Today's Forcast:

AWESOME WITH A CHANCE OF FUCK YEAH.

That's right, things are pretty stellar. It was a rough night last night but it ended on a good note. I'm rolling with the punches, I've been prescribed glasses, and I've made pancakes.

I'd write more and in a more sensible, detailed, coherent fashion but I'm afraid my awesometer's clocking-out and I've got too much shit to do SUPERLATIVELY.

I'll be back after driving some errands, doing sit ups, jamming out to SMOOTH JAZZ covers of the Gorillaz (Thank you for finding this, Hjalmar, you have no clue how stellar it is.) and deciding which glasses suit my face.

Am I smug enough to rock halfies? Probably not, but rectangles are PRETTY STELLAR, too.

No Velma-grade Emo-Goggles, though. That Scene-Kid shit just doesn't TICKLE MY FANCY.

You have no idea how fun it is to say "Tickle My Fancy," in a terrible, booming voice.

THREE-HUNDRED CALORIES YOU'LL NEVER REGRET

Pious Distress Signal.

I rather like this whole BOLD MAROON TEXT EMPHASIS schtick I've been running sporadically, so expect it to become a regular thing. However, onto more important things, like why I'm not parading around Steam right now, and the lovely oddities that inhabit my mailbox on occasion.

My computer has recently died, but in its true-to-life death bed confessions, the CPUnzan whispered, "I'm not the lap-oven netbook you think I am..." before quietly going blank, at which point I wept and unplugged him.

And then opened him up to ascertain what might have killed him.
As it would turn out, it was all foul play.
I believe I mentioned it in a post about a year ago, or at least a hefty collection of months ago, that I bribed an aging neighbor who I often worked for named John with baked goods to resuscitate my dear hap-hazard CPUnzan. He did.

Poorly.

It would seem that I've essentially been running a FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER of an OS with thoroughly incompatible drivers. I will also take a moment to say that I very much dislike when people call Frankenstein's Monster "Frankenstein," because the book is very specific in stating that Victor Frankenstein is the doctor who constructed the monster, and is so disgusted with his work that he disowns his creation and refuses to name it. Frankenstein's Monster is not Frankenstein. Frankenstein is Doctor Victor Frankenstein. Frankenstein's Monster is the unnamed creature's given title.

Rant, rant. Literary snobbery.

Regardless, I've now embarked on an epic quest to wade into the depths of binary space and wrest CPUnzan's restless OS-soul from NEGLECT, SHAME, and my PRESUPPOSED DISDAIN.

This actually just means I've backed up my data, blank-slated, and have smooshed a bootable drive into it, loading up Windows 7.

Things seem a good deal more stable, but I lack, as of yet, Audio and Display Drivers.
Scrolling my external drive unleashed a series of display chops that had been UNSEEN SINCE THE LIKES OF BRUCE LEE. As such, I'll be offline a bit longer while I reinstall my cleaning software, find proper drivers that fit CPUnzan and his OS, and perhaps sort through the downloaded miscellanea I have had to back up.

...I found a surprising amount of trap-doujins linked to me by none other than Robin Poulton, Trap-Master Extraordinaire. While Eiki's since taken that title (Though, they may perhaps share it like some sort of shota-con'd skirt-tenting Roman consulate) I think I'll actually shame myself by compiling it and uploading it for interested parties.

If you'd be interested in receiving a link to it, I'll thank you to have enough audacity to request so in commentary or private-message once I've got everything up and running. That's right, if you're going to PERUSE BLATANTLY EROTIC COMICS FEATURING YOUNG BOYS IN DRAG, I'd like for you to admit it beforehand.

If that's not your sweet-tooth, I've also found a lot of old music ranging from the elusive Omega Boost soundtrack to a collection of lounge-piano numbers by Bob Acri and Haushka. I might get that all put together and shared, too.

Now on to mail.

As you may know, a dear friend of mine, Onni, died of a heart-attack not too long ago.
I've been diligently writing his mother Iris with odd drawings, things that interested her son, and words of encouragement. Yesterday, I received a letter back.

It was a typed letter that explained her surprise and grief, but her comfort in knowing his friends care about her and that he had the company of such people. It also included a collection of meticulously hand-cut paper flowers and a sum of money that Onni had apparently been saving for me.

I took the time to unbox some more of my glass frames, and quickly hung the letter and it's contents up next to those I'd received from her son, and a lengthy beautifully sentimental one I'd received from Emily's mother before quietly writing a letter to get about sending the money back.

