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A Warning to Anyone Who Wants to Friend Me

Err, don't. I'm a horrible updater, I for some reason dislike responding to people's comments when they're on my page, I hang out at other comms and lurk at kinkmemes. I have this thing for anonyminity. Did I spell that right? I don't mean to be disappointing, but after seeing what happened with my Deviantart after I got bored of it - and people still fave my suff there - makes me feel pretty much like a let-down.

So, save it. Save the space on your f-list for people who will update, will post fanfics and fanart and will say happy things when not doing either of those. This journal is almost entirely for to gaining the backstage pass kind of a deal. Yes, that grammar made no sense, I know. Hey, the end button works in this little field. Sweet. Even Microsoft Word doesn't let ya do that.

tl;dr: There's no point in friending me. Say hi if you wish, but don't, like, expect anything of me. Because I don't invest myself in the Internetz beyond how it pleases me to do so. Postings of sad and often angry things will continue to occur sporadically to occasionally; this is a sad fact of life that as an American teenager, I have a penchant for existential angstings even when I am not hormonally imbalanced (read, PMSing).

PS: Oh, my god, if you all could see my cat right now. Srsly. Funniest stuff ever.

So I'm in the middle of writing that promised explication on why I got into Charlie and the Chocolate Factory slash involving Charlie and Wonka... Yeah, long story. Like I said, it's a work in progress. But I have a question I'd like to ask the internet. Purely an opinion-based thing. Poll, essentially.

A kid growing up, wears a lot of clothes. Once the kid's 12, she/he can't wear that really old-ass baby jumpsuit. For the sake of argument, the parents'll be fine with whatever the kid decides. Should the kid get rid of hir old clothes? She ain't gonna wear em. I suppose the only arguement in favor of keeping em would be the nostalgia factor.

IRL, my chemistry teacher said something pretty relevant the other day about scrapbooking or couples taking videos at their weddings. He said that he doesn't have time to ruminate on how awesome things once were - he has a one-year-old kid /and/ a 2-month-old kid. He's gonna have his hands full for the next 20-ish years! And after that, when he retires, he said he hopes to spend his later years traveling, always on the lookout for new and interesting ideas and places and people. My chemistry teacher is basically exactly like Adam Savage, if Adam was more into soccer and mountain-climbing than recreating movie props. Their two approaches to life are almost identical. My personality is much different than my Chem teacher's or Adam's, but I really do like the sentiment. Onward and upward sort of deal.

We only get 300,000 sunsets (check my math - roughly 82 years), and I don't want to waste my life looking back. I do want to always keep moving on, and seeking new and better things, and I want space free on my harddrive, as in my closet and on my bookcase, for items/pictures/songs/etc, that reflect what i like and who I am now. Yes, that old shit is part of my identity - middle school may have sucked, but you ain't you without those bitch-ass painful years. And if middle school was the absolute golden years for you, dear reader, get the fuck out. You can only go downhill from the top. That's why I intend to keep climbing and that's why I travel light.

So I seem to have pretty much convinced myself that I should just fuckin' delete all the old shit I don't look at anymore, but what do you think, Internet?

Gentle is a female trait

So during dinner, Dad told me to be a 'little gentler. Just in general,' in response to me smacking down the cap on the glass milk bottle. (Yes, we actually get that kind.) I told him he wouldn't appreciate my rationalization.

'Gentler' may make people feel better about themselves, but it tends to not get stuff done. I'm all about getting stuff done.

'Gentle' girls get raped. Well, so do tough girls, but they actually do something about it, as opposed to sitting around in whiny 'support groups' where half the people have worse problems than you do so you wonder why you're even there, and there's always one monopolizer of the conversation that just sucks everyone's benefit right down into their asshole, which they're talking out of. I've been in enough of these. I speak from experience.

'Gentlity' is a feminine trait. Dunno if you've been reading much of this blog, but I am by no means feminine.

