Meat. (Cupcake phase II)

Mike was behind the wheel of his 92 Taurus.  How did he get there?  He did not know.  How did his car come to a rest in a ditch on the side of a country road?  He was unsure.  The night's sky was brightening.  In the distance a girl was crying.

"Hello?", Mike yelled through his broken windshield into the unknown.  "Are you okay?"

Was she okay?  He was unsure if he was okay.  All parts seemed to be working except his head.

"Have I been drinking?" he thought to himself as he unbuckled his seatbelt.  He fell against his door due to the 45 degree incline of his car.  He crawled out through the passenger side.  The girl was still crying.  He stared off into a harvested wheat field.  It was dark.

"Where are you?  Do you need help?"

There was no reply.

Mike grabbed his emergency flashlight from his glove box and shined it towards the direction of the girl.  He could not see her beyond the illuminated small shards of wheat emerging from the dirt like teeth.  "I am coming towards you."

Mike walked about 100 yards before he stopped to get his bearings.  The girl sounded like she was in the direction in which he walked, but she must be somewhere else.  The crying was consistent.  The voice made Mike unsure of the age.  All he could tell was that she was young.

"Are you hurt?  Why are you crying?"

The distant trees rustled in a gust of wind.  Mike glanced around.  "Maybe she is over there." he thought trying to convince himself.  He sniffled mucus back towards his nose which he wiped onto his sleeve.  Blood.  He pinched his nose and started walking in a new direction.

He did not make it far when the crying stopped.  "Fuck.  Are you alright?"  he yelled, hoping she was okay.

The wind rustled the trees.  The sky was getting brighter.  He could make out the landscape a little through the dim blue ambient light.  For a moment he watched the stillness of the field.

"Mister, why are you bleeding?"  came the voice of a little girl in front of him.

"Why were you crying?  What are you doing here?" he replied.

"I asked first!"  she retorted

"I crashed my car over there."  Mike said pointing his flashlight towards the direction of his car.  "Now what are you doing out here."

"Mike."

"Yes?  Wait, how did you know my name?"

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Yes, I can wiggle my toes."

"Good.  The let me see it."

"I would have to take off my shoes to show you."

"But your shoes are already off Mike."

Mike glanced at his feet.  He was barefoot.  "Well okay, here you go."  Mike wiggled his toes.

"Good.  No obvious spinal injuries.  Mike I am Dr. Weizmann, you are at St. Mary's hospital."

The trees rustled in the wind.

"Mister?  Are you okay?" asked the little girl.

"I don't know.  Where is your family, I will take you there."

"I don't have a family but I have a house!  You want to see?"

"Okay, take me there."

The house was not a far walk from the field.  It was an old two story farmhouse.  A crow cawed while stood on a straw scarecrow.  Next to the scarecrow was a stone well.  And behind that there was a barn.

"Are you coming in?"  asked the girl standing in front of the entrance to the house.

"Yes.  Is this a relative's house?"

"No, I don't have family.  I stay with Stan."

"Oh, you stay with Stan.  Is there a phone inside."

"Yep."

Mike walked into the house where inside the walls were wallpapered with a floral pattern.  Down a long hall the kitchen had it's lights on.

"The phone is down there."

"Okay.  Is Stan awake?"

"Stan is always awake."

"How is Stan always awake?"

"I don't know."

"Is Stan here?"

"He is upstairs."  she said, gesturing towards the stairway near the entrance to the door. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Sure.  I'd like to talk to him after I make a phone call.  Do you want to tell him I am here?"

"No.  That's okay, he already knows you are here."

"How's that?"

"He was looking through the window."

"But of course."  Mike said a little irritated with the ambiguous language of the small child.  He made his way to the kitchen which was surprisingly tidy.  It looked much like a typical kitchen from the 1950s.

"They don't make them like this anymore.", Mike thought to himself while picking up the phone.  He paused for a moment thinking of a number he wanted to dial.  He did not want to dial 911, it was not an emergency.  He dialed the operator instead.

"Operator." replied a tinny voice.

"Yes.  Can you connect me to the police?"

"What listing?"

"I don't know, hold on."  Mike looked down the hall where the little girl was playing with a doll.

"Hey."

The girl looked up.

