Restructured to make a little more sense.  Still haven't gone chronological, though.  Everything that has been added in this iteration of the compendium has (new) next to it.  Six (new)'s under non-fiction and five (new)'s under other.  So, eleven entries worth putting on the revised compendium.  The last time I did one of these was about this time last year.  Not a good sign.

Non-fiction Stories(with no organization whatsoever):
(new)You're Creepy, Hunter - A girl tells me I am creepy.  I get even.

(new)Phoenix - I don't think I am supposed to write about something that is supposed to be anonymous.  Oh well.

(new)Strange Format - Saturday Show   -  Seriously the strangest format or lack thereof I have ever used.  Almost like a poem.  I've bad luck and things get out of hand.

(new)Graham's 21st Birthday - "No, dude, we're walking home.  It's like two blocks."

(new)Dead Cicada - A woman is assaulted while holding her child.  I intercede.

(new)A Warning - First Friday's in Richmond!

Salvia Gets Too Real - Fourth and worst trip on Salvia.

The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen - Imagine this next scene.  Try to visualize it with me.  My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep.  My legs and waist are moist. . .

Drunk People - An interesting twist-- I'm not drunk in this story. For once in my life.

Black and Mild - I'll miss drinking with friends on top of the roof at my old apartment.  I will miss that Mediterranean market, with its natural soaps and cheap spices.  I will miss all those families who called the cops on me when I played music too loud on Monday nights.  Ahh

Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere - In The Top Five Drunkest Nights

Pissing in Pools I & II - My double standard on people who pee in pools.

A Retelling of the First Time I Smoked

A Trip To Walmart - Seriously one of the best destinations while high.  Interesting, entertaining, sometimes a little creepy.

To Move My Body - When reality sinks in, when you think you've got nothing, you become psychic, telepathic, and shameless. This story has procession of Segways!

The Things I Remember - I somehow wake up at 2PM in my dorm, still drunk from the night before.  A rough bus ride does me in.

Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer - Pretty self explanatory.

A Tucker Emulation, It Seems - The very first story I wrote.

Handcuffed, Robbed, and 6 O'clock Rush - Pretty self-explanatory.  Breakfast club.

Hunter Gets High, Driving Barely Ensues - I get high, and drive.  Sort of.

Lebanese: A "Nice Guy" Failure - Nine Guys, One Girl.  I get the girl and ride off into the sunset(upstairs), but turn out to be a "nice guy."

JMU, PART I - The first and, since, only time I have been breathalyzed.  There is no part II.  Part II would be better though, as it includes doing mushrooms, a starving French guy, five plus parties, nearly getting run over, really drunk chicks with australian accents, and BLOODHOUNDS.  But this story has none of that.

THE WEEKEND - A three day bender, with a decadent interlude of cheating debauchery.  All set to the soundtrack of the very trite Garden State. 

Bloody in '08 - A New Year story, complete with someone who attempts to smash a full, unopened champagne bottle over his head.

Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning -- This story is far too long to hold your attention.  Do not read it.

Short(or long) Stories(Fiction):

Saint Dympna - My favorite.

The Sink at Sunset - Guy has mobile home of a heart.  This is life at 20.

Shells - My drug induced interpretation of the scramble suits in A Scanner Darkly caused this short.  Later turned into a short fiction piece (for a class) called Mise en Place or The Writer.

Nine-Tenths is Nothing - Our children are here to replace us.  One man attempts to slow this process by proving he is better than them and protecting his wife from kid perverts. 

The Last Boat to the Disappearing - A seven vignette fiction piece about flaming zombies.  As much as I wish I had written them gay, they are actually on fire.

Story Starter Exercise - A brief story about a friend who got kicked up and did a lot of drugs while living in the woods.
 

Other:
(new)At The Edge of The Neighborhood - Vivid zombie dream.

(new)Shut Down or Reset - Up late? Two options.  Special bonus feature: scene from this year's Best Friends Day @ Hadad's

(new)A Haiku - About a day I spent at the river getting drunk with someone I didn't know.  She was taken and I fell and cut myself on a rock.  Then there is a sexual allegory at the end.  There, I ruined it.

(new)My First Near-Ticket on a Bicycle

(new)Autumn - The Greatest and Best Time of Year

Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? - Thoughts after the fire.

Janus - Girl cheats on me.  Girl dies in short story Sink at Sunset.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part I  -- I test my voice recorder during a toking session.  Heavy on the dialogue.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part II -- The better half of the overall recording experience.  A lot of in depth high conversation. 

Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly - Probably one of the more significant events in the history of my online writing.

Under a Hot Chicago Sun - I didn't even know my neighbors name.

H-D-P-E Does Not Spell "Hope"  -  Recycling is hopeful.  I am not.

It Is Only Hubris If I Fail - Childhood with a heavy dose of failure, sprinkled with Sloane Crosley.

Sick Dream D.A.N.C.E. - Dreams are fun.  Dreams about partying and religious fanatics that all have the same face... strange.  Sick dreams are most disturbing.

Rape, Tacos, and Love - I get raped, noticed for my writing at a party, have sex for the first time high, eat really good tacos, and listen in on a nasty girl shit.

Tainted Elephant Oil Prices Dowsed in Sickly-Sweat-Stained Dreams - More sick dreams, musings on family life and relationships.

Zombie Christ Day

Metal Shows - Are awesome.  Especially when you know the band.  Even if it's at a lame venue. 

Derelict Father, Are We the Cause of Our Suffering?

Shit's Run Its Course - I inherit a bike from a metal head who stole it from a crack head.

The Bear, The Bee, The Rhino - I connect with mother nature, understand things I never thought possible.

Night Luck - I have only gotten in trouble with the law when sober.  Sobriety really takes the spine out of me.

Condom Debacle - A young Hunter hides a partially used condom in duct-tape.

Jesus Freaks - I lament about my hatred for street-preachers.  This is a Facebook classic.

Bloody Knuckles - It wasn't a game that gave me these.

Diphenhydramine - The first time I ever tripped on a deliriant.

Bulgarians are Hardcore - Intoxicated 5 times the lethal limit, this Bulgarian gets hit by a car and sent to the hospital for minor head trauma.

A Little Funny and The Encroaching

Sunchips? - Do you know why they call them sunchips?

LIRICKES -  The funniest rap "lirickes" you'll read all week.

The Binary Universe and How Choice Works  -  With diagrams and shit.

Poems - A little too sing-songy.

Soundscape - High times.

The Nature of Souls and Soulmates - Got a decent response for this one.

Scanner Darkly and the Universe as a Vague Set of Prepositions

Demon Play, Demon Out - Your shoes are not an extension of anything that matters to your person.

Clocked Out - A New Year - 2007.  Some things get better, other things are mentioned less.

New - I miss writing.

This is a collection of things I have written that I think are at least half worth putting back up.  Since last I did one of these, I have added two short stories and maybe ten other forms of writing.  With 19 solid "Stories,"  7 short fiction pieces, and over 25 others, I would like to think that what I do for enjoyment is steadily becoming something I could do for money.  Years down the road, that is.  Enjoy.

STORIES(with no organization whatsoever):
Salvia Gets Too Real - Fourth and worst trip on Salvia.

The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen - Imagine this next scene.  Try to visualize it with me.  My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep.  My legs and waist are moist. . .

Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning -- It turns out that drinking in the dorms is a bad plan.  But, for me, I have a great night, only to have it ruined by a morning hangover and the loss of my license. 

Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere - In The Top Five Drunkest Nights

JMU, PART I - The first and, since, only time I have been breathalyzed.  There is no part II.  Part II would be better though, as it includes doing mushrooms, a starving French guy, five plus parties, nearly getting run over, really drunk chicks with australian accents, and BLOODHOUNDS.  But this story has none of that.

Pissing in Pools I & II - My double standard on people who pee in pools.

To Move My Body - When reality sinks in, when you think you've got nothing, you become psychic, telepathic, and shameless. This story has procession of Segways!

Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer - Pretty self explanatory.

Drunk People - An interesting twist-- I'm not drunk in this story. For once in my life.

A Tucker Emulation, It Seems - The very first story I wrote.

The Things I Remember - I somehow wake up at 2PM in my dorm, still drunk from the night before.  A rough bus ride does me in.

Handcuffed, Robbed, and 6 O'clock Rush - Pretty self-explanatory.  Breakfast club.

Hunter Gets High, Driving Barely Ensues - I get high, and drive.  Sort of.

Lebanese: A "Nice Guy" Failure - Nine Guys, One Girl.  I get the girl and ride off into the sunset(upstairs), but turn out to be a "nice guy."

A Trip To Walmart - Seriously one of the best destinations while high.  Interesting, entertaining, sometimes a little creepy.

A Retelling of the First Time I Smoked

THE WEEKEND - A three day bender, with a decadent interlude of cheating debauchery.  All set to the soundtrack of the very trite Garden State. 

Rape, Tacos, and Love - I get raped, noticed for my writing at a party, have sex for the first time high, eat really good tacos, and listen in on a nasty girl shit.

Bloody in '08 - A New Year story, complete with someone who attempts to smash a full, unopened champagne bottle over his head.

Short(or long) Stories(Fiction):

Nine-Tenths is Nothing - Our children are here to replace us.  One man attempts to slow this process by proving he is better than them and protecting his wife from kid perverts. 

Saint Dympna - My favorite.

The Sink at Sunset - Guy has mobile home of a heart.  This is life at 20.

Shells - My drug induced interpretation of the scramble suits in A Scanner Darkly caused this short.  Later turned into a short fiction piece (for a class) called Mise en Place or The Writer.

The Last Boat to the Disappearing - A seven vignette fiction piece about flaming zombies.  As much as I wish I had written them gay, they are actually on fire.

Solipsism - A creation story.  A story with Robots and Gods and space battles.  A story with a twist.  A story that kind of sucks, but has novelty.

Story Starter Exercise - A brief story about a friend who got kicked up and did a lot of drugs while living in the woods.
 

Some others:

Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? - Thoughts after the fire.

Janus - Girl cheats on me.  Girl dies in short story Sink at Sunset.

Black and Mild - I'll miss drinking with friends on top of the roof at my old apartment.  I will miss that Mediterranean market, with its natural soaps and cheap spices.  I will miss all those families who called the cops on me when I played music too loud on Monday nights.  Ahh

Under a Hot Chicago Sun - I didn't even know my neighbors name.

H-D-P-E Does Not Spell "Hope"  -  Recycling is hopeful.  I am not.

It Is Only Hubris If I Fail - Childhood with a heavy dose of failure, sprinkled with Sloane Crosley.

Sick Dream D.A.N.C.E. - Dreams are fun.  Dreams about partying and religious fanatics that all have the same face... strange.  Sick dreams are most disturbing.

Tainted Elephant Oil Prices Dowsed in Sickly-Sweat-Stained Dreams - More sick dreams, musings on family life and relationships.

Zombie Christ Day

Metal Shows - Are awesome.  Especially when you know the band.  Even if it's at a lame venue. 

Derelict Father, Are We the Cause of Our Suffering?

Shit's Run Its Course - I inherit a bike from a metal head who stole it from a crack head.

The Bear, The Bee, The Rhino - I connect with mother nature, understand things I never thought possible.

Night Luck - I have only gotten in trouble with the law when sober.  Sobriety really takes the spine out of me.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part I  -- I test my voice recorder during a toking session.  Heavy on the dialogue.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part II -- The better half of the overall recording experience.  A lot of in depth high conversation. 

Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly - Probably one of the more significant events in the history of my online writing.

Jesus Freaks - I lament about my hatred for street-preachers.  This is a Facebook classic.

Bloody Knuckles - It wasn't a game that gave me these.

Diphenhydramine - The first time I ever tripped on a deliriant.

Bulgarians are Hardcore - Intoxicated 5 times the lethal limit, this Bulgarian gets hit by a car and sent to the hospital for minor head trauma.

A Little Funny and The Encroaching

Sunchips? - Do you know why they call them sunchips?

LIRICKES -  The funniest rap "lirickes" you'll read all week.

The Binary Universe and How Choice Works  -  With diagrams and shit.

Poems - A little too sing-songy.

Soundscape - High times.

The Nature of Souls and Soulmates - Got a decent response for this one.

Condom Debacle - A young Hunter hides a partially used condom in duct-tape.

Scanner Darkly and the Universe as a Vague Set of Prepositions

Demon Play, Demon Out - Your shoes are not an extension of anything that matters to your person.

Clocked Out - A New Year - 2007.  Some things get better, other things are mentioned less.

New - I miss writing.

The island is a huge rock with grass and trees on it.  I make an effort to be alone here, to take trails that are overgrown.  I walk narrow paths above a quarry to avoid other people. 

I sat out there, legs crossed, the hard earth pushing up against my ass, supporting me.  Cradled by nature, thinking, "what should I do?"
I sat there and waited for a reply.  None came.
    Everything was so small, and yet, so big.  The bank, with grass hair and root veins hanging over the edge--bees hovering through that tiny landscape.  I realized something.  I'm not sure what, though. The sun splashing on my retinas, several purple blotches appeared on my vision.  In my state, I saw the formation of eyes, a jaw, and nostrils.  The face of a bear stretched upon closed eyelids, and I had my answer. My vision was formed through delusional extrapolations of nature. Of natural phenomena.  I, like the simple bear, am no different than my surroundings.  That word, even, surround, to encompass, seems false because of the Bear.  I was the "surrounding."  
The "transparent eye."

    I remember the point of recording this thought was to "be."  Just.  And experience all of the things nature can communicate.  Even your very thoughts, your total sum of experiences effected and effecting.  Inseperable.  I came here to ask nature what I should do.  I should do what this rock behind me does.  It's huge, it's massive.  Like a rhino. Not one on TV.  Right in your face.  A huge stone rhino that could carelessly roll over you at any minute, conjuncting your weak frame and internal organs to squish and splinter, snap. Just be.  Experience.
 Enjoy.
 Suffer.
Every capacity maxed.

The awful, throaty, high-pitched metal bone scrape sound of the train on the mainland screeches.  This is the sound Christians here when you use their lord's name in vain.  Why is using the Christian Savior's name in vain a violation of universal rule?  I mean, there are laws to this universe, but that? 

I don't get it.  I guess that's why I do.

I would like express some views on "Free Will" before opening this up for discourse.  Comment as you please.