Dad would not have appreciated this rationalization. Fragile or not, glass only breaks if you hit the goddamn fault lines. Some people are just fault lines, just points of sheerage. I am tougher than that. I grow scar tissue on my body, on purpose. The only goddamn thing I'm allowed to hit in this house are the bleedin' fruit flies and the goddamn milk bottles! What the shit does that say??

So I've been researching colleges to go to and Brown has this dual-degree program with Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), and I was browsing through the section on Glass, which is about the only thing I'd consider taking classes in, and there were some student videos. One of them was of a dual-degree-program, member, person and he is sexy as hell. He may be like six freakin' years older than me but I do not care. He is the epitome of my definition of sexy. So, Andrew Bearnot, if you're reading this, do not dispair. There are people out there that think your brand of sexy should be illegal because it is so potent. And they will not stalk you. For now.

All right, this embedding thing better work. Do tell me if it doesn't. I'll look like a dork.

(3 attempts later)

Damn. It is not working. All right, go here, http://www.risd.edu/undergraduate/glass/default.aspx and on the right bar, there's a little yellow link saying 'view videos.' Click eet (duh). Scroll down to a dude named Andrew Bearnot. (His little icon has him chewing on the end of his glasses. Guhh, so much sexy!) Gasping and appropriate flailing are required as you attempt not to melt into a puddle of sexy while you watch. Now, go do it.

DO EEET. It will make you smile.

Pretty Good News!

Today is Sunday, the first day back from a trip to Eastern Ohio my family just took. I have decided that I love Akron. It has a multitude of pretty buildings, the drivers aren't crazy, there's orchards you can buy totally organic-y, fresh fruit at within 10 miles of downtown, its zoo is pretty kick-ass, and those bitches down in Rubber City don't care what nobody thinks of em! Also, not nearly so dangerous to cross the street. Twas made of win.

And today, I get a call from my aunt who shall not be named, (damn if she ain't an opinionated bitch) sayin' my cousin wants to talk to meh. Now keep in mind, the last time I saw this cousin, she was... 19? College-age, if not attending, hanging of the arm of a very nice-looking dork-nerd-geek-whatever, (with glasses, I must add with pride. Glasses-kink. I blame 11-year-old Dan Radcliffe. I am absolutely fucking serious about that.) and they came, with her mum and dad, (the dad is very cool, speaks Japanese, and lets all his wife's opinionated bitchery just roll off his back. That's how come they're still married,) to our actual house. You must understand, no one ever comes to our actual house. Seriously. The last time a non-family member, non-UPS/Peapod delivery boy was in our house.... was uhhh... friends of mine. It was my doing, every last time for years, except when the neighbor lady showed up randomly on my birthday, to deliver some extra brownies she had made by accident. She actually had no clue it was my bday. Trufax.

So my cousin comes on and we hem and haw because neither of us are very social or talk a lot, but she does eventually say that she's engaged, to be married in 2010, Memorial Day weekend. I honestly forget which half of the year that is.... around the end of school, I believe. I sure as hell hope it's not around an AP test date because hell, baby, I will be skipping it. 

(tl;dr) I'm going to be a bridesmaid!! Holy fuck, I was all giddy! I've been to exactly two other weddings before in my life - one for my other cousin, on dad's side, when I was like 5, and one for my favorite Social Studies teacher just after 7th grade. So I'm super-psyched. And yes, that is how you spell it. It'll be in some Lutheran chuch on a hill, overlooking the Potomac River. I have no fucking clue where that is, but it's on the east coast and that's damn close enough to NYC for me. I'm living there, eventually. You know? Find me there. Someday.