It was odd. It put me at ease to hear from her. So much so that I finally felt composed enough to open the phantom valentine that was given to me from beyond the grave by Onni. It contained an embroidered heart-pillow and a small box of chocolates I shared with my family, and a very short but affectionate handwritten valentine that concluded with a "jag älskar dig."

I think I've made my peace. I convinced myself I had before, but I hadn't.
I'm happy and nostalgic and not wounded and nostalgic.
I needed to open that package.

I don't really know what else to say. It's not really a topic I can squeeze any bold maroon text-emphasis in, because it's serious. I suppose I'll just end out on a TL;DR:

• Expect to see more BOLD MAROON TEXT EMPHASIS.
  
• I'll be gone for a bit while I revive and hopefully fix all driver-errors with my laptop.
• Victor Frankenstein is not his unnamed monster.
  
• I'll be uploading music and pornography I'd discovered while cleaning-out my old hard-drive for interested parties.
• I'd gotten a beautiful letter from Iris.
• I've opened the phantom valentine.
• I am well and happy.
  

BOLD MAROON PRINT.

DIG IT. Well, let me tell you some odd occurrences and punctuate them with some thinking aloud - writing out something I plan to do always helps me do it.

Awhile back, Emily'd been short minutes but had a sneaky suspicion her councilor was trying to get ahold of her. This was frustrating, because we just had to sit there stewing over the dreaded, WHAT IF...?'s that plague your head when these sort of situations arrive: the human imagination has two switches when worrying, and they're Overestimate (At which point the councilors would be either calling to give us the All-Clear Signal, or warning us of a ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE) or Underestimate (Which we didn't do, but would've been something akin to them calling to say hello and ask about the weather.)

I'd decided I was going to jog out to the store at 11:00 PM or so, and fix the problem.
I confess I was terrified. I don't live in the greatest neighborhood, and I had heard these reports of young, successful Russian men being KIDNAPPED, forced to RECORD THEIR VOICES to EXTORT their families, and then promptly EXECUTED. I imagined being in a similar situation and wondering if bolting would help me at all. I finally resolved to just pay attention to every car and person.

A couple cars passed awful slow but it wasn't much to be worried about. However, there was one lone person on foot at 11:00 besides me, and he was shuffling suspiciously down the road by a drainage ditch that bisects the highway intersection. I hoofed it to McDonald's and caught my breath in their BRIGHTLY LIT parking-lot before trit-trotting down to the 24-7 convenience store to pick up minutes. On my way out, a car pulled up very suddenly. It was an Officer.

He flags me down, pulls over and goes...

"We've lost a fugitive. He's an African-American man wearing a gray hood and black pants."

I told them that, in the fifteen minutes it took me to catch my breath and buy a card, he'd gotten a lead on them, but that he'd passed me on the drainage-ditch side of the highway.

AW YEAH.
ASSISTING THE LAW AND BUYING ATTRACTIVE WOMEN MINUTES.

Today, I have to:

Turn in this wad of job applications. [ ]
(Mmmh, manual labor and minimum wage again. Thank God I'm such a cheap bastard this'll add-up quick and I can escape to a beautiful desert full of cactus blossoms and people that resemble them.)
Turn in this wad of benefits papers. [X]
(The free schooling seemed uneccessary, but it might be another route to California without risking the Guard anchoring me here for four years of service. There seems to be a divide on whether or not I could transfer to Edwards. Some say yes, some say no. Even documents don't agree, and congress is too half-witted to demand military documents degree, because if they all agreed, what would the military judiciaries be there for...?)
Mail three postcards. [X]
(I've got one to a suspicious man in Florida, a grieving mother in Sweden, and CHIPTUNE McCATTITUDE.)
Take vitamins and organize my work-out schedule so things stop coinciding. [X]
(I've laughed this off for awhile now, but it would seem the reason my muscles are kind of in this weird Mexican stand-off is because I'm working them consecutively and not focusing on other stuff and letting them cool. This seems counter-intuitive, but a trainer has confirmed it and I'm feeling relatively disgruntled over it.)
Re-deposit the extra twenty dollars I withdrew. [ ]
(Thought those minutes would cost more. They didn't.)

An Open Head at Thirty Miles an Hour.

Have you ever stopped to ponder the idea of a predatory curiosity? I think there's such thing, and if you look into stories like Little Red Riding Hood, you see that unsettling sensation of someone who has a perfectly logical answer for everything. It also sort of works backwards, where you have the Big Bad Wolf asking, "Little pig, little pig, let me in?"

I've been looking into and discussing it amongst several people I respect. They're good people overall. Very helpful. Very talkative. Full of intellectual perspective and functionality. But they both have a tendency to unsettle people, and I think it's because of their perceived predatory curiosity. They ask far too many questions or explain far too much, and they are - or once were, in the case of the first - exceptionally and intentionally vague on details regarding their personal life.