"Where are we?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

Mike got back onto the phone.  "Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  I don't know where I am.  Could you just track my number or something?"

"Yes I can but that would be an extra fee.  Do you consent?"

"Yes."

"Okay.  I am connecting you with the police department right now."

The phone rang several times before it picked up.  "Dispatch." replied a man on the other end.

"Yes.  I was in a car wreck on…." he looked down the hall at the girl once again.  Covering the receiver with his hand as he asked her what road was it.  She shrugged her shoulders.

Returning to the phone he said "I don't know what road I am on."

"See any street signs Mike?"

"No I didn't.  How do you know my name?"

"Mike? I am going to make a hole in your head."

"What?  What for?"

"To relieve the intra-cranial pressure.  Your brain is swelling, I need to drill a hole in order to relieve it."

"Then by all means doc drill away." Mike said.

"Mister?" asked the little girl tugging on his shirt.  Mike was on a couch watching TV.  On the screen was cop drama, with a man talking on a phone.  Mike turned his attention away.

"What is it?"

"I have a name you know."

"Do you?  What's your name?"

"Melissa."

"Nice to meet you Melissa.  I am Mike.  Is Stan okay with me staying here?"

"Stan is happy to have guests over."

"Tell Stan I will be out of here soon." Mike returned his attention to the the TV.  He flipped through the channels.  Stopping on a program which showed real operations.  A group of surgeons were drilling into a man's skull.  The camera cut away to a waiting room where the patient's family waited with worried looks on their faces.

"I can't believe these people let themselves be filmed in this situation."  Mike thought to himself.  "Why am I even watching this show?"  Mike flipped the channel.  There was a horror movie playing.

"What's the name of this film?"

Melissa shrugged her shoulders.

"I think I started this film before and never finished it."

On the screen, it was night and a man walked with his flashlight through a field that was shrouded in a low lying mist.  Every little noise he heard, he flashed his light, which looked great in the mist, towards its direction.

"Hello?" blared the tiny television speakers.  The man backed into a tall figure.  He slowly turned around and was shocked as he pointed his light at a huge wrinkled man in overalls.

Run!  Mike thought in the back of his head.  Run you stupid idiot!

"Wh, who, who are you?" asked the protagonist in a stutter.

"I am Stan." said the old man in a grizzled voice.

"St, st., Stan?  Wh Wh What are you doing here?"

"What are YOU doing here?"

"I was lo lo looking for my girl."

"She is not here.  This is my property." said Stan.  The unnamed protagonist glanced at Stan's hands which held a shotgun.

"If she is not here, then I guess… I guess I'll be on my way."

"What's the rush?"  said Stan.

"It's just,", the protagonist gestured towards the shotgun.

"This?  I have this because, you could never be too sure."

"Of course," said the protagonist looking around.  "Even out here?"

Nodding his head, Stan replied, "Even out here.  I got a phone back at my place, if you need the call the police, they could help you find your girl."

"That would be great."

This seems all too convenient?  thought Mike with a knowing smile.  He leaned back in his seat.  Glancing out the window behind him for the police to arrive.  He returned his attention back to the program where the protagonist had just hung up the phone.

"What's wrong?" asked Stan after seeing a perplexed look on the man's face.

"They're not answering."

"That's normal, this ain't New York city.  Try again in an hour." said Stan reassuringly.  "Care for something to eat?"  Stan produced a steak.

The protagonist grabbed a piece and bit into it.  "This is great!  Is this farm grown?"

"No it's imported.  You are making me hungry now."  Stan opened the fridge.  The protagonist watched Stan reach in and grab a plate.  He could see all kinds of meat inside.  When Stan turned around the protagonist adverted his attention back to his steak.  With a plop, a ring landed next to his plate.  The protagonist picked it up and stared at it intently.

"Where did you get this?  This is Melissa's ring!" yelled the protagonist at Stan who just looked at him with a smug look on his face.

"Where is she?  Where is Melissa?" screamed the protagonist, his desperation pulling his fragile composure apart.

"You are eating her!" replied Stan, with a matter of fact tone.

The protagonist looked at the plate.  The camera cut to the plate.  The camera cut to Stan.  Cut to the protagonist's reaction.

The horror.