    Free will cannot exist.  Free will is the idea that we, human beings, with our limited minds, can exert some sort of power over this universe.  This is false.  We can build, we can create, but to think of ourselves as separate, or unique in some capacity for doing these things-- absurd.  There is no external force, no driving divinity behind our actions. 
    Nothing is external, nothing supernatural. 
    Of course we have our tiny conceptions locked away in some vault, encapsulated in some secluded shell.  This does not make us separate.  The idea that we are separate comes from the idea, the concept, of "I," which is somehow supernatural and removed as a part of our consciousness' dim awareness of the mind and the body. 

    The universe is natural.  What isn't?  It is as if someone asked, "what is nothing?" Well, you reply, nothing is not is.  Not a what.  To even express nothing makes it something.  Something natural.  The delineation here is between concept and reality.  For concept is a result of reality, tied inexorably to its effects.  If nothing exists, it is something.   For me, "nothing" is the closest idea or concept that captures the essence of supernatural.  Supernatural is something we assign, not something that really is. 
    "Everything," an expressed concept I consider somewhere close to reality, is based on natural law.  Because "everything," the whole-thing, the complete-thing, is natural, we must be natural.  Based on the whole.  Not the one.  Many think of the universe as a one, but I say one implies two.  And three.  It implies .5  and 256.  A number implies reference to other numbers.  This is not the case with saying "whole" or "the everything."  These terms are all inclusive.

    If we are a part, indistinguishable from the whole, how can we have free will.  Yes, we have input.  Yes, we cause, create.  We are also output.  Reaction.  Created.  Caused.  Free will cannot exist.  This does not discourage me, at all, for "I" am whole of whole.  This screen, these fingers, this mind, separate only in concept.  This encourages me more than anything, and reaffirms confidence in the unknown and known.  In the perceived.  In the way.  I cannot understand why people desperately need to believe that they are alone, apart, and separate.

HERE IS THE ARTICLE THAT CAUSED THIS ENTRY: Brain Scanner Predicts Thought
Has a lot to do with readiness potential, and mentions the power to veto.  This experiment improves upon Libet's, who they mention.

In the sixth grade we read a story about two kids who were educated by the home robot.  It was a fixed program, and taught them everything they "needed" to know.   The story always made me think of my third grade classroom.  In my mind, the kids learned in there.  So, I got to thinking recently, because I believe that clear, sometimes vague, memories effect the person you are in the moment, that I imagined this story a certain way for a reason.  Perhaps, deep in my mind, that classroom represented a vapid, robotic emotion.  Something heartless and fixed.  Something set forth by a series of rules and not by emotion.  Something designed.  By someone else and not the teacher. 

This has a lot to do with how I feel about the school system in general.  It is so very limited. . .

I, Superior
    There are five kids that hang out with my son.  My wife makes them cookies, drives them to the movies, and all the while they ogle at her.  That's right, my wife is the MILF that your twelve year old sons would like to fuck.  And then there's me, the husband-- protective of my wife from your little perverts.  This is a fight to the death, and only I will leave victorious. 
    Her love and attention will always be mine and never their's for a reason-- I am bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, and better looking. 
    I go to the gym.
    I do taxes.
    They just play on playgrounds.
    They chase girls, like little men.  Little kids dressed up in adult clothes.  Big shoes to fill, and they're trying so hard.  So hard to get the girl.  To get my wife.  But I'll always be better than them.  The silly legal system is trying to help them though, giving me a restraining order.  I guess parents don't appreciate having their kids punted across the playground. 
    Before it gets to that point, I should explain myself.
    I'm really not that mean to kids.  They're usually great, most times.  I just-- I should explain them first.

    My wife, Rene, she is wonderful.   When we got married, it was as if the universe was finally in order.  All forces driving this reality had settled on the idea that, yes, this couple is perfect.  And so it was.  We slowly traveled, living in new environments every few years.
    Portland-- two years.
    Seattle-- one year.
    Paris-- three years. 
    Amsterdam-- two months.  Most of these locations are self-explanatory.  The cities were chosen based on their art communities and how much we could romanticize the area.  The last choice, Amsterdam, was based on a horrible decision to remain fucked-up all the time.   But, two months?  We lived in Amsterdam for only two months?  We got pregnant.  I mean, we got Rene pregnant. 
    We are sitting around in our apartment when she tells me, stoned from hanging out at one of those smoking bars.  Sort of like hookah bars.  Except, in Amsterdam, you're not just using shisha.  Hookah bars in the United States are interesting enough without marijuana.  The whole phenomenon began with returning soldiers from the gulf area.  From the middle-east.  Military popularization.
     "You're pregnant?!" is my only response.  Accompanied by "Shit."  That 0.01 percent chance for birth control to fail really fucked us.  In our drug-addled haze, it took us two months to realize her periods were gone for awhile-- vacationing on some vast biological journey while the kid took control of the body.  Forcing change to come across the face of our lives.  But not just the facade, the real thing changed too.  Everything changed.
    We move back to the United States, this time looking for good schools instead of good art.  Practicality instead of romanticism.  All I'm saying is these little bastards change you.  And two kids, well, they can literally ruin you.

    I first started seeing it in my daughter, the firstborn.  She was the Amsterdam baby.  There are only a select number of drugs she hasn't tried by the age of "newborn."  Needless to say, she's a little off.  When she was seven, she falls asleep on the toilet, and ends up with a minor concussion.  
    Stress Factor: four
    By the age of twelve boys are hitting on her.
    Stress Factor: a rock-hard boner TEN
    I would come home from work and find my daughter on the couch with some boy, the television in front of them-- halfway through a nature show that they were not watching-- her hair messy, his shirt buttoned up all wrong.  The lowest button in the second button slot.  Lopsided colar.  Flushed cheeks. 
    He would leave shortly after, and I'd just mind my business unless the boy was a douche.  Then I'd tell my daughter that and she'd get upset.  Upset as she was at the time of me realizing said douchitude and her not realizing this, she would later come to the same conclusion after hypothetical douche would do something horrible to her.  It was probably just a comment the boy would make, but she cried like it was the end of the world, heartbroken, and I just assumed the worst.
    Maybe he forced her to fellate a banana.  Something stupid that kids would do or get upset over. 
    Maybe he felates bananas.  Only insecure teenagers feel threatened by fierce competition such as inanimate fruit. 
    But I'm not threatened by such nonsense, no, my wife is being fervently pursued by a group of twelve year olds.          Much more cunning than fruit. 
    Not as firmly shaped and sexy, I'd guess, but smarter.  More able.  A fruit can't peel itself, but a child can peel a fruit, if not itself.  But I guess that'd be like carving off your skin, widdling down your outward appearance.  Not to mention the pain of exposed muscle.  The infection and blood loss.
     I don't know which is worse, walking in on your daughter having sex, or knowing twelve year olds want to have sex with your wife.  And it is all my son's fault.  He needs to stop making these friends.

John
    John is our son.  He is the tallest and strongest in his group of friends.  This is not intuitive if you know the Amsterdam background.  You'd figure he'd be a crack baby.  Small and feeble or something.  This is not the case.
    As soon as Rene and I got back to the states, we started this health. . . thing.  I go to the gym now, is what I'm getting at.  I'm not implying that going to the gym and eating well, not doing drugs, that sort of thing, made my son bigger than your son, I'm just straight up saying it to you.
    As strong as John is, I have to stay stronger.  Kids are here to replace us, it's as simple as that.  You have signed your life away to an 18 year contract of education, discipline, and well-being.  After you've poured yourself into it, or it into you, something is missing.  You've lost a part of yourself, having given it to the next stages of mankind. 
   