Predatory curiosity is just something I've been thinking a lot on recently. Awhile back it was the concept of human Justice, now it's predatory curiosity. Endless rote, endless rote.

My left arm is shot. That's completely unrelated, but my head's a little foggy, and it's the first thing that comes to mind. I mentioned that the blood clinic jabbed it really good. I think they went entirely through the vessel and into the underlying muscle or nerve or something, because I can press it softly - even rolling my sleeves seems to trigger it despite having had adequate time to recover since donation - and a painful sort of 'Knocked Funny-Bone' sensation rushes down my forearm and dissipates in my wrist. It's quite painful, and I think I may go back into the Red Cross to pose questions about it.

I've not sent a lick of mail beyond the handicrafts I made for Hjalmar and Shawn, and some paid bills. I really want to, but I've been really busy and generally unhappy as of late. I hate being unhappy. I dislike people who get unhappy naturally in response to opposition. I prefer a frustrated ass to a sad-sack any day of the week because it's exhausting to be frustrated, and the moment you tire yourself out, you're back on the job, perhaps with a vengeance if your work is what frustrated you. Sad people just accept the cards dealt to them while bitching about it.

Yes, that's an umbrella statement about mopes. If you disagree with me enough to have a bone to pick or you're a sad-sack and take offense to that view, by all means, write me up for discussion or otherwise prove me wrong. I'm no saint and I'm no philosopher, but I love a good debate.

I've tried to cure my unhappiness with a good Gym stint, but the moment I came home, there was family drama abound and I was kind of frustrated again. I think I've got an ace up my sleeve though. I'm going to get a hot shower, and then I'm going to meditate. Frankly, it's been awhile.

I've been generally exhausted as of late. I've not been sleeping well, as I'd mentioned, and I've been having to run a lot of errands on foot, which means jogging in the spring sun for mile to two mile distances daily. Coupled with my morning work-out and anything else I might do between, I want to conk-out on a well-rested day, let alone one where I've gotten four hours of sleep, if that.

I'm uh, hold on, I have to formulate the next sentence I'm on because I'm not - I'm running out of topics, really, I wish I weren't, but there's just not a whole lot of room to think, because of all that's-

I've been handling a lot of paperwork; I think I mentioned that somewhere. I'm getting some benefits paperwork. It's pretty convoluted, and I want to fill it out, but I'm having trouble because it's requesting convoluted military doctrines and garbage that it doesn't host for you to consult, but expects you to have pre-read before attempting to invoke the aforementioned benefits.

I'd talk more, but I really need that shower.
I really reek of sweat and my muscles are aching.

Busy as Hell.

Yesterday marks the first day in three that I've gotten to bed before 1:00 AM. The week's been spent sorting through government paperwork while commissioning more of it, working out rigorously, and handling convoluted financial transactions (One of which I hope to fix today by awkwardly loitering next to a deposit bin until 3:00 PM.)

I'd had kind of a rough day. In between my father's horror stories about basic training, and my personal horror stories about trying to get in, everything just seemed really troubled.

Even people seemed troubled. I wanted to go to bed with a frown, but someone never lets me.
As such? I'm feeling pretty chipper as I get ready to brave the sea of crap I've already managed to get myself into.

I want to write another Uninterrupted soon. I had a good long talk with Aaron, and it ended up kind of coming out an an Uninterrupted from my end, but it could use an encore performance.

In closing, I had a dream that I met the Father of a friend of mine, Agustin. His Father hates me vehemently, and has hinted that his connections within the CIA allow him to watch me from afar and know what I'm doing. I think it's all bluster and no dice, if you ask me, but in my dream, he was serving pea soup from paper bowls, and had won a trophy for being exceptionally good at those Prize Grabber games. He won a limited edition replica of Ja'far's turban from one. And was even part of a community that competitively played Prize Grabber where he had a screen-name like "Robbo-rojo" or something.

At some point, I opened a safe, too, and pulled out a bunch of jewelry, old coins, vintage clothing, and a note that just said, "I have parted ways with your necklace in Caladon. I am returning for it. -Caladon, 1."

No real ideas on any of it. Anyways, I've got to get food, jog, and convince a postman to let me retrieve a letter from the post-bin to change its address, among other things.

Commissioning a Change of Topic.

It's been awhile since I've been able to get out a real what's-what, and there's been little going on here beyond me having dreams, then abruptly waking up to post them here. I'm going to fix that right now, and say what's been up for anyone that might be interested.