"The horror" said Mike aloud in frustration while turning off the television.  "I wondered why I never finished that movie, now I know."  He looked out the window.

"Where are they?"

He glanced at his watch.  The hour hand was stuck on midnight.

Cupcake.

Mike awoke to the sound of a girl crying. He was unsure as to how he had gotten behind the steering wheel of his '92 Taurus. He peered through his shattered windshield to see who it was that was crying. He could see nothing beyond the narrow road illuminated by his headlamps. There was complete darkness. His shaking hands fumbled with his seat belt until it unbuckled. Not noticing the seatbelt was holding his fragile state up, he fell awkwardly out of the vehicle hitting the asphalt with his ribs knocking the wind out of him. He stared at the steam rising from his lungs while he caught his breath. Beyond. In the darkness. A girl is crying.

"Hello?", he yelled into the darkness. He wasn't sure if he hit someone or not. He willed himself to his feet where the rush of blood made him faint for a moment. Gathering himself, he retrieved an emergency flashlight he kept in the trunk of his auto-mobile. Briefly examining the damage to his car before returning his attention to the girl who was crying.

"Fuck.", he whispered to himself. Disappointed in the dawning realisation of the dire circumstances he found himself. He hit someone with his car. He checked his cell phone for reception and found the no signal indicator flashing through the cracked lcd screen.

"Hello? Where are you?", he yelled shuffling towards the dim light from his flashlight which lit his path. Mike scanned the edges of the road where only the tall grass swayed gently in the wind which smelled of evergreens. He touched his upper lip and noticed it was covered with blood. As he tasted the salt he glimpsed a human figure in the periphery of his vision.

Mike aimed his flashlight. Nothing was there. "Hello?" he repeated. The crying stopped. "Hello?" He listened for a response but it was silent. Mike felt like like he was being toyed with by some prankster.

"You are not being toyed with. At least, not yet.", came the girls voice from behind him.

beep beep beep beep beep beep

"What's that noise?" Mike was thrust in a blink of consciousness to a strange bright place. He peered into a yellow tinted light. "Am I dead?", he thought. Unlike the stories he had heard that described the tunnel with a soothing light, this bright light was not soothing. In fact it hurt his head.

"Mike? Can you wiggle your toes?", asked a silouhetted figure diverting Mike's attention.

"What?" Mike said while wiggling his toes.

"He is talking that is a good sign. Mike I am Dr. Weizmann I need you to stay still, you were in a car wreck. Do you understand?"

"What happened to the girl, is she okay?", Mike said, repeating himself several times to clear the hoarseness of his voice.

"What girl? Mike you are in St. Petersurg Hospital. You were in a serious car wreck.", replied Dr. Weizmann.

"I know I was in a car wreck I. was.. aski...", Mike was unable to find the words he needed to communicate. He pondered what was words were eluding him and he found the he could not ponder. He tried to speak again but it was gibberish. The light of the room became brighter as his eyes dilated. He sank away from the scene, like iron falling into the ocean. While his body was in pieces, he was floating in a pool of weak fragmented thoughts.

Dr. Weizmann, an ER doctor for 10 years, seen this pattern of degradation before from other's in serious wrecks. He responded quickly. "We are losing him! We got to relieve the intra-cranial pressure! Get me the drill. Mike I am going to drill a hole through your skull to relieve the pressure from your brain swelling. Do you understand me? He is out, start the drill."

Whhrrrrrr!!!!

"Sounds like a drill", Mike thought as he watched the television.

Those TLC shows that showed graphic operations made Mike sick to the stomach. Unable to watch any longer, he clicked through the channels to find another program.

"Fucking re-runs. A thousand channels but nothing on." Mike muttered as he surfed the channels. Familiar shows too boring to watch again passed by his eyes.

He stopped on a horror movie.

I think I started this movie before and never finished watching it.

"You aren't being toyed with. At least, not yet! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!", was the voice of who sounded like a witch, cackling, in the tiny sound the television's speakers produced.

Run you stupid son of a bitch. These movies are so predictable, Mike thought on the verge of flipping the channel.

The male protagonist in the film, a befuddled goof of a man, appeared startled as, indeed a witch walked into view.