    Monday is chest excercises.  On my back, pushing fifty-five pounds in each arm, the ceiling lights burn my vision.  In their sick glow, I get those purple blotches that invert color when you blink or hold your eyes shut.  Little ultraviolet globes in the dark-- eyes shut.

    John makes good friends with bad influences.  As a parent, you have to realize you are not the only person raising your kid.  That's what friends are for.  That's what media is for.   And all these sources, they're just part of this big mind, this big collage of ideas and concepts.  And your kid, sitting there watching the advertisements in the middle of a show he runs home from the bus-stop to watch, learns only a certain specification of knowledge.  You have to make that part, the specifications of your child, a priority. 

    Tuesday is arms.  I do curls.  Three sets of ten of thirty pounds for the biceps warm-up.  This is basically toning my body.  It's good to look good.  You can have all the strength in the world and never use it.  At least with toning your body, you're always using it.  Or other people are always using it.  Using your physical appearance, in their mind, to register what you are.  To judge you, to give you some sort of symbol.  Strength without strength.

    John's friends get him to do things.  Not unordinary things, for boys his age, but strange nonetheless.  When he was six, a friend of his smuggled knives out into the playground for the boys, those little men, to use in a game of "Boys Chase Girls."  John ran, chasing them through the grass and sand, the girls screaming and giggling.  John ran with a knife. And subsequently went to the principal's office.  Despite the fact that these were the white-plastic knives that the elementary school provides in the cafeteria, he was in serious trouble.  It's okay to chase girls, they said, just not with weapons.  They were basically saying violence is bad, chasing pussy is okay.  These kids get confused though when, on tv, violence is more prevalent than sex.  A man can nibble people's faces off and wear those faces as masks, but when it comes to simple penetration, they won't show that on TV.  They won't sell that idea.

    Wednesday is hump day.  The week is almost over, but there's still some suffering left in it.  This is why, on Wednesdays, I do the two most painful areas of the body to work(in my opinion): the back and abs.  Aside from your chest, the back and ab muscles are a priority.  Your chest, back, and abs form the basis of your bodily strength.  Without the back to lift, the abs to stabilize, and the chest to push, your frame is nothing more than toned arms and faux-strength.  Without this framework of strength, your body really can't maintain itself.  In the gym, I use the row-machine to help tone my back after I'm done with all the other exercises.  I could be in a boat, but I prefer warm cinderblock landscapes to the dismal cold air of murky waters off of grassy green riverbanks. 

    The same year John got in trouble for chasing girls with a plastic knife, he used another tool to sew havoc.  This time on himself.  I should say he cut havoc, because he was using scissors and not a needle.  Instead of construction paper, John and his friend Tommy had decided to play "Barber Shop Quartet," minus the music.  And minus a big patch of hair in the middle of John's head.  That summer when we went to camp together, you know the kind where you besmurch the Native American people by pretending you are part of a tribe, John's head was buzzed.  It was the only way to fix the damage he had caused himself, and he looked like a little soldier. 

    Thursdays and Fridays are totally miscellaneous exercises.  Forearms, shoulders, aerobic business.  These things get taken care of.  I think to myself about camping with my son.  He always runs off to play with the other sons there.  I think I should take him camping with just me, or with the family.  Maybe it is too late to form those bonds now at twelve.  The last time we pretended to be a part of the Apache tribe, he was ten.  That was two years ago.  Now he's twelve, and still crazy, with crazy friends.  Crazy friends who want to fuck my wife.

    Tommy
    Tommy is my son's role model.  He is two years older than him, at fourteen, and is the source of all my problems.  And the source of my son's first bloody nose.
    This one time, I came home to my son's friend, Tommy, in my bedroom.  My wife on the bed.  His hands on the fringes of her sun dress. 
    It was summer, and Rene likes to sleep in hot weather.  She takes naps.  On this particular day, she was taking a nap while several of the boys were over.  This was a horrible mistake. 
    Tommy, the sneaky and overly paranoid friend of my son's, he has his hands on the fringes of my wife, Rene's, sun dress.  Those sun dresses are very attractive, and I can see why he wanted to investigate, but, it's my wife, and I will kill him.  
    But kids are not afraid of death.  From twelve to the mid-twenty's it is hard for a kid to die, unless by some outside force or unfortunate accident.  It's just that people in this age-range are generally the most healthy.  It takes drunk drivers to snuff out their life.  It takes not getting your meningitis shot before going to college to annihilate their will and/or ability to live. 
    So, kids are not afraid of death.  Tommy is not afraid of death when I come in the room, looming from behind, blocking the doorway. 
    He's a smart kid.  But not smart enough to realize that lifting my wife's dress, and checking out her underwear, is a death warrant, especially for someone I can kill.  Like a fourteen year old, who I could totally smash.  With his scrawny arms, pure baby lungs, and stubby legs not suitable for sprinting to avoid my baseball bat.

    No, he was smart, just not smart enough to realize I could hurt him.  He got what he knows, what he's afraid of, from the news.  He's afraid of convicts escaping.  He's afraid of rabid dogs.  Dogs that can not be contained by fences.  Cujo(?) 

    So I come into the room, see him, and scream, "THE LOCAL PRISON IS ON FIRE, ALL THE CONVICTS HAVE ESCAPED, AND THE POLICE DOGS HAVE GONE MAD, RUN, RUN HOME TOMMY."  This startles my wife into awareness, but sends Tommy the pervert into a piss-soaked dash out of my room. 
    It sucks knowing my son looks up to a kid that has to resort to catching glimpses of underwear under dresses.  She wasn't even wearing her hot black lace underwear. This kid needs the internet.  Some nice amateur video, where the girl says it's her first time, but it's definitely not. 
    It especially sucks for my son, looking up to someone like Tommy.  The kids in the neighborhood are playing hide-'n'-go-seek one night, and John follows Tommy to his hiding spot in the bushes.  When the seeker finally makes his way to the bushes, John and Tommy's eyes peering from within the dark green and brown covering, Tommy bolts.  John follows.  Feeling abandoned, John is in tears. 
    This is, after all, the kid he has always looked up to.  Tommy always hung around when John was little.  Toddlers have a sort of novelty to them, and Tommy was there to wear it thin nearly every day.  He lived right next door.  "Tommiee" was John's first word.
    He grabs for Tommy's shirt.  Feeling the drag, Tommy turns, mid step, into a full blown punch.  Wham! Right into John's nose.  Blood blooms and explodes into the air, his blood black from the darkness of night.
    That night, while icing his face, John tells me he wishes "Tommy" hadn't been his first word.  He wishes he didn't know him at all.  Next week, what do you know, he's friends with him again.
   
    Tommy's voice is like poison to John.  Anything he says is truth.  This absolutely effects John's perception of things.  John came home once from school, the age of six, asking me why I had a vagina.  Then I had to explain what a vagina was and why I didn't have one.  I may be the yin or the yang but I am not the yang or the yin-- the opposite of what I'm supposed to be.