I'm currently gathering documentation for the recruiter, Attison, to review. It's some real scrounge-work, and I'm getting very little from the people I contact. He said to tell them, "Anything you can get me would be lovely," even if they're being uncooperative, and asserted that he "doesn't care if they're documents from my barber," and that he'd just like anything that might push me into higher distinction.

So, I'm working on that, and have already gotten some medical stuff that says my flaws are controlled and readily surpassed, and some old school-records where I'm pretty top-tier. Now I'm just trying to get in contact with my old construction gig and the animal control centers I volunteered at.

Last night, I tried to get the mail out yesterday, but at the print-studio Cindy was on break and wasn't able to help me set-up my press. There was another employee, but he was just as clueless as me and ultimately said if I wanted anything done, I was gonna have to play ball and pony up fifteen bucks instead of a dollar-fifty. I wasn't keen on multiplying my price by ten.

I've gotten it all done today. I wasn't able to get Hjalmar's hair-pin made, so I think I might part ways with a cool pin and call it good until I can get ahold of some epoxy.

I've been on a CAKE binge, just grooving to Comfort Eagle and Fashion Nugget for the past couple of days. They're pretty old, and they're right up there with Dave Matthews, Nine Inch Nails and Tool on bands my father listened to when I was little that I later picked up, too - if you'd like a bit of their work, I can see what I can do in regard to helping you SEAFARING BANDIT if you know what I mean.

I've also been kind of nostalgic. It's been a good long while since I've gotten to play any games, and I've been mentally drooling over things I used to enjoy that were real time-consuming and relaxing like Harvest Moon and Flatspace.

I'd really like to flirt with the Witch Princess or Alisa.

Or just drift through space with a degree in Theology while harvesting and processing iron for humble profits.

In the crummier department of news, my aunt just had a miscarriage. She'd been pregnant for sometime and after suffering a collapse it killed the unborn child. I don't really know how to feel; I'm saddened for the disappointment it brings her to learn that, but on the other hand, she's in a kind of unique situation.

She left my uncle, Geoff, the stab-victim who was very kind, to essentially fool-around with married men. She's been real keen on this asshole Cop who is already married, named John, who she was very keen to bear a child despite him already having two kids (who are also assholes - good parenting, John) and him essentially keeping her on the outskirts of the family because he already has a wife who naturally doesn't approve of him having an affair.

In my opinion, it's just probably not the best person or situation to bring innocent life.
But she had high expectations and good intentions.

I don't know. I'm content to be neutral on it.

I also found there's a Red Cross not too far away.
I walked there yesterday to donate fluids. I've got an appointment to do it twice on the third of April. I'm pretty keen to make a habit of this, but they're not so good with needles, and I confess I'm still really sore. They entered at an odd angle, and I've been bruised-up and pained the day after. I wouldn't be surprised if it scarred like some of my worse platelet donations where they kept misplacing the I.V. or had set the draw-rate extraordinarily high, nearly collapsing a vein.

Anyways, I've got to prepare dinner, flirt with my darling, and then get to the Gym before it closes. I meant to go this morning, but I was up exceptionally late last night and had to compensate with a bit more sleep than usual. It wasn't a good idea, because the Printing Studio closes at weird, early hours.

Maimed Writer and Nuclear War.

I had a dream that consisted of two unrelated vignettes:

First, there was a young man with very short hair. He seemed fairly average and had been walking down an evening street when an entourage of armed men sped up beside him in a car. They kind of presented their armament, and they were all confident and threatening.

The young man actually drew a gun, and at some point one of the men in the car seized his hands, and forced him to drop it. They kind of taunted him before pulling him into the car.

From that point they savagely beat him and tortured him. I know at some point they ran a straight-razor over the man's eyes, and then proceeded to throw his unconscious body from the moving car.

The man survived and proceeded to write a book about it. Half of his face, after surviving, was covered in severe road-rash where it had met the pavement after being tossed out the car and the whole of his head was encased in a supportive brace, so I imagine that's the reasoning behind the half-censoring of its cover: the cover was what I presume to be half a photograph of his face after the incident. His eye is sliced, and rolled into the back of his head, as he's presumably unconscious, and you can see the tattered beginnings of the other half.

I don't know what he titled it.

Shortly after that, an unrelated side-story began. My little sister and myself were in a hotel when the lights flickered. A loud explosion resounded and the sirens, a briefly-lived television warning, and overwhelming light told us it was nuclear.

We hid in the shower of the apartment. It was the safest place to be if the building collapsed and we had no fallout-shelter in the immediate vicinity.