So yeah, yay for that. Now we gotta save up more fuckin' money to make that trip. Fun. Love you lots. Later!~

The Television

It has completely broken. This is worth noting on the annals of the internet because our fucking TV is seriously about 8 years old. It's the olde-tymie box type - like our computer screen was before the computer fucking broke and we got a new one. I mean, the old one's sitting right at my left, unplugged in. Damn, I wish we could hook the old keyboard back up. This one, is so much fail. It sticks less than the Mac keyboards at school, but effing hell, man, that's the only part about it that's any better. And I hate Macs. So that's a real fucking insult, keyboard. Oh yeah. What now? Take it like a man!!

Hrrmm. So now, at some point, we'll replace our TV with  one that's flat, like this computer screen. Sweetness.

Oh, and the growling of the dish washer upstairs reminds me - the main motor drive shaft thingy in that appliance is also broken. So the repair man dude who came to fix it basically said - you can replace it now (it's 4/5 the cost of a new machine) or you can wait till it just totally fucking breaks and dies. Oh, and it's gonna get louder and louder until it decides to croak. Guess which option we picked? Yep, Number 2. So now it growls at us when ever it's on, basically. And my parents have decided tis better to run the fucking thing at night so we aren't annoyed by it during the day. Oh, yes, impeccable logic there.

Anyway, it seems like 2008-2009 was like, the year of stuff breaking, in our house, and in the larger world economy. Coincidence?? Even Rorschach might be inclined to believe so. I'm not that crazy. I'm not!

A School Where All There Was, Was Play


Sudbury Valley School. I read about it today in an article in my shrink's office's copy of Psycology Today. I rifled through the People and Good Housekeeping magazines because the last time I picked one up, it had a dominatrix on the cover. The cover story was weird sexual proclivities. The basic premis of that article had been, If you don't think it's a problem (mentally), then it probably isn't.

This article, about chaos in a school and a democratic process that involved 4-year-olds and 17-year-olds equally was fascinating. I just looked it up to post the link on this entry, and I'm reading it and I'm thinking, Good god, I'd love a place like that. Doing whatever the fuck I wanted and call it learning. There was a vignette from a boy there about the virtues of concentrating while riding a unicycle. If I went there, I would dance and dance and dance and read about fiber optics and ask someone to help me build a radio and build like, ten radios and figure out how each one worked and I'd read soooo much mythology and gay sex I'd print out from the internetz. I might save rollerblading till I got home, unless I could get some kids together and teach a lesson to em. I'd spend a day with the table saw and a long piece of wood, slicing it up into tiny bits and then staring at the tiny bits until I found some wood glue and made like a statue or something. I'd read all the books in the library. They had a picture of a room they were holding a conference in, and it was wall-to-wall books, just barely interrupted by a door. I would do... so much. And I'd go to their little creek and like, fish. Yeah, I'd have time, there wasn't anything more important to do, right? I'd just fuckin' fish. And I'd sing while I melted a tube of glass over a Bunsen burner, just like the Chemistry classes have. I wouldn't be very good at singing, tho, if I went there. Singing isn't something I'm gonna do for the rest of my life, but I'm decent now. Despite what my sister says.

(Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could make up a fantasy world in my head where I would roller-skate between rooms and yell "whoo-hoo" like a fuckin' maniac and dance like crazy to mah tunes and...yeah, do shit with glass and table saws and maybe I'd get better at sewing. I'm not too good at sewing. It'd be a bit escapist for me, but it could be like a fake journaling project, for maybe a month or something. Say I did whatever I felt like that day (God, this keyboard's fucking squeaky) and feel a fake sense of accomplishment. Like having a sparkling clean house in one's dreams and feeling accomplished the next day.)

Then I woke up.