Antiquated
    Rene sits in her car, in a line, on a street-- stopped at the dangling red-eyed box.
    A Bicycler sits on his sodomy-machine of a bicycle seat-- something not meant for his large body-- waiting in front of her, looking awkward.  In an ocean of rolling metal hills, an organic melon of a head, tanned, with shaggy hair sprouting from the top like a plant out of dirt, seems misplaced. 

    This is suburbia.  A place where romanticism and freedom go to die.  A place where jobs mean less than road trips and plane tickets, and more semi-survival skewed competition.  And in this place, real survival is strange.  The forgotten need to simply live remains overshadowed by constant neediness. 

    This poor bastard on the bike looks so strange, with his antiquated, however efficient, technology, and he is thus shunned.  When he's not carpooling with three of his buddies, he's riding his bike to work.  When he's not doing either of those things, he is working.  When he's not working, he's taking night classes-- English as a second language.  He is struggling, trying. 

    The dangling triocular box redirects its power from stop to go, and turns green.  Rene puts her foot against the pedal and accelerates forward.  Right into a Ford Escort that decided to run the red.  Decided.  The extension of itself-- the driver-- decided.  The extension of the driver now lay crumpled in the middle of the intersection.  Lucky for Rene she was driving a much bigger, more robust sort of tank-- her bumper bent, halfway through the windshield of the Escort. 

    Traffic all around comes to an immediate stop as some drivers abandon their motorized husks to check on the accident.  The Bicycler takes advantage of the scene and pedals around the accident, almost as if he doesn't even notice.  He is late for work.

Punted
Things arise and she lets them come;
things disappear and she lets them go.
She has but doesn't possess,
acts but doesn't expect.
-The Tao Te Ching
I walk onto a playground, kicking up dust with each step I take. Left foot, right foot, I could turn around.  Left foot, right foot, I won't back down.  Not now, with the sun in my eyes, the showdown afoot.

    "YOU," I shout, pointing at Tommy. "My wife says you touched her thigh while she was driving, and that's why she wrecked our fucking car!"  He turns and meets my eyes.  "That's right fucker, you're dead."  He starts running and crying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  He is pissing himself.  I catch him and spin him around.  He has flopped his tiny boy penis out and now my face is covered in urine.  He laughs and I punch him in the face, knocking out a tooth.  He crumples to the ground and I punt his body several feet with a swift kick to his side.  He coughs and sputters as he spins through the dust storm we've created. 

    I feel bad now, watching his little body huddled in the fetal position.  His face is bloody and his pants soaked in pee.  
    I am hit in the back of the head with a fast moving baseball and am knocked out.  I wake up in a jail cell.  I feel like an underage kid who wakes up in a hospital from alcohol poisoning-- my first thought is, " I am so fucked."  I am bailed out by my wife who is released from the hospital with a minor concussion and a surprise.  We are pregnant again.  With a daughter and son already, we were set to be replaced in this world.  But now we're just overpopulating.  Rene tells me our son has something he wants to tell me. 

    I go to John and ask him what he wants to tell me.  His bottom lip trembles at the thought of telling me, and he begins crying when he finally does. 
    "I threw the baseball, dad."
    "That's okay, I deserved it," I tell him, completely believing it. "I'm glad you did," I add, realizing that sometimes only the people who don't want to hurt you can help you by hurting you.  Society creates us to some extent, but through ourselves, we can create downfalls that will only better serve to rebuild us better than we were before.  We can be better. 
    "I'll be at all of your trials, dad.  I'll get on the stand and lie if I have to.  I don't want you to die"
    "I'm not going to die, Johnny.  Probably just go to jail or do community service for a long, long time."
    Even if kids these days are fucking perverts, that's no excuse to not trust in my wife's ability to handle situations like Tommy.  I'm an adult for Christ's sake.  I am better than children.  For now.

There have been points in my life, in which I have stopped giving a shit about things I deem unimportant.  This has been one of those phases.  Eh, phase is the wrong phrase, because these things stick with you. 

I remember coming into highschool and hating nearly everyone.  I seriously didn't care about people.  I hated them because I cared what they thought.  I got through that, and became completely indifferent.  Now more than ever, most people I randomly meet are just a means to my own happiness. 

My friend Jeff, today, said he loves brief interactions between people.  He loves talking to people.  The idea behind charisma, he tells me, is making people feel good for having met you.  They go away from you, back into their own little world, happy having met and interacted with you.  They will remember you.  Chuck Palahniuk's single-serving friends. 

I tell him I don't care much for the spoken interactions.  I like the visual.  I like the silent acknowledgements.  The, "yeah, I know."  Vibes, I guess.  You know when you meet a douche-bag, and you know when you meet a cool person.  It's not that hard to discern.  Some fly under the radar from time to time, but these are unspoken understandings, and they're not difficult to come to. 

I have learned more about myself in the past couple of days from Lenora, Jeff, and Leah, than I would have ever accomplished alone ever.  Although everything Zach Braff says is trite, I caught a saying from the Scrubs power-hour that I totally agree with:  Sometimes you see yourself best through the eyes of others.   He also said that the worst thing you'll ever have to do is apollogize to a friend you've hurt.  I couldn't help but say there are worse things.  Like chainsaws severing limbs.  There are more painful things.  More important things.

All this boils down to one idea I have-- shoes.  That's right, shoes.  I don't know anything about shoes.  Just like I don't know anything about celebrities.  People get almost offended when you say something like "Wait, who is Kevin Federline?" Like he's actually pertinent or relevant in our individual lives.  Like he fucking effects us.  I mean, really effects us-- not effects us in that philisophical "everything ripples out" way.  Because, I mean, yeah, the alleged sex tapes are the top gorssing "porn" film ever, without ever being published.  Something like 26 million for the rights to it. A dent in the economy's titanium chassis.  But seriously,  fuck determism.   And fuck celebrities, we need to stop idolizing these pretentious assholes. 

But it's all about shoes.  They are the perfect example of everything I want to tell you in this.  Okay, so, mud, you avoid it, right?  You avoid it, you don't want it on your shoes.  You go out of your fucking way to avoid getting mud on your stupid shoes, like they are an extension of your body.  I say, walk through the mud.  Forge your path in the rain, in the river.  In the forest, in the fields.  Do it.  Don't stop, don't think about your shoes, think about you.  Which is more important, the self, or the excessories?

I have never been more tired of an idea.  I have never been more controlled by a conditioning.  And you're no exception to this.  Fight back, and walk through the mud.
 
I'm not telling you to completely ignore society and do what you want, but use society to your advantage.  Find the things that really matter.

I'm not telling you to take off your shoes, yet.  I'm just telling you to use them. 

Transcribing Knowledge Of The Smoke : PART I

So, recently I went home and had a good time smoking with one of my best friends ever--Jeff.  In my stories, for continuity, he is known as Horatio.  This entry revolves around the night we smoked, using quotes from the voice recorder.  I wish I could upload the audio, but we went with the cheap version.  In hindsight that was a bad idea.  There is no USB output and thus, I must transcribe it.  Here goes:

We sit in his car, something he has named the "Goldsmobile."  Guess it's color.  Slightly Stoopid plays in the background.