Everyone had apparently survived but New York was kind of an irradiated shell of its former self. Afterwards, people were dying to radiation, but were trying to continue on as if it never happened.
At some point, I actually walked to a local pizzeria where I'm somewhat well-known for always arriving in shorts regardless of the weather, as I jog there.

One of the workers - an older man with silver hair and a light beard - had tuffs of his hair falling out and looked rather somber. The other - a rotund, usually cheery, and bald man - simple regarded me from a pizza and said, "Why are you here?"

At this point, my alarm went off, I woke up, and left for the Gym. It's worth noting I did not have any nightmare-style awakenings.

In a slightly amusing side-note despite my recent frequency of bizarre dreams, I have passed my mental evaluation for military service with flying colors.

Nightmare While Trying to Warm Up.

It was raining and a black cat crawled onto the banister of a patio. It looked as if it'd fallen off, and I panicked, running out to see it only to find it okay and let it back in. However, from the banister, I could see two girls. They were shadowy and almost amorphous.

Distinctly a young one with what appeared to be white flecks or maybe even teeth in her eyes and a older, taller one with a grim and emotionless expression, and plain black features without her younger accomplice's definitive eyes.
I had some playful name for the taller of the two, but can't remember after having woken up.

She did not like the name, and my attempt to speak with her lead to her attempting to assault my mind somehow. It unsettled my body, jarring it, and I knew that they were dangerous.

These two girls almost haunted me. I don't know what they were.

There was a boy sitting in the yard of the house I was in and I ran to him and I pleaded, "Please. Look out there. Do you see them too? Can you tell me what they are?"

The tall one began to walk down the stairs. She was no longer outside with her younger accomplice and of the two, she scared me most.

The boy broke into a sprint without seeing the girls. He said "There's something going on." and I chased him refusing to be alone in that house.

He ran, and he ran, and he ran for a great while before he stopped at a swing-set. There were three young children playing on it, and a fourth who was little more than a withered, crushed torso.

The boy panicked. He asked, "What happened?" and the boy nonchalantly said he'd been hit. In retrospect, I think this might have been by someone in a car. For awhile, he looked for their parents, but the way they continued swinging without caring seemed to break him.

The boy was losing his composure. He fled into a church, and I decided to follow him. For ages upon ages, Churches have always been a place of shelter and sanctuary, and I was comforted by that fact.

The boy screamed, "Is the Father in?"
I looked at the church attendant - he had graying hair and a beard as well as thin glasses.

He answered by saying, "I don't know where he is."
I couldn't tell if he were talking about God or the Pastor, and I was crestfallen.
My confusion was cleared up when the attendant said, "It's not right to be late, considering how fit he is."

We sat down. All around us, people were gathered nervously.

Something odd happened that I'm not able to do usually. Almost lucidly, I began thinking.

I thought. I closed my eyes, and I pressed my hands to my face, and I raised my head up, and I tried to meditate as I do at home. I tried to imagine what the face of God is like, but all around me people were talking and muttering amongst themselves and I couldn't. I thought, "Maybe this is intentional? If humanity has a weakness, it's its brilliant mind. Maybe they're trying to break my mind?"

"Do you think they're real?"
"Did you want to see it?"
"...The face of the Antichrist."

I remember these three fragmented sentences humming from people I couldn't see, as my eyes were closed. I tried to tune them out. I tried to focus. I was doing okay when suddenly this massive, massive man entered the Church.

He was the missing Pastor.

He was inhuman in size. Almost blubbery with muscle. So muscular it made him overweight and impractical. What's really odd is he looked exceptionally ordinary: very boring button-down finery, a well-kempt beard, and combed, dark, wavy hair. He had a frighteningly barbaric voice however, that only matched his unsettling size and bulk. He lifted the carpets that held the church-pews where everyone was sitting and he dragged it out of the door, screaming dark portents. The people flocked to him in the most disturbing manner. As he wrecked the interior of the church and flung chairs and people aside, they cheered his existence and heeded his terrifying voice's prophecies as he began herding them outside.

I wanted nothing to do with this pastor. He offended my senses with his voice, his looks, his mannerisms, and his sense of almost joyous madness. I broke into a sprint and I escaped out the opposing door, running out into the wet grass.

At this point, I woke up.

Sickish.

I'm sorry if I'm slow to get anything up. In addition to working my ass off to meet my three-month deadline, I'm also under the weather with something.

I don't really know what it is, but I know it's holding hands with my asthma and making it a lot more difficult to work-out.

I've just started the laundry to detox my sheets, and I'm making certain to get lots of fresh air, vitamins, simple sugars, and fluids.

