Posts Tagged ‘bloo’

Men vs Man

 

Once there was a man with an idea
He didn’t know what to do with that idea

Then came a man who had a plan.
He didn’t know how to go about that plan.

Then came a man who could implement.
He didn’t know how to supervise others.

Then came a man who could supervise.
He didn’t know how to build.

then came a man who knew how to build.
he couldn’t build it all by himself.

Then came more men that could build,
And they worked until they were done.

When the idea materialized,
They were happy.

Then came a man who didn’t have any ideas;
He couldn’t plan. He couldn’t implement, nor supervise, nor build.

Out of anger, and on his own,
He destroyed the the building, and the dreams of the other men,

But he gave birth to the notion
That it’s easier to destroy than to build.

 

 

Social Network

Gosh! I really hate facebook! Did I just say that out loud?  You know, actually, I can say that because I have two facebook accounts. Yea, so I have the right by association. Kinda like Jared from subway calling a fat person…… well… fat! and then in a non-apologetic apologetic way follows it by saying “I was fat once”. And he is totally excused. So I reinstate. I really, really hate facebook!
I just don’t like social networks at all. To me they are *thinks hard* Exaggerated Social Realities. At least it’s true in my case. It’s really a constant reminder of how sucky your life is. Yes I said sucky. So you find yourself trying to come up with something cool that happened during your day. And in doing so you may…not saying that I did, but you may have accidentally bumped into your sister in the morning on the way to the bathroom, and post on facebook that, I don’t know, you got into a physical confrontation with  her. And you somehow pray that your own sister find you cool enough to check your postings so that you can start a meaningful argument on the net. And people would think cool things about you, like “ Oooh, they are so dysfunctional!”. You know stuff like that.
Twitter is the worse of them all. I also have two twitter accounts, just so you know. It’s just so much pressure. And it’s not even peer pressure. Just random people that you’ve never met pressure. But for some reason, on some random day, you  find yourself very constipated in the bathroom, and while you’re not sure whether or not you will make it out alive from this………….shit, you…umm…, you’re thinking really hard whether this is one of those events in your life you should tweet about!
End.

day 6: Emma

When we got in front of her parent’s apartment, she peered into my soul to weight the credibility of my words. I looked away. She smiled. “wait,” She said “ I got something to show you.” The door closed shut before I replied. I waited reluctantly.

Then a really loud angry male voice rumbled inside and fed fear to my heart. It only escalated from there. I heard banging and shattering glasses, but when I heard her yelling, I barged in the door. I found her bruised up on the floor and i wanted to swear then that I would never let anyone hurt her again, but as i held her tightly in my arms, a shiver more violent than her quiver went crawling down my back because when i walked in the house, Emma was alone in the room.

Day 5: Hush!

There was yet another growl in his stomach. He was folded on himself and his arms across his stomach, his nails digging deeper, clenching his ribs a little tighter. It’s just that the pain was too loud. Momma told him to stay with the teacher and the other kids. Momma told him not to stray away. It’s just that butterflies cheat when playing tag. … continue reading this entry.

Twitter challenge day 4> Sinners And Saviors : Destination Playground

We were now only 20,000 feet in the air. I was nervous. We were all nervous. What could possibly prepare us for a moment like this? … continue reading this entry.

Twitter Challenge day 3: Summer Lilies

Her face is dug in the dirt, her head in between her arms. The back of her neck tightens. She freezes. She warned me earlier about her disease. I hear the thump of my heart before I hear her sobbing. Or was she laughing? Her back rose along with her chest. I couldn’t see her eyes. … continue reading this entry.

twitter challenge day 2 : Under control

I slammed the door behind me. She has some nerves! How can two people that once fell so madly in love with each other come to hate one another. I hooked my jacket on the wooden coat rack. The walk from work was a wet 15 minutes. She didn’t know what’s it was like. She had the car. I walked in the kitchen. There were crumbs of bread all over the counter. And she calls me lazy! If I were to do that, it’d be another choir rehearsal. The fridge door was left open. And when I heard the footsteps … continue reading this entry.

sneak peek: Live a little

The following entries were recorded from the diary of the late Donovan Jameson.