I realized that there are no deadlines hanging over my head. It's summer, dumbass. I could go watch a movie once every fucking week if I felt like it. I have a once-weekly voice lesson to keep me in shape for choir next year (which I have to wake up early for tomorrow - gaahh!!), I can't roller-skate right now because of this huge scab on my knee - I can't fucking bend it!! - but there is no shit stopping me from dancing and dancing and dancing, outside or in my room, or in the fucking family room - there's space down there! (Damn, fucking massage chair ain't plugged in - could use it right now!) There's no shit stopping me from reading mythology at the library, or bringing that shit home - there's no shit stopping me from going outside to play, once my fucking knee heals. Play with a hula-hoop or a huge ball we got. Ain't no shit stopping me from just buying an AP textbook and reading the whole fucking thing - rereading only what I found interesting. No shit stopping me from wearing that dress I bought, tomorrow.

That's a pretty painful realization; it's all my fucking fault that I'm not doing any of that. Yes, a place like Sudbury would facilitate that - make it easier - but I can still do all of that shit, on my fucking own.

There's no room to play down here right now. It's so full of stuff. There's hardly room to breathe. Tapes and puzzles and chairs and fuckin RASIN BOXES cover the floor. I'm trying to move the unneeded shit out of my room, but it's slow going, strangely. It's that maleasian curse - plenty causes its own sickness of the heart. Grr, there's nothing I can do about it now, is there? It's fucking 11:20 at night, and I have to wake up at around 9 tomorrow, and I used to wake up at 6 in the fucking morning, but there's nothing to keep me awake anymore. If I wake up at 6, I fall asleep again till like 9:30. Because there's nothing to do, ya know?

Imagine how awesome it'll feel (once I'm healed) to get up at fucking 7 am again, eat breakfast and hop on my bike and bike for a whole fucking hour. And come home before anyone woke up. I keep wanting to go down to the park and play my recorder because no one and everyone could hear. And I want to go to Ravinia. And-- woah. I totally had an idea I've never had before. Have lunch, with a friend. Like, go out and get em at like 11am, go to Potbelly's and eat lunch. Talk, go home at like, 1pm. Hell, I could ask anyone to do that. Should start with Jo.
He'd like that. Or, even not that invested. Like, ask em to just be somewhere by a certain time, and they go home on their fucking own. You realize, person reading this, that I've never done anything like that before. Damn mother's influence. Everything has to be planned to the gills. Oh, to live in New York City. See? This damn school idea has me dreaming. It's that sort of Zen malease that marks having all your wishes granted and finding that it's not exactly like you imagined. Nothing'll ever be. The way to live, is to accept that. And since my scab has now dried over appropriately, it'll probably withstand a shower. Good. I haven't had a proper one in a week and a half. Love you, anon.

Forget Mondays, Sundays are made of fail!

Apparently, everyone in my freaking house is depressed today, me included! And I went an a massive, 2-hour walk <i>in the fucking rain!!</i> So then I was soaked. God, it is so hard to make capital letters on this goddamn new keyboard! Honestly, tho, that's not the worst thing that's bothering me. I have to read 5 chapters of Frankenstein and annotate it somehow, and write an outline for an essay on a book we already <b>finished.</b> Seriously, bitch should make up her mind! Are we reading one book or the other? Oh, and it's raining.

I know it's no fun for people to read about other people's lives of fail, but it helps the writer, yes? Plus, I got turned down, again, by a guy who didn't want to date me. Prolly shouldn't have <i>told</i> him so fucking early why I was still hanging around, but I'm one of those people who are able to be consoled for what they did do rather than for what they never did. Angsting over the embarrassment is better than angsting over the what-ifs. Still makes me want to cry even though I really haven't yet. No point. We're gonna stay friends. I wonder, tho, if I'll get another chance with that guy, now that he knows consiously why I'm talking with him at lunch and stuff. I was just getting so tired of him saying how hot some of these other girls were! I'm not that terrible, am I? But I see him as a lot more my equal - I don't think I would be taking advantage of him to work on him slowly. Sounds bad, doesn't it? But it worked on the last few. Friends first kind of thing. I just felt, like, threatened by all these other girls, who, if his last few tries on them are any indication, see him as like a little brother! I don't, and I just wanted to let him know that. But, hell, if he doesn't want to, I guess it's on to the next one. Maybe these adult's dating tips aren't the best for a minor. I mean, I'm a werid teenager, but I'm just getting so tired of doing this shit! I want it to just be easy, for the right person to just fall into my lap (doesn't everyone?) and I'd be willing to be patient with them, but I'm just tired of going out and getting more and more people, like some kind of carnival game. Like those hit-the-stack-of-bottles games. Except you have to go hunt thru the entire park for the balls and there's not hints or clues or gurantee they'll still be there and someone else hasn't taken them while you've been looking, too! And then you have to take them and try to get them to play your damn game and some of them are just not going to do that, and some will and then just sort of fail.... it's enough to make you just want to go off the deep end.