I'll be fine, I'm just sort of wonky.

On Joseph Kony.

I'd gotten into a pretty good discussion with Hjalmar regarding Joseph Kony, though it ultimately spiraled into the misinformation presented in the media, the ignorance of a majority of the American populace in the matter, and modern genocide as a whole.

I've not seen something garner this sort of blind support since SOPA and PIPA were speculated.
Kony has been active for many years. When I was small my father told me horror stories about Joseph Kony and the warring tribes of Africa, and how there was once a sense of stability in Africa under British rule - which, frankly, you can see just about anywhere. Hong-Kong. South-Africa. Arguably, I'd have said we were pretty stable under British rule until they got tax-happy and we got indignant and proud - this has been going on for a long time, America. Don't act like it's the most pressing matter on the table when similar hostilities have been raging in Bosnia, Serbia, Kosovo, and Iran since far before Kony's activity.

And Kony's activity - let's look at that. He's mostly active in the Democratic Republic of the Congo - which is a fucking mess unto itself and has been embroiled in civil war since existence - and better yet, he's leading the LRA: The Lord's Revolution Army. "Christians," whose original goal of instating a theocracy degraded into raiding schools for child soldiers and hacking limbs.

I can see the headlines now - people will pretend they knew nothing about Kony's activities, and they'll forget the Lobbyists and Congressmen they pestered and look straight to the presidency:
"OBAMA INVADES AFRICA. KILLS CHRISTIANS AND CHILDREN."
Yes. Children. Because a majority of his front-line soldiers are pillaged children, and realistically, there's going to be casualties.

And it's the limb-hacking and mutilation that has people outraged.
That gets me.
Bodies have been getting lopped in Africa ever since England backed out and the Tutsi and Hutu decided they didn't like each-other: they lop off hands so people can't work, they lop off breasts so mothers can't breastfeed children, and they disfigure people to shame them.

This, too, has been going on for ages and Kony's not the only guy involved. Arguably, he's just the most organized guy about it.

And Uganda? It's been royally fucked since Britain left, too. Idi Amin. Idi Amin was one of the most civil rights violating regimes ever. There are accounts of people being fed to each-other, and kept alive skewered vertically on poles for days.
Amin got ousted, and what happened? Somewhere along the lines, Kony sauntered in. Catch Kony. Idi Amin proceeded him. The precedent for a barbaric successor is almost predictable.

It's arrogant to think that capturing or killing one man will fix Uganda. The majority of Africa is troubled, and Kony's not the source of it. Disorganization is. Xenophobia is. A lack of education is. A lack of industry and sound health-care is.

The only place running a respectable show in Africa is South Africa, which flourished like Hong-Kong, and even then? It required a blatantly racist regime to work as well as it did, and it martyred Nelson Mandela until his return - the amazing thing that I admire Mandela for is he realized that the British system worked. The only thing he ousted was the racial boundaries. Bravo to you, Nelson Mandela, for seeing the method to your opponent's madness, and for being so patient incarcerated.

Organization is what Africa needs - organization, and unity - and storming into that continent waving guns and looking for a guerrilla warlord amongst a sea of other less-organized guerrilla warlords in a country he's not even active in anymore is not going to provide them that, regardless of how much money you raise, or how many statuses you like, or how many lobbyists you contact.

I think Kony's a terrible person, yes, and he should get what's coming.
But he's not personally doling out these machete-swings.
He's got an army, and it's not going to just collapse because you take its figurehead.
Moreover, it's not going to fix Uganda or the Congo, let alone Africa as a whole.

I would sooner be outraged about how the swap from sterilizable glass syringes to unsterilizable plastic syringes has spread AIDS and HIV throughout Africa. No free clinic in Africa owns an autoclave, so they're just passing contaminated blood like cheap cigars out there.

That's something worth looking into. That's something I'd fund; retiring the plastic syringe.

Melted Ice-cream, Vidya, and Nuns.

I had another bizarre dream. There were disgruntled protesters surrounding my home, and I was hurdling bucketfuls of melted pink ice-cream at them to discourage them. Just Pepto-Bismol looking buckets out windows and onto these already-angry people. I have no clue what they were so pissed-off about but somehow, making them sticky and pink seemed the way to stop them.

I know at some point they made it in because a very obnoxious one proceeded to use my shower and then work-out on my apartment floor - I distinctly recall him lifting twenty-five pound dumbbells. I threatened to wallop 'em, and then we squared off.

I also dreamed something akin to one of those "Tactics" series games, where there's a plot of various terrains all divided up into squares. I recall facing some titanic and icy lizard that was otherwise protected by two mountains. I was trying to bludgeon it with a hammer. I failed, and I ultimately browsed the odd things it had to offer.