Talking about some guy named William, who is a compulsive liar.
A car passes us, I tell it to fuck itself, because I am the Doctor Doolittle of Cars:
Jeff: He's goin' to 7/11
Hunter: Ha, I love when people come out of Sheetz and go to 7/11. It's like, "Uhh, yeah, flashing lights and cool music isn't going to make me want to come to your store... I want shitty tacquitos."
Jeff: I do want shitty tacquitos!

Jeff: Man, I love the mirror system.
Hunter: Yeah, mirrors are kind of ingenious. 
Jeff: It's like, "We're gonna get a huge chunk of metal and have it fly down the road, and we're gonna put mirrors on it so you can see."
I then geek out at the prospect of video replacing mirrors. Jeff says we can discuss that after he takes his next hit off of the gravity.  We never do.  Instead, Jeff loads the gravity and realizes we have alcohol:
Jeff: This is crazy, but we do have vodka.
Hunter: Really?
Jeff: Yeah.
Hunter: Well, uh, cool.

A car passes and it looks like a cop, but isn't.  He takes a massive hit and sputters the smoke after a few seconds.  It rolls across the ceiling of the car.

Jeff: Ah, shit, that cannot be allowed to float around the car.
Hunter: Do you have Fabreeze?
Jeff: I have drive-breeze.
 
I laugh and tell him I love slamming words together.  This is why the German language kicks ass.  Compound words are key.  We talk about language briefly, and Jeff announces, several times, that he is "really high." He lists off his GB intake over the past couple of days.  He says he had one, then two the next day, and should now have three.  You can see how it becomes necessary to smoke more and more if you do it often.  That's why I love moderation.  We agree on three each, and I'm in for some high times, as I haven't smoked in months.

Jeff: Dude, I love being ambidexterous.
Hunter: ... I like having hands. Period.
Jeff: That's a good call, because not everyone has hands.
Hunter: Yeah, some things don't have hands. Some things have, like, tendrils.
Jeff: Well, no, like people.
Hunter: Yeah, and those people suck.
Jeff: Haha, I feel sorry for those people.
Hunter: Mmm, I don't. (pause) Actually, no, I'm a liar. I feel sorry for the stupidest shit.  I feel sorry for fat people, even if it's their own goddamn fault. There's this guy that sits in Larrick, the dining center next to my dorm, alone.  All the time.  He is definitely fuckin' obese.  This kid is not jokin' around with his fat.
Jeff: Hahaha, aww.
Hunter: I always feel compelled to sit with him but never do.

Jeff loses focus for a second.

Jeff: It's not caching, sooo, uh, I guess that means there's something in there.  But yeah, I saw the fattest dude in CVS today, and it was really sad because he was buying vaseline, which you know was for his bed sores--shit, not bed sores, but you know, like fat sores that you get from having too much fat--CHAFING!
I laugh for like 30 seconds.
Jeff: Yeah, I realize that was convoluted as shit, but I am high as shit.

Somehow we get on the subject of tattoos, probably because I go, "Dude, I was thinking about getting a tattoo." Jeff tells me that's pretty cool, but then I tell him, "I mean we're talking a really hack tattoo"  He goes blank and asks, "What?" in that monotone voice that indicates disappointment.

Hunter: A yin-yang.
Jeff: Don't do it.
Hunter: Dude, duality is fucking cool. I believe so strongly in duality.
Jeff: OH! That reminds me, I reread your... VOX thing... the entry that was deterministic in nature, and I was thinking, those comments were really good.
Hunter: Yeah, they were, I really appreciated them.  They were good. Wait, you read the actual VOX post right?
Jeff: Yeah.
Hunter: Okay, yeah, those were really good.  The one with the logical proofs I didn't quite understand.
Jeff: I didn't really get that one either. What I was impressed by was how logical these people are, though.  Like, when I read your arguement, I liked it, because it was good writing, but like, there was something wrong with it, but I couldn't put it into words, and these people were just like bam!
Hunter: Yeah, when I write I don't really think about what I'm doing, I just channel.
Jeff: No, I know what you mean.  I left a great story as one giant block of text for two weeks.  No paragraph breaks.
Hunter: Yeah, I remember that shit.

We segway to talking about the college experience, and Jeff asks me if the song playing is Glassjaw.  I tell him it is, and that I put it on the custom CD we are listening to simply because of the effects in the song.

Hunter: I love this effect.
Jeff: Dude, I have yet to play guitar high.
Hunter: Deeyew Deeyew deeyew.  You need a huge effects set-up.
Jeff: Dude, effects make or break music.  That's actually kinda why I like classic rock, because it's not the effects that make the music.
We begin to move out of the parkinglot we're in.
Hunter: Uh, where are we going?
Jeff: To air out the car.

Thinking he had forgotten about me, I point to the GB, then me, and back to the GB. He laughs and reassures me that we're going to stop in a second. I point out the voice recorder set up and tell him I like it.  He says he has forgotten about it. "Yeah, I-- I haven't," is my response.  I am not high enough at this point for a glowing red let at headlevel to just slip into the background. The real background, outside, is beautiful.  The trees are turning with the changing temperatures.  Fall has begun, and back home, twenty or so minutes from where I currently live, it is absolutely beautiful.  Jeff says, "See, that's what separates us from a soul-less, urban 1984 society."  I haven't read the book, but I know the gist of it, and he's right. 

I notice a huge Trailer Truck parked in the vacant lot.  We're surprised we didn't notice it before.
 
Jeff: Oh shit, dude, Mr. Krane did the craziest thing in Creative Writing today.
Hunter: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.  The biology teacher?

He tells me he teaches psychology now.  I am pissed, because when I was in highschool, psychology was forbidden on the premise that sex factored in to a human's thought process.   We continue driving and pass a car of young girls.  Jeff inflects out loud:
Jeff: Holy shit, do I know those girls?
He doesn't. We pull into our spot.
In a news anchor voice, I say, "Here we are, back at Smoke-Central-Station."  Jeff proceeds to slam his hand into the dashboard repeatedly.  This is the only form of laughing he can communicate.  I know this because there is a huge smile on a face gasping for air.
Hunter: I love that about high people. I can't deny my love for beating the shit out of something because it's funny.  Wooo (slam, slam, slam), thaaaat's hilarious.  It's like reverting to a lesser state.
Jeff: But I love reverting.
I reassure him that I do too.  I begin talking about the "allies" mentioned in Carlos Castaneda's The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, but he isn't listening.  The reason for this is he is attempting to pack the GB and it is requiring all of his mental focus.

Jeff: Hunter? I am entirely too high to pack GBs.
Hunter: But you're not too high to hold the GB for me--
Jeff: That's right.
Hunter: --because that's what I did for you.
Jeff: Haha, come here, GB, give me a hug.
Hunter: Man I can't see shit...
I get out my phone and use it as a light to pack by.
Jeff: Oh shit, we didn't use the crack lighter.  Oh, we've gotta raise some GBs with the crack lighter.

There's some silence between us, but Glassjaw is just now finishing up their song.  It's a good thing too, because the end of the song is not something to listen to high. It's caustic.

I go for my first hit, and Jeff whips out his "crack lighter."  I ask him as judicially as I can, "Is that the fuckin' crack lighter."  He lights it, and it is.  The flame ripples in waves towards the ceiling of the car.  It is nearly four inches of deadly blue and orange flame.
Hunter: Oh, NO WAY. No, I'm not using that shit.
Jeff: That's a fuckin' horrible idea, thank you.  Thank you for double checking that, we're in an apholstered car.

