The Talent Lives in Her Hands

So, Kelley drew this picture and put it in her blog! I am so amazed by it :D

A drawing of me.

Leave her great comments! She deserves them!

He Said "Rebuttals!"

As spinning planets will tell you, my face tends to be more rational on a Tuesday quite nearly following election day, for that is the main reason of gravitational and rotational inertia, as is seen in the sad, sad atmosphere of Venus, with its clouds of sulfuric acid and anti-democratic embolisms. Please do not hold your responses in comparison to this, for none can be afforded which can even justify the reasons that this has been said, and as such are a waste of all resources that are required, including the finger energy, temporal allocations, and oxygenation to the phalangical and cognitive musculature necessary to create provocative and well-analyzed rebuttals.

Not all the Time, Just Forever.

When forever occurs, I'll be there. Through my life I'll be always striving, never reaching forever. But one day when I grow old, I'll come closer, and then at the moment of my death, everything will slow down, until time is passing at an infinitely slow rate. It will be like what happens to light as it enters a black hole. Forever fading but never reaching complete darkness. That way I'll never be dead, never be gone. At least that is what it will seem like, since a person's parallax is relative. I will never realize my own death, therefore I will always think I am alive. Other people will see me, grieve, and move on, but I cannot grieve for myself. I know I will meet forever.

Power Hour: Try It Once

With the music ringing in my ears, I have no hope of hearing the televisions which are strewn about the bar. As friends exhibit their determination to be heard, voices elevate until no one can hold a conversation. Yet people are still on cell phones. People sit at tables and chat. The bartenders still hear drink orders and can concentrate enough to produce correct change.

This is not my cup of tea. I am touched by many, but felt by none. Fellow students push their way toward the bathroom, or toward the exit. Ambidextrous girls somehow manage to carry four mixed drinks at a time to their friends, spilling very little along the way. A hand on my shoulder tells me to move forward, please.

Somehow I expected this place to smell like cigarettes, the unwelcome scent still lingering from years ago when people could still kill themselves slowly, with two methods at once. When the talented older men could puff a cigar in one corner of their mouth while sipping Jack with the other.

The strawberry lemonade, although girly, is good. I can't always taste the vodka, which is a plus. And making it taste even sweeter is the cost. Fifty cents for a mixed drink. I try a friend's drink, and it's also good. I like it better than mine, but I'm still satisfied.

No one is dancing. It's way too crowded here for that. But it doesn't matter to me, I'm not a dancer anyway. I never figured out how to get the right movements, when to lift my arms, when to bow and sway. There are no rules to modern dancing. Give me salsa, tango, something with a set pattern of steps. The lack of dancing does not contribute to stillness in this bar, the viscous masses of people constantly writhing, changing, trading positions, not giving your eyes enough time to focus.

Thank you power hour.

Her hair fell to her shoulders.

Her legs crossed with much propriety, she sits alone. Her face betrays not her conscious mind, but what is below it: a deep somber fear of the days ahead. Now she ponders her decision, but that is past, and unchanging. Her truth has not yet been revealed. She stands up, and is gone.