The crazies were out in force this morning. No, I don't mean libertarians. I mean the missionaries. Except this time they cam bearing signs. Really, really big signs.
It was kind of funny. They stood there with signs like "OBEY JESUS OR PERISH" and "EMBRACE JESUS LEST YE BE JUDGED" with lightning bolts or something like that and pretty much damned us all to Hell. One said, "God loved us so much he gave his only son to us!" I promptly thought of Elvis's "Return to Sender", broke up laughing, and felt all sinful-like.
I was inspired to create a giant sign that simply read "I DISAGREE." Then I'd put on a silly hat, take out a lawnchair and a shadeumbrella, and sit there all relaxed like. Or, perhaps, a sign reading "SATAN IS MY HOMEBOY."
Another idea was to haveone person come out with a sign saying "I LIKE KITTENS." He/She would yell things like "Forsake the dogs of the damned and embrace the felinic faith!" Then, a week later, someone with a sign saying "I LIKE PUPPIES." would come out and do a reverse performance. The two would eventually meet and an epic confrontation would ensue.
Just, you know, ideas for a rainy day. Raining hellfire and brimstone, that is.
Wednesday, September 14
Friday, September 9
Mission Uncomplished
Last night, as I walking back to my dorm with two of my new, fancy college friends, I was approached by, for lack of a better term, missionaries. I declined to take one of their little books, but Christopher decided he'd actually talk to them. It was rather distressing, because while I loathe the concept of Hell and am annoyed by all the contradictions of Christianity, I also really dislike deception. And Christopher just stood there, leading this woman on, toying with her for his own amusement. I saw him try to repress a smirk after a few of her comments, which was rather amusing, but the entire situation was uncomfortable. Elise, the other friend there, called him a "Sky Masteron" which I found rather apt.
I don't really know what to do about missionaries. I generally just try to avoid them. I could try to debate with them, but with mentalities like this, I rather doubt I'd have much success. Of course I don't believe that's a viewpoint indicative of a very significant portion of Christians, but it's still rather disturbing. Actually, it's kind of funny too. You ought to read "No Fear", "The Last Generation", and "The Missing Day" for some further reading on that site (listed under tracts). We agnostics are bbaaadddd people.
I don't really know what to do about missionaries. I generally just try to avoid them. I could try to debate with them, but with mentalities like this, I rather doubt I'd have much success. Of course I don't believe that's a viewpoint indicative of a very significant portion of Christians, but it's still rather disturbing. Actually, it's kind of funny too. You ought to read "No Fear", "The Last Generation", and "The Missing Day" for some further reading on that site (listed under tracts). We agnostics are bbaaadddd people.
Thursday, September 8
Facebooking the Music
After I got invited to be a friend of someone I've never met, I decided facebook is quite silly, so I further attacked my profile. I believe the proposterity is aboot complete, though further revisions may be necessary. Take that CIA soulstealers!
Monday, September 5
The CIA has my soul!
I capitulated and finally made a facebook account. But I'm going to make it as hard as I can for those smarmy sons of sociali in the CIA to steal my kidneys. Hence I created a biography that is a tad... altered. Is it effective? You be the judge:
Dylan Meggs was born the son of a rich Albanian Ferret Harvester back in 1873. Early in his life, he discovered he had a penchant for catching tuberculosis. Seeking to make the best of a decimating situation, he exchanged his frequent diseases for fresh peanut brittle with intoxicated Peruvian Socialists.
As his peanut brittle empire continued to amass its nutty wealth, Dylan looked for avenues to express his growing ambivalence towards the letter "Q." He found such a vehicle in the form of one Mrs. Albierta Telesonatta McMingerson. Mrs. McMingerson, a widower, taught Dylan the ancient ways of the transcendental milkman. The two fell deeply in love, but in a tragic (some people believe intentional) accident involving William McKinley and a vindictive hot air balloon, Mrs. McMingerson was imploded.