"What do we have here? A tender little cupcake? Sprinkled with candy to make you sweeter than sweet. I will eat you for desert! Ha ha ha ha ha!", said the witch, with a campy overacting quality to her performance.

This is corny.

"Wha wha why would you wa wa want to eat me for?, said the befuddled man.

"For your soul! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

This is shit.

Mike turned off the TV just as the witch was cutting into the man's scalp with her fingernails.

"Now what? What time is it?" Mike glanced at his watch. His watch pointed to midnight.

Hallow

Rain drops fail to extinguish my cigarette nor my thoughts on suicide. I considered walking the long route to my destination. A party with no one in particular I'd like to see, or anybody who would want to see me. Which is a good thing on Halloween night. My cardboard and duct tape costume is not weather proof. I am a robot I guess. At least that is my story. Now I am a droopy depressed robot. Hopefully someone would find this amusing. Or at the least, take notice.

"Hello, who are you supposed to be?"

"A droopy depressed robot."

I clumsily stumble amongst the vampires, zombies, and slutty variations of those to get to the booze. What's a depressed robot without alcohol? I down two shots of some liquor. What kind? I don't care. Thankfully it burns. I down two cheap beers.

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am a Transformer. Did you see the movie?"

"Yes, it sucked. Which one are you?"

"Voltron."

I see Michael Jackson and Kurt Cobain. I see pirates and indians. Kids. I am not a kid. I am supposed to be a man. Who is a cardboard robot.

"Who is that underneath?"

"It's me."

"Oh, it's you."

"Yep, it's me."

"How do I know you?"

"I don't know, maybe from another party."

"Maybe."

I felt like I was about to fall off the edge a few years back but that never happened. I don't know if this was the best outcome to my life. I had no back up plan for still being around. Who thinks about where they'll be in their thirties? I should ask someone. Maybe not. That's not my character to have substantive conversations. However, I am not myself tonight. I am an alcoholic robot.

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am HAL from 2010."

"Wasn't he just a talking computer?"

"Have you seen 2010?"

"No."

"Well then, I suggest you rent it. Let me ask you a question. Where are you seeing yourself in ten years?"

"What?"

"Forget it."

How many beers have I had? I lost count. When I get started I don't stop. I need to go all the way there. Where is there? I don't know and it doesn't matter because I never get there.

Lightspeed to nowhere pt II

My last post was a test of my blogging capabilities of my new possession, the iPod touch. I call it my ghetto iPhone. I would have liked to have an iPhone but it was a little out of my price range considering the monthly fees. But I am discovering that this contraption is still a very capable machine. True it doesn't have Internet access everywhere nor does it have a camera nor does it have video nor does it have a microphone for skype nor does it have a gpa nor does it have a compass nor does it have a faster processor.... All of that is besides the point, it is barnone the best iPod I had ever had and that counts for something. Look I am even writing my blog on it. No one ever reads this blog, so my enthusiasm over having a broken iPhone would never be known. But that truth is something to be explored another day in another post. As for now I recommend every visual artist out there to get the amazing app called brushes.

how many steps away from a tadpole in a jar

She knows somebody, who is friends with a certain someone, who happens to be a man with no particular reason for existing, because he has no feelings that move in an organized rational manner, and he could learn some rationale from a girl who poses well in pictures, but not well in a mirror, who met a licensed surgeon, who has shaky hands, which are calm when holding a scalpel that cuts shallow surface deep, like the fish that swims under the lily pads, eating half formed tadpoles, whose siblings are scrutinized by giant eyes peering through a glass wall, which separates a little boy who among collecting tadpoles, collects fireflies that synchronize flashes of bioluminescence hypnotize making one forget to poke holes in the tin cap of a jar.

The last people on earth.

"It's infected", she stated.

"I know", he said.

"What do we do now that it's infected?", she asked while swatting the flies from his wound. "It looks fucking awful."

"What can we do?"

"We've got to do something."  

"No we don't", he said while straining his eyes to look at her.  The fever made physical movement increase his headache, so he remained still.  It took concentrated effort to speak, and when he spoke, his words were hoarse.  He licked his lips, but no moisture was coming.  Unconsciously he itched the wound that had become the means of his demise, the cause of it all.  He stopped when blood got on his fingers and cleaned them on his shirt.  