In the background a new song is playing.  "Parole Atale," by Meg.  Very moody music--in Italian.  I figured I'd test run the song high, but it flopped and turned out whinier than anyone would ever want to listen to high. 
Jeff: Is that phone-off-the-hook sound coming from the song?
Hunter: Yeah, you're fine.
Jeff:  I know, it's just fucking with my head.
Hunter: Hahaha, dude, does your cellphone have a hook to put on?
Jeff: Yeah, exactly.
Hunter: You are high.
Jeff: Exactly.
I take my first or second hit, and it is gargantuan. I never cough when smoking, but I almost heaved up a lung right there.  I was in for a good time.
Hunter: One second, fuckin' cotton mouth killer.
The car starts rolling.
Jeff: Oh my GOD, this car's still going!

DING DING DING.
The car is turned off and back on. I ask him to hold something while I chug some Pink Lemonade.  I offer him some, because it's a 2 liter, but he remembers I am sick.  We then talk about listening to the voice recorder high, and how we're not going to do that tonight.
Hunter: We're not going to listen to it tonight.
Jeff: Because we're really high.
Hunter: And that's scary.  Remember when we did that, uh--
Jeff: And never listened to it.
Hunter: No, no.  Do you remember listening to it high?  Because I remember that being scary.
Jeff: Oh yeah!
Hunter: Hearing myself on a device was scary.
Jeff: You realized the whole Native American, stealing of soul thing is true.
Hunter: Yeah, because it's true.
We laugh.
Jeff: I like that we acknowledge that.
Hunter: Yeah, it's true.  Your "soul" is stolen when you place it on a cold-- Like, no, seriously, what you are, your soul is everything that comprises you.  And if a machine can transcribe it and replicate it more efficiently than you can... it has captured a moment in your soul, in time of your soul--physically captured it.  Everything's physical.

Jeff: Yeah, that's true.  You just reminded me about the story I was going to tell about Mr. Krane.  He showed us this video with people wearing white shirts and people wearing black shirts, throwing basketballs. And you had to count the number of times the people in the white shirts passed the basketball.  So, the video's like twenty seconds long, he stopped it and goes, "Okay, raise your hand if you didn't see the gorrila."

Hunter: Isn't it crazy? Focus the mind on one thing and it ignores another.
Jeff: Yeah, and you rewatch it and there's just a guy in a gorilla suit on the screen like[Jeff dances].

I cough again, expelling more smoke into the car.  An Airbase song comes on--"Spin." 
More confidently than anything I've ever said in my life, I go, "This song I kept on the remix, because it's only two minutes long(whereas most are 8 or so), and it's a good Airbase song. So, I figured 'Why not?' Mix it up a little bit in your mind.  Like, those are two pretty good reasons."

We go back to discussing psychology, and I tell him how I love that there's a whole science behind how humans operate.  I say, "understanding the self is the only way to obtain any true sense of power."  He tells me if he doesn't become a teacher, he will be a psychologist.  Inevitably, we get around to talking about majors, and how they don't really matter.  At the time of the recording, I was seriously considering switching my major from Psychology to English, which I now realize would be a waste of my time.  Jeff gets pensive about college, explaining all the shit he has to apply for, all the essays he's writing.  Hell, I barely even tried to get into college.  It was more of the next, inexorable step for me.  I really respect the fact that he's trying, and I hope he gets in where he wants and then enjoys it.  Also, I hope he goes to a big party school and fits in... so I can come visit.

Jeff stops mid-breath at the sound of "Sacrifice," by The Expendables.
Hunter: No, yeah, no I had to keep this on the CD, this is a high classic. How could I forget this song?
Jeff: This song is just... YES, I get to listen to this high!
Hunter: In fact, we get to listen to this high, turned up.
Jeff: This is why being high in cars with sweet sound systems is awesome.  Have you been in one?
Hunter: Dude, the kids down the hall have speakers taller than this car.
Jeff: Oh, you totally told me. Such a sacrifice inside, ooo, oooooo.
Hunter(singing to the tune): Taxi cab goin' by. What if that was my ex girlfriend coming to kill us
We make shotgun and machine gun sounds for a few seconds.
Hunter: She's got like a tracking device in me.
Jeff: Is she really that crazy?
Hunter: Mmm, no, but that shit's funny.

We start talking about comedy.  Apparently my delivery of "No, but that shit's funny" spurs this thought in his head.  I'm sweet.  We talk about a comedy club I've mentioned, one that my friend Sean introduced me to.  He wants to go, and I tell him he should come sometime.

Hunter: Dude, you have no idea how high I am right now.
Jeff: A lot? Is the answer a lot?
Hunter: Do you remember planet Sieben?
Jeff:  Oh shit.
Hunter: That's how high I am.
Jeff:  You see, I realized that back when I had a place in my head, a planet that I went to... I got really high then.
I can't stop laughing.  I throw the GB out the window as we leave our spot.
Hunter: I'm making the executive decision up there on that dark road... after... all these fucking lights are gone... Like right here. 
The GB makes a hollow clunk as it roles and slows, stopping-- dead.
Jeff: Doo DOO DUKE!
Hunter: Hahahaha
Jeff: Dooka doo doo, dooka dooka doo doo.(he sings with the song, which is "40oz to Freedom", Sublime)
Hunter: Hahahahhaa, reality is sweet.  Wow, I feel like the car is going faster than me.
Jeff: The great part is, right now, your internal organs are moving at 30 miles per hour.
Hunter: Yup. Damn it's cold.
Jeff: I've learned to ignore it.
Hunter: Yeah, me too, but then a breeze of needles hits you in the face. And you're like, "Mm, that's cold."

I proceed to laugh my ass off at Jeff's driving ability:
Hunter: Hahahaha, as we creep, hahaha, ever so slightly, hahaha, up to the curb.  That was fucking classic man.  Vvrrrr, pulling into docking bay one.
We are in the Sheetz parkinglot eating cold pizza and he wants a drink.  He is going to go inside, but I feel too high to do so.  I will lose my shit in front of the officer on call and laugh at his shiny badge.  Jeff wants cottonmouth killer.  I suggest the alcohol in the back and he scowls at me. "Fuck that," is all he says.  He concedes, though, that beer and pizza would be amazing. 
Jeff: Have you ever had just like... two beers... instead of...twenty?

I tell him no. And then here it comes, Jeff's oration on life, and what it is to be a stoner:
Jeff: I realized why being a stoner is not acceptable.  You are not supposed to have this much fun.  Think about it, you can go out and do anything and it's fun if you're high.  And that's just not natural, you're not supposed to have that much fun.  You're supposed to get that much fun out of life.

I laugh in his face, but say he's somewhat right.
Jeff: Think about it, if you cannot get that kind of fun out of just living life, there's something wrong with you.
There's a slight pause as the bass picks up and Bud Gaugh lays down a tempo change.
Hunter: Or.  The chemicals in our brain are different.
Jeff: Exactly, but you shouldn't need to put chemicals in your body.
This goes on for awhile, but ultimately we make fun of stupid people, like this girl from my English class who tried to argue that sodium ions aren't what help cause thought.
Jeff: Oh, I love the comment from that girl--"SALT DOESN'T CONTROL OUR THOUGHT!"
Hunter: Yeah, somebody actually said that to me.