Wednesday, May 20 2009

My name is Donovan jameson. I find myself having to remind me of who I am. I know that I wrote that I’ve been lost before, that I don’t know who I am, but this is different. This is way different. Is it possible that…you could lose yourself so much that it becomes a reality, that you start actually losing your identity? Some weird things have been going on lately and…I just need to make sure, I need to have it written down that…that I am me. My name is Donovan Jameson. The past two weeks…The past two weeks have been scary.

Eve. And Adam

She was still. Her naked chest rose in quick successions. She felt the heat coming out of her mouth as she exhaled. There was a fire burning inside of her like a volcano of pleasure ready to erupt. She breathe longer and deeper, and swallowed harder. The emotions rose higher, much higher, and overwhelmed. And she wept. Silence is insanity, she swore. She wept. Inside of her, she was alive. Inside of her was a beautiful war.

Her warm fingers ran alone her naked thigh and her body erected in million goosebumps. And prompted another wave … continue reading this entry.

After the storm

“Don’t do this to me! Not on valentines day!” I ran after her. She hurried to her blue beetle. She swung and launched her backpack full of her clothes on the backseat. I ran barefooted after her, my heart singing a dreadful tune. Everything said perky outside. It was sunny yet there was an on and off breeze that balanced it out. She would have been the one to mention just how perfect the weather was, but she was a storm. She suddenly turned around, and I waited for the thunder. I waited for her to stab me with her words-Some truths that I couldn’t accept. She said nothing. She just looked at me a little longer as if her tears blurred her vision and she wanted to get one last good look at me before she leaves forever.

That’s when I realized that maybe without knowing it she was giving me another chance. And I realized that whatever I … continue reading this entry.

Recycled

Booom! Screams the gun. Thud! Says the body to the floor…

He scratched the back of his head, and internally freaked out. He found out that he was more relieved than afraid. The body on the floor jerked one last time. “That’s what you get for insulting me! Where’s your smart mouth now, huh? You thought I would ever forgive you?” He rejoiced in what he had just accomplished for two more seconds, then it hit him! The neighbor must have heard. That old lady saw them both come and she probably called the cops already. The gun was registered under his name, if there is a chance that the judge would find him innocent, the “streets” knew of their rivalry. He wouldn’t survive.

So he pointed the gun to his head and thought “ there’s no way I’m going to jail”. Then a crazy thought ran in his mind. He didn’t want his lifeless body to make him look like a bitch. He thought that if it laid there on the floor, he wouldn’t be any better than that loser over there. So his mind went on a little thinking trip. “If I lay down on my back on my bed, and wore a cool shirt and sunglasses, that would leave an impression, or if i sat down on my lazy boy chair and glued a cigar to my lips, that would bring a new meaning to going out with a bang! Or …” The wailing sirens shook him back to reality. He had to act quick.

He realized that it would take too long to find the Crazy Glue, so he went with the bed idea. He quickly changed to his favorite shirt, and found his glasses on his dresser. The banging on the door forced him to go over his plan one last time. He laid down on his squeaky bed and cycled through weird poses. The banging on the door got increasingly louder. He wasn’t sure whether he would put his legs close together or spread them to take up space. It was clear that the cops were now kicking the door. When they eventually walk in, they would find him dead, but in the most news worthy pose ever!  He had thought it all through. What he didn’t know, however, was that as soon as he shoots himself, both of the legs on the left side of the bed will give out, forcing his lifeless body to roll down all the way to floor.

The cops barged into the apartment…

Booom! Screams the gun. Thud! Says the body to the floor…

Where dreams go



I’ve always wanted to know what happens to dreams that don’t come true. Do they haunt their owners, a wandering stream of “if-onlys” floating in the back of their head? Are they flight proned, clogging the emptiness of space? Or do they simply stop to exist as soon as a complicated logarithm deems them unfeasible?

…And I wondered if I would find the answer if I wondered some more. That day I stopped wondering.

I volunteered to babysit my baby cousin who, at the time, was loosing his baby teeth. As soon as he felt asleep that night, I dressed up as a giant Mr. Potato Head and stood still. Hours went by, and surely a tiny tooth fairy cautiously appeared out of nowhere. You see, tooth fairies have the ability to turn invisible; they search the whole room for anything that could prove their existence. They can search for hours. Only, and I mean only, when they are sure that the area is clear do they show themselves. If they are caught, however, they can’t turn back invisible immediately. She mistook me for a giant toy, big mistake. I snuck up on her and grabbed her. I beat her to a pulse until she was willing to tell me everything. “ No, dreams that don’t come true don’t just disappear. But I don’t know where they store them, honest! She cried, I work for the moon goddess. She can tell you more.”