Dylan was inconsolable. He continued his harvest of tuberculosis, but no amount of peanut brittle could stem the overwhelming misery that consumed him. Fortunately, WWI arrived and with it came many an opportunity to justify tap-dancing, an underground movement Dylan had been a part of since the Cleveland administration. Dylan tap-danced for Uncle Sam like no man had ever tap-danced before. They called him "The Dancin' Dylnamo", a name which would later result in legal action by a Japanese porn star of the same title. Dylan's dancing enabled an Allied victory, but the somber, insidious undertones of his performances spread a sense of disillusionment throughout America.
The Roaring 20's came and went, a period in which Dylan spent most of his time drunk in a dark alley wearing only one shoe and an incredulous expression.
The Great Depression shook Dylan from his stupor and inspired him to donate his peanut brittle to a needy country. Dylan traveled the country in a rickety old wagon pulled by a pack of three-legged grizzly bears, spreading his bountiful peanut brittle with all who dared to venture close enough to figure out where all those screams were coming from.
His supply of peanut brittle exhausted, Dylan returned to Knoxville, confident that he had changed the world. The country went to war once again, and many urged Dylan to don his tap-dancing regalia once more. However, shortly after the way began, Dylan developed an addiction to shiny objects. This obsession consumed him, and it wasn’t until 1952 that his friends and family convinced him to enter into rehab. 3583 grueling seconds later, Dylan emerged a new, albeit defeated, man. He went into hiding, and gradually faded from public memory for years.
Then, in 1984, Dylan reemerged in a fiery comeback that would have taken the nation by storm if he’d only remembered to pay his library fines. As it was, the outstanding debt was so monumental Dylan was placed into a maximum security internment facility. It was there he learned the tricks of the taffy trade and made connections that would cement his rise to power in the late 1990’s. A grateful descendant of a peanut brittle-recievee paid Dylan’s fines, thus allowing him to return to his home state and forge an empire of such fantastic proportions it seemed trivial. Starting a grass roots campaign, Dylan developed a brand of taffy that combined Italian voodoo and good ole Tennessean methamphetamines that became an overnight sensation. The money rolled in, along with various federal agents, and Dylan’s life became a whirlwind of whores, public broadcasting, and spiked apple juice.
Then, tragedy. On April 27, 2004, Dylan Meggs was shot four times in the left elbow by a crazed insurance salesman with a rubber machete and nothing to lose. He retired from the public scene and is currently living out the last of his days in an intensive care unit outside of Topeka.
Dylan Meggs was born the son of a rich Albanian Ferret Harvester back in 1873. Early in his life, he discovered he had a penchant for catching tuberculosis. Seeking to make the best of a decimating situation, he exchanged his frequent diseases for fresh peanut brittle with intoxicated Peruvian Socialists.
As his peanut brittle empire continued to amass its nutty wealth, Dylan looked for avenues to express his growing ambivalence towards the letter "Q." He found such a vehicle in the form of one Mrs. Albierta Telesonatta McMingerson. Mrs. McMingerson, a widower, taught Dylan the ancient ways of the transcendental milkman. The two fell deeply in love, but in a tragic (some people believe intentional) accident involving William McKinley and a vindictive hot air balloon, Mrs. McMingerson was imploded.
Dylan was inconsolable. He continued his harvest of tuberculosis, but no amount of peanut brittle could stem the overwhelming misery that consumed him. Fortunately, WWI arrived and with it came many an opportunity to justify tap-dancing, an underground movement Dylan had been a part of since the Cleveland administration. Dylan tap-danced for Uncle Sam like no man had ever tap-danced before. They called him "The Dancin' Dylnamo", a name which would later result in legal action by a Japanese porn star of the same title. Dylan's dancing enabled an Allied victory, but the somber, insidious undertones of his performances spread a sense of disillusionment throughout America.
The Roaring 20's came and went, a period in which Dylan spent most of his time drunk in a dark alley wearing only one shoe and an incredulous expression.
The Great Depression shook Dylan from his stupor and inspired him to donate his peanut brittle to a needy country. Dylan traveled the country in a rickety old wagon pulled by a pack of three-legged grizzly bears, spreading his bountiful peanut brittle with all who dared to venture close enough to figure out where all those screams were coming from.