One was a rural area called the "Otherwise-Distinguished Sir Area."
I didn't get to see its interior but I know that the logo for it was a barrel stamped with a western-esque company logo that proclaimed its name.

Another looked kind of like...One of those overgrown industrial sites.
Think "S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl."
There were elaborate and complicated capacitors on all on the power-lines that ran through it, which ran so far that they vanished into the misty and overcast horizon. There was a solid brick building facade with few, narrow windows, and I think a few shipping pull-down garage-type doors on the back.

Either a bare, unpaved foot-path or a set of railroad tracks divided the building from the power-lines, and beyond all of that, there was only dead grass.

The overgrown industrial place must have been reality or something, because I know at some point there was a young Nun and she was inside of that brick building where a woman confronted her and asked, "Do you know that your hands are hand-me-downs? They're borrowed!" and seemed otherwise outraged, accusing the Nun of being in a relationship.

I woke up confused at this point to find that the rainstorm I'd left my window open to sleep to the sound of had progressed into a snowstorm overnight. I was quite cold and stayed in bed for a little extra.

It's all very disorganized and odd. Like mental chop-suey.

Orange Standards and White Musketeers.

I had an odd dream today. In my dream, America seemed to be knocked back into the dawn of industry. People were wearing old-fashioned clothing and suspenders and such, and I had been walking up a boulevard with Emily. We were quiet, and we just kind of walked beside eachother, arm in arm.

It reminds me, in retrospect, of Philip Glass's "Einstein on the Beach":
"Two lovers sat on a park-bench, with their bodies touching each-other, holding hands in the moonlight. There was silence between them. So profound was their love for each-other that they needed no words to express it."

The walking didn't last long, and somehow, I'd become enlisted as a Standard Carrier.

I had a turn-of-the-century flintlock of sorts and a massive orange banner hoisted over my shoulder. Men were charging up a hill, taking shots, and then sliding back down the slope on their rears so they could reload.

I charged up the hill and looked in the distance to see the approaching army - a small squad of no more than fifteen young men in bright, white uniforms with very anachronistic musketeer-style hats. They were very young, and I couldn't bring myself to fire a shot at them for sake of their age and innocence.

The next thing I recall, the line had been breached. I had retreated into an industrial district and I had dropped the standard and my rifle, but I had a knife. Three of the young boys had followed me, and they were lining up in position down the street I had fled into to fire in wall formation as to insure they'd hit me. I actually hid behind what was either a turned grain-bin or a dumpster - it parted the street into a bottle-neck of sorts so I figured I could win if I could get them one at a time...

I looked desperately for the rifle to no avail, and I rounded the corner where I had expected to find one of the young boys, but he had pressed his back to the side of my shelter quite stealthily, and before I knew it, they seized my arms and had begun to try and cut them off. Their knives were rather dull and I could only panic as they drew them back and forth over my skin just above my elbows, not cutting anything yet but getting closer and closer to blood.

One of the boys, who seemed rather uneducated, insisted I should be fighting the other boy holding my arms. He had a shaved, bald head and drooping, youthful eyes.

The other one still had his hat and was very chipper, as if he thought this were all a game.

I awoke startled with my arms very hot.

Intellectual Invincibility.

I was thinking about it earlier - I'd gotten into an exchange with Alex where he had basically assailed my cheery mood with his baseless pessimism by claiming the end of Touhou was nearing.

First off, if its official closure nears, who cares?

Second off, fans keep things alive - the ingenuity and devotion of fandom has kept Arcanum, Dark Reign, and a countless variety of other short-lived and splendid franchises alive. Even OK Soda.

He accused me of global indifference and I'd simply said that I have convictions about things beyond the realm of first-world concern.

I got to thinking, though, as I'd mentioned, and it had dawned on me that I cannot lose an intellectual dispute. I either win, or I learn by means of graceful volition.

The only unsatisfactory outcome is a stalemate where nothing is learned.

Come and See.

Uncanny circumstances continually land me in Church. As I did my morning stretches, a few flakes of snow began to fall from the sky. On my way to the Gym, it became a full-blown snowstorm. Cars were lined up in the parking-lot of the church and I'd suddenly realized that I'd left my gym-pass clipped to my keys which were hanging cheerily off my apartment's mail-slot where I had hung them so that they didn't fall out of my pocket while I stretched. Cold, unable to enter the Gym, and in time for service, I entered the Chapel I had donated a few mornings and my unmailed Scones to. I often go there as it's small enough to allow me to ask for the minds of spiritual and surprisingly unbiased people to be lent to my own so that I may weigh concepts with them.