On the next full moon, I snuck into the city’s lab and got my hands on the multi billion dollars laser, a long time project that was nearing completion. I rotated it towards the sky and held it to the moon at gun point ( laser point). I called out to the moon goddess and demanded answers to my questions or the moon would get it. Surely she thought I was bluffing until I started the machine. Sooner than later she appeared to my eyes only, majestic in the moon-lit sky. She said “ you assaulted one of my fairies and now you’re threatening me and my prized possession. What do you want?” I told her that I just wanted to know where dreams go, those that don’t come true. “That’s all, she laughed, well we keep them in the back of the moon, on the side that’s never lit.” Apparently, only one side of the moon ever shines. She told me that for my persistence she would let me see it. She took me there.

I must say that I was disappointed when I got there. It was cold for one. But for all I thought it would be, it was nothing more than a field filled with working men and women. They all had a long wooden stick in their hands and they were beating on some small creatures. The lady of the moon told one of her workers to explain to me what they were doing. With that, she left. “ well son, these little creatures are you people’s dead dreams. Only they’re stubborn; they don’t want to believe that they’re dead. That’s why they keep surfacing back in your memories from time to time. So our job…well, our job is to kill them.” I was shocked, so I asked him, “ wouldn’t it be better,then, for us to stop dreaming”. He looked at me as if I were stupid. “ Hell nah, kid. Then I wouldn’t have a freaking job. I got kids to raise, and a family to feed” He turned his back, and took out his frustration on one of the small creatures.

So for you dreamers out there; those who, like me, ask “what if…” or wonder “ If only…” or think “One day…” I tell you to keep dreaming, keep living in your parallel universe; if not just for the sake of dreaming, then remember that by dreaming you are somehow helping to feed children who live on the unlit side of the moon.

Beer Money

Some people would argue that your childhood shapes your future. I don’t know whether it is because of it or despite of it that I am the person I am today.
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My father was an alcoholic, there is no other way to put it. I never met my mother. My father never talked about her, In fact he always got mad when I asked about her.
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My father took me out of school when I was only eleven. The next year, we migrated around the entire country with his friends going from bars to strip clubs, and casinos while I spent my days watching TV in his friend’s RV. I started working in my uncles garage when I was thirteen. At fifteen, I was making enough money to take care of myself. I stayed home to take care of my dad, which meant buying groceries and paying most of the utility bills.
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My father had a small job cleaning the toilets of the bars where he spent his entire life, but he had no commitments, he didn’t have to. When responsibilities came knocking at his doors he used to tell me in between beer heavy breath ” I’m not cut out for this, I was never suppose to have kids, ya know”. But there was one thing that he committed to, and that was to give me “allowance” every two weeks since my sixteenth birthday.
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On my sixteenth birthday, his friends and him dubbed me a man and they give me a shot of Sam Adams. I threw up almost immediately. They all laughed and I remember one of them saying that I would soon get used to it because I was my father’s son. I never got used to it.
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The next day, he gave me my first “allowance” and told me that he would continue to do so every other week. He was serious, almost diplomatic, when he pulled me over and sat me down. He said ” In our family, we have a tradition”. He emphasized on the words family and tradition. ” As a man, he continued, you are now a part of this tradition”. He paused to mark the gravity of this moment. ” I don’t have much, he mumbled scratching his head, but this is your beer money…buy enough to last you two weeks though”. He got up to leave and then turned around to say ” Don’t worry, I’ll give you some tips along the way”. He scratched the back of his pants and walked trough the door.
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The next time, he cried grown man tears when I tried explaining to him that I didn’t want to take his money. And that’s how it all started!
Every other Friday evening, he would proudly hand me beer money along with some advice to increase my alcohol tolerance. Strange enough, it was then that I bonded the most with my father, not because I was interested in what he was saying, but because he truly enjoyed talking about it. Even when I left the house, he still continued the tradition despite my plea. I never spent the money he gave me because I always thought that one day when he is dire need, it would come in handy. On my twenty first birthday, I decided to open my own garage. After the inauguration, I saw less and less of him. At some point, I only saw him on the Fridays when he would willingly leave his friends behind to catch up and give me some money.
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My father passed away when I was twenty six, just when I was getting used to seeing him on those Friday evenings. It was just when I was looking forward to the old man’s regular visit because that was the only time where he was my dad, where he was just mine. The day after his funeral, I decided to take the beer money that was in my saving account and spent it all so it would not remind me of him. I took a chance and bet all on the only roulette wheel at our local casinos where he was a regular. I bet it all on the number ten, to represent the ten years that he had been giving me beer money. I bet it all and won.
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I wonder if he knew it all along. My father always knew that I didn’t want to live the life he did, maybe that’s why he never asked me what I really did with the money he gave me, maybe that’s why he never talked about my mother because he knew it could break my heart. My father was an alcoholic, there is no way around it, but I would trade my millions for his Fridays evenings.