His supply of peanut brittle exhausted, Dylan returned to Knoxville, confident that he had changed the world. The country went to war once again, and many urged Dylan to don his tap-dancing regalia once more. However, shortly after the way began, Dylan developed an addiction to shiny objects. This obsession consumed him, and it wasn’t until 1952 that his friends and family convinced him to enter into rehab. 3583 grueling seconds later, Dylan emerged a new, albeit defeated, man. He went into hiding, and gradually faded from public memory for years.
Then, in 1984, Dylan reemerged in a fiery comeback that would have taken the nation by storm if he’d only remembered to pay his library fines. As it was, the outstanding debt was so monumental Dylan was placed into a maximum security internment facility. It was there he learned the tricks of the taffy trade and made connections that would cement his rise to power in the late 1990’s. A grateful descendant of a peanut brittle-recievee paid Dylan’s fines, thus allowing him to return to his home state and forge an empire of such fantastic proportions it seemed trivial. Starting a grass roots campaign, Dylan developed a brand of taffy that combined Italian voodoo and good ole Tennessean methamphetamines that became an overnight sensation. The money rolled in, along with various federal agents, and Dylan’s life became a whirlwind of whores, public broadcasting, and spiked apple juice.
Then, tragedy. On April 27, 2004, Dylan Meggs was shot four times in the left elbow by a crazed insurance salesman with a rubber machete and nothing to lose. He retired from the public scene and is currently living out the last of his days in an intensive care unit outside of Topeka.
Persistence is Futile
-Jack Kevorkian's motto
Last night was pretty good. I was initially wary of going to/being at a party of primarily people in my sister's grade, and I did feel rather disconnected from "the group." The differences between the "AP crowd" in her grade and mine were noticeably different. I suppose that's expected of course, but it's sort of interesting how cliques of the same sort of "set" of people can be so diverse. Further proof of why stereotyping and trying to group people is pointless. Still, each group, especially comparing the top of the class the year before me, my year, and the year behind me, has its own unique character. Kinda neat.
Anyway, I didn't mesh with them well. What I did instead was stay inside with someone else who didn't "fit in." She is in Carrie's grade, but she's quite religious and rather conservative in action, so the shenanigans of the others weren't really appealing to her. So we just sat inside and talked. I fear I was slightly didactic, but we developed a good rapport and talked for a few hours. It was nice, getting to know someone, as in know them better. There's just something really enjoyable about it for me, when I can look back on a conversation and think "Something actually happened." That feeling of having learned something deeper than the superficial pleasantries of normal conversation, of having connected to another individual really leaves you feeling fulfilled. It's the sort of thing I'd love to do when I become a teacher.
I got back to my dorm about 12:30 and went over to Christopher Martin and John's room, just to say hi. I ended up staying there til 3:30 as they were having a conversation about the meaning of self. I don't normally enjoy philosophical conversations, but I was able to just listen to most of it and add annoying comments when the oppurtunity rose (Christopher: "So we can establish that there are real laws of logic." Me: "Heh, ' I got pulled over for mental speeding, but I think the policeman's going to let me off with a warning!' ").
Christopher also has this chair that makes one feel positively fetal. I felt a strange sense of calm inside it, but I also felt more genuinely fearful. I actually regressed to a more childlike state of mind. That might have contributed to my willingness to stay with the discussion. It ended up being pretty interesting, although I couldn't put any of it down in here in coherent form for the life of me. Suffice it to say, when I finally pulled myself away three hours later, I returned ever so briefly before going to bed so that I could have the last word.
That word? "Boobies."
Last night was pretty good. I was initially wary of going to/being at a party of primarily people in my sister's grade, and I did feel rather disconnected from "the group." The differences between the "AP crowd" in her grade and mine were noticeably different. I suppose that's expected of course, but it's sort of interesting how cliques of the same sort of "set" of people can be so diverse. Further proof of why stereotyping and trying to group people is pointless. Still, each group, especially comparing the top of the class the year before me, my year, and the year behind me, has its own unique character. Kinda neat.