I'm not pissed right now, no, but I'm willing to bite off the head of the next person to come by and annoy me. I feel all drained and empty and I just want everyone in the house to be gone, and no, idiot, I do not want to go swimming, why would I? I'm already all wet from walking in the fucking rain! And I hate showers! Well, most of the time. About twice a week. That's it. And geez, it's only like 1 in the afternoon! I think I'ma go watch Dark Knight again... hope that'll make me feel better.

Basically, yes. I come out of hiding and fangirly denial in order to inform you all (whoever you are) that somewhere, out on the internetz, is someone with a lot of patience and a rather political sense of humor. You all knew this. Duh. But, perhaps you did not know how one with such a sense of humor could relate this to the recent Batman movie, The Dark Knight. (I'm using my fake-ass announcer voice right now, can you tell?) Well, ladies and gentlemen, you shall wonder no more! And all that was basically a very wordy introduction to this video -- right here!! At this link!! ..... Hello? Link? That's your cue? (Where'd I put the damn thing... Ah, here it is!) Ahem, introducing, YouTube linkage. I did in no way make this thing. I have not the software requireds.


Prewatching of the movei is not required for a few minutes (almost wrote win-ets) of amusement and one or two of thought.

(no freakin subject)

Oh, lord, and I was going to write about something and I completely forgot... I do that a lot. It's my dad's birthday today, for all those who care. Forget it. I did forget. I mean, I could rant about the annoyances of living with a sibling with Asperger's Syndrome (spell check is no help with that word), I could write about the futility of attempting to find any good slash of children's animated movies (don't ask), I could write about the quest for my own identity as determined by the amount of books I read, the futility of defining myself as a genius because I simply don't have the IQ for it but I'm close, about how I don't actually do things in my spare time, I think them, about how some of the best damn shit I've ever read was written by people who didn't major in English, indeed, take any literature courses at all? Some of the best shit I've ever read is most likely written by middle-aged, white, suburban housewives (not, however, people that bear any intellectual resemblence to my mother) or teenaged, white, suburban perverts (who actually do resemble myself). Actually, I have no idea if they're all white. I'm just using the heteronormative, excuse my simplistic measures. I could write about the strange magneticism of self-injury that compels me to latch my damn fingernails into my freakin neck everytime I read a sex fic (Jesus lordy, if anyone I know ever finds this blog, they'd be horrified. Well, so would a lot of people I don't know, so no biggie) as well as chew relentlessly on the inside of my mouth for the past 2 and half hours... Sorry, italics are me trying to remind myself that doing that is not a good thing, per se. Things that freak out my shrink are not to be shared out loud. Amusingly, those topics mostly consist of self-inury or glorification of violence in the media that makes me laugh. She had such a weird reaction to me wanting to see The Dark Knight, talking about how all it really consists of (her husband went to see it, apparently, not she herself) "finding new and inventive ways to kill people," was her exact quote. God, it was so much more. Mmmnn... (ruminates on the absolutely steaming sex scenes she's read about those two.) Yeah, lord, it's so funny, in English class, my teacher, right? Well, she has this, this sort of verbal tick, I guess you could call it, where she never actually comes out and says what she's talking about, and I have one other friend that reads M rated fanfiction in that class and I was shooting glances at her all period while the teacher was talking, saying stuff about the more 'risque' of the Canterbury Tales (The Wife of Bath one was pretty good, fit with my favorite definition of the perfect man), which my English-majoring mother confirmed had Middle-English swears and probably very short but rather graphic sex scenes in it, (but she'd never admit that last one) and I was laughing the whole damn time because I've read shit that would make her eyes bleed. Would actually make a number of my classmate's eyes bleed too, but mostly because it's all pretty much man-on-man, not because of the content. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if these old fuddys ever knew what porn was. It's much more accessible these days because of teh Internetz but, c'mon. I've read stories in parenting books (trying to make up the difference myself) where the 50-something, older than my parents, but just barely, mentions running to the mailbox for the women's underwear section in the Sears catalog, and how "even that was probably 10 times more tame than what you find on 'family hour' tv shows today." (direct quote, my apologies to the copyright holdings of Dr. Michael Bradley) Mmmm, and I'm really feeling like cutting my hair, all shaggy and greasy like the Joker's, to be just as short (currently, it touches to about halfway down my shoulderblades when not in a ponytail, as it almost perpetually is these days), just as choppy, as ratty. Spur of the moment kind of thing. Oh, do excuse me, would you? I've just had some inspiration for a cut-version of a college-admissions-application essay. Wanna read it? Do go ahead!