The periodic table is mentioned and we see blue lights flashing across the four lane road in front of us.  Someone just got pulled, which is a really strange thing to see when high.  I call cops "Enforcers" now, because of that.  That's what they are, but that's my high terminology for them, because I think it's best to have different words for the same meaning, so as to take yourself out of a conditioned mindset about things.  It helps expand your view.  Maybe that's bullshit, but it helps me see things differently.

. 

The Fritolay website totally blows. They have FAQ but it only answers basic questions like, "How do I locate a Fritolay product," or "How do I become a member of a coupon list?" This shit is easy to locate if you know anything about the internet, or if you know anything about pressing buttons on pages until you get to what you want.  We can see the intelligence level of the type of people who go to Chip-Company Websites.  And, no, I do not count, for my question is important. To top off the idiotic FAQ section, there's a picture of an Islander Woman in a nice, white collared shirt, smiling at you.  Kelly is her name, obvious from the statement, "ASK KELLY A QUESTION." Also, it pisses me off that they have smiling people faded into the background on every page. Seriously, they're taking advantage of my natural human tendancy to warm up to a smile.  Fuck that, it doesn't make me trust you!

 I just want to know why they call them SunChips, goddamnit!  I think it's because they're like rays of light from the sun.  Also, they look like a wave function. But, not overthinking it, maybe they just want us to believe they dry them in the sun?

The internet isn't being helpful in my quest to discover the answer, so, what do you think?

    This is possibly the best thing I've ever written.  If you aren't busy, you should give this a read. 

    I believe, at any given point in your life, you only have two choices you can make--"yes" or "no."  People question this, remarking that "not everything is a yes or no question," but I contend that everything is based off of this positive or negative set.  Instead of "positive" or "negative," though, I liken the binary universe to a series of yes or no answers.  This is because negative connotates "bad" while positive connotates "good," but good and bad are simple illusions.  Morality is a human construct rooted in belief systems.  They are not truths to the universe, but relativistic view points.  Thus, I refer to the binary system with yes or no answers.  Another way to look at it would be to say that choice originates from either a feeling of acceptance or rejection.  Acceptance is neither good nor bad, because context is important too.

    The context of a decision helps determine what is healthy or detrimental.  An individual may believe that stabbing his eyes out with pin-needles might hurt, and he rejects the idea.  Decision made.  On the other hand, someone might like rollercoasters, because there is joy to be found in such a thing, so that person accepts the chance to ride it.  He may get tired of waiting in line and ultimately reject it because his impatience supercedes his desire to ride the rollercoaster.  Those basic principles of choice established, we can now explore the duality of choice and its interchangeablility.

    The two aforementioned scenarios, involving pin-needles and rollercoasters, have duality to them.  Not only is the first individual, who rejected stabbing himself in the eye, rejecting something, but he is also accepting something simultaneously.  What he accepts involves his level of comfortability and his understanding of pain.  He accepts that his body will hurt if he stabs himself in the eye, and therefore accepts a lack of action.  This sort of acknowledgement is not soley found in humans, in fact, the act of choice exists at every level of cognitive thought, even fundamental ones.  Everything with brain capacity is governed by a system.  Of choices and a semblance of understanding. 

    Behind every decision, there is a preconceived or known(moreso believed) concept.  There is always a deeper understanding to obtain, this is evident in all sciences, even this, the science of free will or choice.  In humans, we call these emotions.  Emotions guide or decisions, both mundane and complex.  The most notable emotion that I have found to be linked with choice is fear.  The reason I find it most notable is because it's apparent in most living things with cognitive functions, however limited.  Actually, especially those of limited understanding.  Fear is mostly the rejection of pain, suffering, or death.  In higher life-forms-- humans-- this emotion extends to the avoidance of shame, humiliation, and embarassment.

    In my opinion, fear is the most powerful of evolutionary mechanisms.  Essentially, fear is the objective of an individual towards self-preservation.  Because if the self is not the most important concern to an individual, it has the ability to compromise itself, in that the self must come first, subconciously, or it risks itself.  And there is a enormous fear of risking the "self," for everyone everywhere.  This concept of fear is a universal truth and a large strand of the human condition. It all goes back to the binary nature of choice.  Fear will definitely  push an individual to believe something strongly, if it means their advancement or stability.  Suppose a friend of yours is threatened with a fire-arm.  You have two choices, let your friend get shot or step in the way and take the bullet.  Now, examine this for a moment before continuing, and ask yourself where fear would be in this equation?  You are highly attached to this person, you love them dearly.  You are the most important person in your universe, because, basically, you are your universe.  So, in which option are you subjected to fear's control?  The answer may surprise you.  The answer is both.  In the first choice, your fear of death guides you to stay put.  In the second choice, your fear, of the loss of a loved one and the knowledge that you can't comfortably live without them or the thought that you let them die, is indicitive in the action.  In my opinion there is no such thing as self-lessness, and I have been challenged time after time on the subject in highschool, but never have I not thought of a selfish undertone for presented scenarios.

Before I continue into the next section of this thing, I have a diagram I drew during English class today regarding a binary system of choices:

In this diagram, a segment of an overlying system of choice is shown.  I realize it's much more complex than this, but if you continue in both directions infinitely, it starts to look more like a human's understanding of things.  You could label the top option "yes" and the bottom one "no," I guess.  That's pretty much the visual representation, in my mind, that spurred this whole idea behind choice.

    In addition to this diagram, I drew another, which, I guess I'll only briefly go over, because it's kind of less important, though it does explain my idea behind the "preconceived" or "known" in decision making:

    Okay, this is my understanding of memory.  A long time ago, when I was far too high for my own good, I had this idea that thought and memory were physically active things, and, it turns out, they are.  In fact, everything is physical, even this "mystical" idea of thought.  Everything is interactable with something, and everything is a result of a cause.  Now, the diagram alone might be a little confusing, so I'll start from the beginning.  In the beginning, you have Input.  Input is based on your senses, or, how you perceive the universe.  Sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, these are all gathered simultaneously to create your experience, something unique to only you.   The experience is basically what I mean by "Current Cognition," it's your position in space, your current understanding of things.  Your life in the moment, basically.  Now, Current Cognition immediately, after the moment it is perceived, fades into what I call Recent Memory.  Recent Memory or Short-Term, effects you with daily things.  If it impacts you enough, it then becomes Late or Long-Term Memory.  Late Memories are the most important to understanding who you truly are, in my opinion.  There is a reason or cause behind why you remember something so vividly-- it is effecting you, it helped create who you are currently.  Thus, Triggers.  Triggers are types of Input that recall Late Memories into Current Cognition, which then again fade into Recent Memory.  This is important to know if you choose to interpret your memories.  But, you have to be careful with your interpretations, because, when you interpret an old memory with a new point of view, it can be skewed.  Sometimes, however, it's dead on.  The reason for this is that you are re-experiencing something through memories, but you're doing it while you are a different person.  A new person.  I could be reliving my 5th birthday, because something important happened on it, as a college student.  My views and understanding on what transpired is completely different. 

     Fear is an imbeded memory. Maybe genetically.  Choice is binary, but it is still choice, and we still have free will, I believe.  So, fuck determinism, I have my own theory, bitches! 

falsification of all the depressing concepts