Anyway, I didn't mesh with them well. What I did instead was stay inside with someone else who didn't "fit in." She is in Carrie's grade, but she's quite religious and rather conservative in action, so the shenanigans of the others weren't really appealing to her. So we just sat inside and talked. I fear I was slightly didactic, but we developed a good rapport and talked for a few hours. It was nice, getting to know someone, as in know them better. There's just something really enjoyable about it for me, when I can look back on a conversation and think "Something actually happened." That feeling of having learned something deeper than the superficial pleasantries of normal conversation, of having connected to another individual really leaves you feeling fulfilled. It's the sort of thing I'd love to do when I become a teacher.
I got back to my dorm about 12:30 and went over to Christopher Martin and John's room, just to say hi. I ended up staying there til 3:30 as they were having a conversation about the meaning of self. I don't normally enjoy philosophical conversations, but I was able to just listen to most of it and add annoying comments when the oppurtunity rose (Christopher: "So we can establish that there are real laws of logic." Me: "Heh, ' I got pulled over for mental speeding, but I think the policeman's going to let me off with a warning!' ").
Christopher also has this chair that makes one feel positively fetal. I felt a strange sense of calm inside it, but I also felt more genuinely fearful. I actually regressed to a more childlike state of mind. That might have contributed to my willingness to stay with the discussion. It ended up being pretty interesting, although I couldn't put any of it down in here in coherent form for the life of me. Suffice it to say, when I finally pulled myself away three hours later, I returned ever so briefly before going to bed so that I could have the last word.
That word? "Boobies."
Friday, September 2
Missing the Mark
I went back to my house to wash laundry and do family-related activities last night. My mission, complete, I grabbed my clothes, walked towards the door, and told my mother, "I guess I'd better head home."
She noticed it too.
I've commented on loss before, but I thought I'd go ahead and do it again. It's odd, for me at least. The actual act of losing, of changing, of taking one more step on my hike to hell is treated almost scientifically. It just "happens." It's not until a bit after the event that you realize how accustomed you'd become to "the way things were." How everything fit so well. How, now that it's gone, your sense of safety and security is merely conceptual.
The actual word itself isn't such an indication. To me, "home" is where I "should be." It's where I return and am "normalized." It's not a word of great significance to me. It was just the moment where it really hit me that I'll never go back to home again. Because it's not home anymore. I'll stay there, of course, but it's no longer my permanent residence.
It will be years until I have a "home" in the real sense of the word. If then.
---
I had a dream a few nights ago, where I tossed and turned, obsessed about people that didn't exist. It's happened with math problems too, a sort of half waking/half sleeping state where I repeat the same process over and over, always incomplete. It's like turning the key in the engine of your car, the engine revs, but it doesn't start. I just keep turning, but the car never starts. The problem, of course, is that I'm half asleep so I don't realize the car isn't starting. I just keep turning the key. It generally takes me 15 minutes to snap out of my stupor. It's almost painful, to keep trying to figure out something in your head that is literally impossible because it's an incomplete nothing.
I'm going crazy and I'm not even drinking. Go figure.
She noticed it too.
I've commented on loss before, but I thought I'd go ahead and do it again. It's odd, for me at least. The actual act of losing, of changing, of taking one more step on my hike to hell is treated almost scientifically. It just "happens." It's not until a bit after the event that you realize how accustomed you'd become to "the way things were." How everything fit so well. How, now that it's gone, your sense of safety and security is merely conceptual.
The actual word itself isn't such an indication. To me, "home" is where I "should be." It's where I return and am "normalized." It's not a word of great significance to me. It was just the moment where it really hit me that I'll never go back to home again. Because it's not home anymore. I'll stay there, of course, but it's no longer my permanent residence.
It will be years until I have a "home" in the real sense of the word. If then.
---
I had a dream a few nights ago, where I tossed and turned, obsessed about people that didn't exist. It's happened with math problems too, a sort of half waking/half sleeping state where I repeat the same process over and over, always incomplete. It's like turning the key in the engine of your car, the engine revs, but it doesn't start. I just keep turning, but the car never starts. The problem, of course, is that I'm half asleep so I don't realize the car isn't starting. I just keep turning the key. It generally takes me 15 minutes to snap out of my stupor. It's almost painful, to keep trying to figure out something in your head that is literally impossible because it's an incomplete nothing.
I'm going crazy and I'm not even drinking. Go figure.