it comes easily and is quick. The flesh falls away, “I can’t…” She digs into his eyes, looking for something, something ancient. He drops the knife, and then pushes his hand into her chest. He feels around, and squeezes when he finds his target. “I don’t….love you. Not anymore, not at all.” He pulls as hard as he can and her heart gives way. The blood pools and washes away in the empty night.

New to blogging

Hey everyone just want to say hi...I'm new to blogging so this is kind of a test run. I posted an essay I wrote a bit ago, comment it and let me know what you think. If you have the time click this ************ to get to my blog through linkbucks.

Peace!

Success of a sprout

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When did it become common practice to determine the course of your life, when life is just beginning to sprout?  Comparable to determining when to plant seeds before winter is half-way through. I am sympathetic with the modern-day-individual’s desire to succeed; though I highly question what exactly it means to succeed and how they came about said definition. Descartes’ methodological doubt comes to mind every time someone explains to me they’ve figured out what it means to succeed. “You’ve found a well-paying job, and you tell me you’ve succeeded? I’m afraid I must take a glance at this authorship of success, cross-reference your sources, examine your conclusions, and see if you haven’t plagiarized from the default scripture of societal values.” What your main association with success seems to be is money! “This can’t be,” I say, “for what of your thoughts, your wisdom, your children, relationships, and all that is related?” I believe a common retort would be that all of those things rely on being able to support yourself and those you’re responsible for, which, in modern society, is founded on your income. But, I say, what of the beggar on the street, does he not support himself, even if it is not in a house, or in a car? Does he not have friends; does he not contemplate his situation? He is supporting himself, so is he successful? But, you reply, “That isn’t support, that’s living by necessity and perhaps lack thereof!” Ah, so, if you are still in alliance with this train of thought, it is not simply enough to support the necessities of life, we must rise above it, and be “comfortable.” But, comfort itself is filled with idiosyncratic nuances of particulars and desires. So how are we to create a universal definition of success, if we must appeal to every individual’s wants?! We can’t of course, it would be contradictory of the term universal, and would run us into the ground. But then, what is universal comfort? We must look at what we require to maintain homeostasis (equilibrium) as an organism, to discover this. We must maintain internal heat, as Thoreau would maintain, through eating and having shelter; though it could be argued that shelter is only necessary during the cold seasons. So, we must have food, meaning our appetites must be quelled, so we need a steady supply of food. I would dare say that a beggar is alive, so they must have some source of food to maintain life. How much is enough? Must we eat twice, thrice times a day? “A man who eats hard, must work hard,” and then the cycle repeats as Thoreau would say. If we desire those luxurious things (e.g. soda, cake, meats, coffee) we must work hard to obtain them, but after working hard we eat hard the luxury we worked so hard for and must continue on another day! So support you say is in being comfortable, but your comfort only feeds your discomfort, and I must refuse it. I need only basic things, like my apartment, a can of beans, and the company of my cat and significant other to sedate me. Strip them away and I am for the worse, strip away my tv, my computer, and I am none the worse. Here is where comfort teeters on the edge of universality and that which society meticulously weaves into a stifling blanket of supposed necessity. Working so hard for the new tv, for the new computer, you’ve invested your very life in such things and thus, and if they disappear it is like taking the very life from you! So perhaps, living above physical­ ­ necessity is but a sham delivered to you directly from your abhorrent luxury. So, we cannot find comfort in expensive and frivolous things, for they cause us to work so hard there will be much discomfort! So food, we need food only enough to sedate and nourish us. Perhaps one to two meals a day, if we don’t work as hard as we do! Now, what of shelter? It should be obvious now that big houses, with multiple bedrooms and baths will make us work so hard as to not only fail to have any time to enjoy it, but when will we use it? “But everyone needs their own room.” Ha, I feel you are misinformed, all those rooms allow us to habitually isolate, and what good does that do? People need space, and justify multiple rooms with this need, yet they neglect Mother Nature who waits outside their doors with open arms and a warm smile. Whenever I am a guest in a large house I find it odd that these people work so hard, just to have so much empty space, and places to tell me not to go and not to look! Look at my wealth, they say, but do not explore it, for I must go work, and will not be here to maintain it. Ha, silly people, so much room for your small bodies, too bad you don’t spend more of your time filling up that air with your thoughts! Oh well, I believe it possible to possess only a couple of rooms and find there is more than enough space for multiple people. How much space do you really use in your living room, your kitchen, your bathroom? A habitual path, that utilizes so little room while all those things you worked so hard for take up the rest and look “pretty.” Add up all the cubic feet of space you actually utilize, and I’m sure it will equal less than a medium-sized room.  Besides, isn’t the basic premise of having shelter to maintain that internal heat? How exactly does a couch or a big tv contribute to that goal? So, to maintain comfort we need but two meals a day and a medium-sized room. Perhaps you disagree with me, but most likely that’s because you’re picturing your room full of items and frivolous belongings. Strip that schema of such eccentricities and visualize, what you need, not what you want. So, two meals and a room equates to universal physical comfort? So, if this truly is all you need, why do you work so hard for everything else, in order to support yourself? I know of no true friend who asks for anything more than the company of another friend. Children have needs as well, to maintain their heat, and thus it is necessary to work harder to support them, but I doubt that level of hardness necessitates a large house, a big tv, lots of toys, and the like. When we reminisce, how often do we think back to a big pay check? When we truly think of happy memories, do the faces of friends, or old presidents pop into your head? I’ll confess that if it’s the presidential lineage, I do not desire to be your friend. I would rather spend the evening taking shots of wit from a good friend than spending money on shots of cheap liquor. The point of course, is that the foundations of relationships, along with the structure and additions to it, are not built off of money and impressive furniture, but rather the words exchanged while wasting that money you worked so hard for or idly admiring said furniture. In regards to wisdom, and knowledge, how much more valuable is it to know yourself, than to know the clothes you are wearing are in style? Spend an hour contemplating what it actually means to succeed, instead of an hour shopping, and see which gains you more. Spend an hour exploring the neighborhood or local park, instead of watching that tv, and see which is more visually stimulating. The material, like the very skin you wear, will fade, decay, and cease to exist in the form it is in. Your thoughts on the other hand, can jump from person to person, generation to generation. The realization that thought is worth a million times more than the dollar, can be gifted much more easily and eagerly than a gift certificate to the mall. People can consume your wisdom, chug your wit, and rub your knowledge into their very character, but they cannot do such with a trivial gift of candy or a mp3 player. Success then, is not a measure of the money you earn, or the 12 hour work day, but rather the achievement of a simplistic physical life, allowing for mental and spiritual growth to spread like a wildfire or an air-borne pathogen. Success is not a purely physical thing, but rather is a state-of-mind, constantly evolving, extending away from the tangible towards universals and thoughts of the whole, not the self. To expand the self, you focus on everything but. The sprout does not wrap its roots around itself, but rather plunges them into the world around it, soaking up whatever it comes into contact with. Perhaps then, a sprout is more successful than the majority of us.