They tell me it has to be unique. It has to be memorable. Even if they just glance at it, it has to stick out. If that were the case, I would write in BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS, the kind John Hancock used on his signature of the Declaration of Independence. Such a maligned document. Whoops, that wasn't a complete sentence. Technically, neither is this one.

Heheh, those are the kind of mistakes in the programming the system isn't supposed to catch, shouldn't weed out if it works perfectly. A perfect machine does put out exactly what it gets in. Only something alive can do this. Only the things that contain that extra, possibly spiritual, spark of the God particle can ever hope to be perfect. Only that particle of motion can ever give a 'machine' that extra motivation to give back what it gets, to carry out justice, karma, compassion. Whatever the buzzword of the moment is for it (peace, maybe?), the underlying concept is the same. The motivation, the drive all living things feel to put in that extra effort to live in harmony with their surroundings, never killing more than they can eat, never eating more than they need (give or take a few percentage points for winter hibernation). However, this inborn harmonic instinct has been twisted in the human animal, leading them to keep their mouths shut in undesirable company, instead of throwing the invader bodily out of their lives, as they would have done if they still lived as nomads, as tribes.

The extra effort put in during all of recorded history has been the same. Animals still eat grass, then get eaten, who in turn biodegrade and turn back into grass, if they don't get eaten first. In turn, all hunters become the feed. Humans still put in the extra, needed effort to be perfect machines, every one of us does, but the problem now lies in our environment. The effort we put in is to conform, not to live. To survive, not to thrive. To go with the flow, not consciously give back. This has to stop. It is absolutley not good for the real, tangible natural environment, as any given ecological survey will reveal, but worse still, it is absolutley not good for humans as a species. Imperfect machines - this is what we still see ourselves as. This is mainly because the balancing act we attempt to strike between work and play, between physical and social health, is an unnatural, if admirable, effort. We were never meant to conform. We were meant to subsist, and in such, live in perfect harmony, as all other animals, fungi, plants, and other assorted organisms have done for all eternity before us. Even the Earth herself has gone through periods of unprecedented and unrepeated ecologic disasters, from millenia of ice ages to tropics at the South Pole. We as humans do not deserve to upset this balance, this perfection of taking and giving in one fell swoop.