Furthermore, the intensive discussion on Pol-Pot and Bosniak Genocide really convinces me that the Chapel is not brimming with idiocy or sheep, which reaffirms that I am in the company of sound minds.

Anyways - I sat down in my snow-covered shorts with headphones around my neck in this sparse room of people in their Sunday finery and I listened to a reading from Revelations regarding the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I wanted to discuss my Military Service, but I think I might have to do that tomorrow, on my way to deliver the postcards and letters I've just put together. Instead, after service, a tall, thin man in glasses approached me and I wound up talking about love crossing faiths.

He agreed with me.

It made me exceptionally happy.

I never fail to leave bolstered and intellectually stimulated, which is surprising to me.
I suppose I've never found that in a Chapel's community, as I've only been to large communities.
Crowds always seem to dilute knowledge and interpretation as crowds have a mentality of their own.

...Before I begin seeming the zealot though, I will just reaffirm that I will do my best to do right by others, and tell you that I am leaving to play in the snow, which has quickly become sleet, my favorite kind of weather short of rain.

Cold. Sticky. It's like refrigerated rice from the clouds.

Best.

I've got to be the best.
I've got to change the world
and use this chance to be heard.

My time is now.

The Somber Thinking-Mood.

Ingredients:

1 bout Ecclesiastic Pondering.
1 day Overcast Weather.
2 hours Political Debate with Kevin Macica.
1 bout Worrying about Love.
1 pinch Soldier's Poem.

1. Begin first with the Overcast Weather. Allow rain to fill the day until about half-full.
   
   
2. Add the Ecclesiastic Pondering until dissolved. You should be able to taste the contemplation of Knowledge, the Fleeting Sensation of Life Unenjoyed, and various other heavy flavors in small doses.
   
   
3. Pour the somber mix over the Worry - the worrying should be largely benign, but not entirely so. Sandwich the thinking between the Political Debate - the density of the fact that the American populace is too ignorant to allow Democracy to flourish should be the dominating flavor, and it should be fairly dense with facts.
   
   
4. Garnish with Soldier's Poem on repeat to glue the contrasting flavors and densities together. Serve stern-faced and dissatisfied.
   

LUK +10.

You're probably thinking, "Those can't be," but they are:
Lucky Underwear.

After a conversation in the aftermath of Johnny Wander's short, Lucky Penny, I had gotten onto the topic of Mystical Undergarments. They do exist, and these are mine. They've weathered Senior Year, countless hours of weightlifting, sweltering summer days alone as impromptu shorts (they're exceptionally long and loose), freezing short-covered snow-jogs to the post-office to deliver scones, and above all else, have insured that no harm befell me through any of it.

If I were going to stop a tank in Tienanmen Square, or finally overhaul the Legislative Branch?

These would be my back-up.

Plat du Jour.

Blueberry Scones

If you're not familiar with Scones, they're somewhere between English Muffins and Croissants. They're kind of the flavorful love-mistake of English Muffins and Croissants, actually. Biscuity triangles of flaky dough full of baked fruit.

In addition to being all of the aforementioned, they're also the official tea-time snack of haughty noblewomen. Anyone who laughs while half-covering their mouth and releasing a noise akin to "Uwahawhawhawhaw," "Fufufufufu," "Hmhmhmhmhm," or "Kyahahahaha-!" probably has a natural affinity for Scones.

Emily has never had a scone, and Shawn has exclusively had Lemon (though he also asserts that is was "fuckin' delicious.") and as such, I'd figured it's about time that I sat down and got to making some to give to them. This was my first time making them - I kind of did a test-fire after the fact. You see, any time I work with dough there's a distinct risk of me getting flour everywhere, and sometimes I don't feel like cleaning up twice and I just want to be done with it; such are the woes of baking. The blueberries I bought for this were not only twice the price of cheapskate "Blueberry-Infused Cranberries," and I only got half a cup of them, while I'm assuming I got about two cups of "Blueberry-Infused Cranberries" for my two bucks. I digress. Basically, I got all prepped-up to make some cranberry ones to see how they'd turn out and then I got skeptical of my want to clean afterwards, so I made the blueberry ones - these ones- first.

...Then it started to snow and I thought my little sister could use a warm after-school snack. I promptly buckled and made the cranberry ones, too. She liked them.

Anyways, I just used a "wing it" adaptation of This recipe to make my scones.
Give it a shot if you're a fan of British people, tea, or Scarlet from Final Fantasy VII.

Kyahahahaha-!