Toy soldiers

We often forget that soldiers are sons and daughters of a mother and a father. We forget that they are someone’s child. War to me is simply and excuse to shed blood. Let’s just not forget whose blood it is.

Pawn

It was the third hour of midnight when the eeriness of the wolves’ cry had become soothing. They tiptoed passed the sleepy eyes of the once menacing woods. The obnoxious moon simply watched. They snuck into the skeleton of a once proud structure. It was almost time to play the game.

Little Ricky was afraid. It had much to do with the fact that he was the youngest. It had more to do with the fact that he may only play the game once.  The boys laid their backpack on the nude soil that already showed signs of swallowing the old house. In their bags, they pulled out metal death. The game was about to begin.

They dipped their small hands in the can of fresh painting, without saying a word. They were so focused, and their thoughts were so loud. Each reciting the future as it’s supposed to happen. Each knowing well that it might not happen at all. They painted their faces with dark stripes, each line a stronger conviction. It was time!

Little Ricky was five. Him and the other boys circled around Michael, who in contrast was ten. A foggy cloud followed after every word he spoke. It was cold. The rules were simple. Everyone knew them; it wasn’t rocket science after all. They plagued their minds ever since they knew about the game. The first rule was this, “last man standing wins”. The second and last rule, at the moment, was the most frightening of them all.

They waited, uncomfortably, while the boy talked- irrelevant wordage. Michael was afraid. He scouted the ruins for a vintage point because he too was aware of the rules. The second rule was this, “as soon as the oldest was done with the introduction, they had 10 seconds to find cover and begin” His words became like tiny grains of sand of an hour glass, until the last grain dropped. Little Ricky ran, his heart first, the death bringer dragging behind. He found a huge pillar, and hugged it with every inch of his body.

Short, muffled silence, then bullets rained from hell, whispering profanity as they went by. He felt the heat coming out of his agitated body, and sweat pored out just as fast as his tears. He quickly peeked and saw the bullets ravage another boy not too far from him, his blood running away from his empty body. Now it was horror creeping into his chest. He lifted the gun, and blind fired, the recoil knocking him away. He quickly ran back, leaving the weapon behind. He heard screaming. Screaming! Loud, tear jerking screams. The he heard some more, and realized that he was not having fun. But the crepitating bullets crept closer slowly nibbling away the pillar he once thought safe. He plugged his ears with his small hands, trying to keep the demons away.

Then he remembered, his hands quickly fiddling about, looking for something. He was trembling all over, making it all the more difficult to reach in his pocket. Making it all the more difficult to realize his enemies desperately changing cover. Then he felt the roundness of the metal in his pocket, and pulled it out. A grenade, He had brought a bomb, A heavy round metal that he held with two hands. He felt the bullets wining over his sanity and he swore he heard footsteps among the chaos. So he got up and pulled the pin.

The grenade flew, and then dove; it rolled, and stopped. The guns bowed and paused their singing. Kaboom! said the dot on the floor with a trillion exclamation points. The old house shook, vomiting rubbles when it stopped.

A small struggle, and little Ricky pushed the small fragments of concrete off him. He was grey, dusty grey. He looked around him, and listened. He heard nothing, he saw plenty. Millions of small body parts scrambled all over, blood red contrasting with the grayish-green concrete. Little Ricky looked around once more. He realized that he was alone. He reached over and grabbed his gun; he got up, shook the dirt off him, lifted the weapon in the air and screamed “I win!”