There should be no balance between work and play. There should only be play, all of it beneficial, to some organism or other, even if just to the whims of the moment. There should be no biting of tongues. Every human has a right to be different. Every zebra looks alike to us, every bat's cry the same, but the parents of these animals can distinguish instantly. There's a right that ought to have been phrased a bit more clearly in the US Constitution - every human on this earth has a right to be different, and not even due process of law can take that away. That would have shot a few holes through the plot of A clockwork Orange! Of course, that novel wasn't set in the New World. Neither, however, was it concieved in a vaccum. Nothing ever is. The underlying question, the underlying theme, the succint thesis of the entire universe created in that one work can be summarized, as I saw it just a few days ago, on one teenager's backpack, in a short question: By forcing people to be good, are they?

The intensive drug-and-aversion therapy regimine of Alec's is hardly any different than what we as consumers (not human beings) endure at the hands of law courts, local villiage ordinances and unwitting educators. There is hardly any way to quantify the sheer amount of social subjugation all humans go through from a very early stage in development. Of course, parts of this training were essential to our species' survival over a hundred thousand years ago - how to crawl, walk, and run, progressively, how to use sight and taste and smell to tell a good bush from a bad one, how to override the fight-or-flight instinct to remain completely still in the face of edible danger (in the form of, perhaps, a lion). A good deal later, the training to talk, the training to laugh, even, was considered vital to all who wanted to survive. Back to the good ol' days, huh?

Things were so much more simplistic back then, and there are times that all men long for it - in essence, a time when the prevailing social norm consisted of "do whatever the hell gets your rocks off and try to stay alive in the process". There is not a man or woman on earth that does not occassionally wish for the unparalleled freedom to do whatever the first thing that crosses their mind happens to be. It's amusing, this one quote I read: "Character is revealed by what we do when we're sure we won't be found out." It's amusing because it's completely false. All humans but a select few would kill another human if there was a complete guarantee that they wouldn't be tied to the crime scene, that they wouldn't even be considered as perpetrators. All humans but a few would do unspeakably evil things if there was no social retribution at all. These select few would be mostly stopped, if such a situation were to arise, by the hounding conscience and their sense of morals - still agents of social control in the basest sense since all morals are indoctrinated - in prisons, in countries undergoing violent, bloody revolutions, the social norm suddenly tends to accept physical violence as part of the moral side of the code. A select few, however, will never their morals change.

These people are, of course, the ones that are idolized - the ultimate, Westerized ideal of triumph of the mind over the body. It is such a farce. There is no mind. There is no soul. Both are claims I could back up with a long-winded Buddhism-centered discourse, which I may still do at some point in the distant future, perhaps when I can be paid for it, but it is my belief that if one can see the inherent truth in the words, even if their conscious refuses to acknowledge it, if they see it at all, then they can be saved. If they cannot, there is no point. Their minds are not ready to accept the fact that there may actually be nothing within that self-proclaimed seat of intelligence, the brain, that resembles a mind at all. Oh, of course there's a physical brain organ, of course there are patterns that become ingrained into it and change its shape, but the only reason this higher consciousness exists at all is so that that mind can recognize that there is something larger than itself, a Greater Force that must be allowed to work through us as people if we are ever to become perfect machines again. The 'vicious' animals that humans 'domesticated', so to speak, need no mystical, mysterious mind-concept in order to do what creates balance in the world. It is simply a matter of humans having strayed so far from their intended path, over the course of the millenia before us, that the Greater Force slowly developed in us the capacity to recognize that which we do not understand, and to accordingly respect it. What we haven't, as a species, quite come to realize is that we don't need to revere and pray to some archaic, paternal God figure in the sky; we need only look into our own heads, observe our own thoughts, to see the Mastery at work, all around us.

In order to restore the natural order, that Force gave us the capacity to wonder. After all, it is the ability to know exactly what is that he does not know that separates the most hopeless of fools from the wisest ones. Because in the end, all of us are fools, so blind to the truth standing plainly right in front of our noses. Our humongous, overdeveloped brains get in the way. We just can't see, anymore, the way things truly are. And that goes for just about every human on the planet.