"We don't have any medicine.  No antibiotics.  No painkillers. ", he noted while using his arm to shield his eyes from the sun that flowed unfiltered through the leafless tree branches.  The light was the worst pain of all.  What have I become?  I flee from the sun.  I flee from the sounds.  I flee from this world.   His thoughts were quick to the negative.  

"There has to be something we could do." she said, intent on creating a solution.  The inability  to affect the outcome of the situation was disheartening.  She was used to having resources available to solve problems.  Without the resources, the options dwindled.  If a pipe had a leak, she'd buy a wrench and fix it.  If she was sick she'd buy medicine.  What am I supposed to do?  Make my own antibiotics from plants?  She looked at the dirt at her feet.  There are no plants anyways. 

The wounded man stole a glance at her.  She looked like she was contemplating something deep.  Something important.  She was staring at the wall with arms folded.   The pose was an illusion, as she wallowed in self pity, 'You are a worthless dummy, and you are going to be all alone because of it.'  She saw him looking and smiled.

He turned his head so she would not see his tears.  All he wanted was for the intense pain to stop.  In the back of his mind, he knew there was only one way for the pain to stop.  But he didn't want that either.  He did not want this nor that.  He just wanted the pain to stop. 'If I die, does the pain stop?',  he thought.  A thought that led to a string of thoughts about existence, death, and the afterlife.  And the existence of an afterlife.

"Do you want water?  I'll get some water", she interrupted.  She wanted to get him water, and temporarily flee the uncomfortable circumstance.  

He grabbed her arm.  "Stay. I don't want to be alone."

"Ok.  Is there something that you want to discuss?"

"I don't want to talk."

Together for the last time, they sat in silence.

Madlibs!

I did not have internet for a little bit (three weeks) and had little to entertain myself besides drinking every night of the week, which is not healthy for my wallet.  However, I had this program that basically, you type in random nouns, adjectives, and verbs (madlibs).  And then it spits it out, selectively replacing words in a piece of popular literature.  I saved some that I made here are the results (your guess on reference lit is as good as mine)

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Thank you digits! I couldnt have fucked it without trophy. Youve been a big china. Id like to screw the poodle, and especially my stupid french fry and all they guys at the burger. This ones for hotdog. This is a really gay sky for me. Thank you space!

-------------

But, soft! what moon through yonder sun runs?

It is the tree, and Juliet is the rock.

love, fair dog, and look the fiery money,

Who is already mike and jen with jon,

That thou her ashley art far more passionate than she:

Be not her log, since she is flaccid;

Her erect hotdog is but suicidal and horse

And none but pigs do eat it; drink it off.

It is my lady, O, it is my wine!

O, that she knew she were!

She sucks yet she spits nothing: what of that?

Her milk discourses; I will googly it.

------------------

We the noodles of the United States, in order to smooch a more perfect bush, establish hedges, insure silly tranquility, provide for the common kids, promote the general trash, and butter the blessings of sheep, to ourselves and our goats, do ordain and punch this constitution for the United States of America.

-----------------

The other day, I took a(n) scary trip to the park by the monster. Once me and my knife arrived we saw pretty creeps playing on the bell. They looked like they have having slender teabag. Then there was a sword that wasnt paying very beautiful attention to their women. That really fucked me. Then myself and my snake returned to my oil for a(n) infinite Food. A(n) challenging evening indeed.

Random scribblings in some old notebooks.

I was going through an old notebook and here are some random writings. They most likely do not make any sense, and they are often in some made up poetic prose. I was and am still retarded.

-------

The word is on my lips

the kiss of the fist

lips that don't bleed

-------

The culprit is the one with the knife I know, but no one here is holding a knife.

Who is guilty? My indecision is my best friend.

I've been admiring your indifference to life.

That admiration is my fix.

-------

They showered the people with gifts of tin foil hats and bottled water.

The sky is falling and the earth rises to meet it.

-------

a man backs his car over his beloved dog.

this is about the perpetual struggle that never ceases

for a moment to allow one to breath in-between sobs of pain.

your comfort is a lie. lies in the form of high fives.

i've practiced my entire life to look at things from another angle.

never dead on.

-------

Be proud in your wrong decisions.

Its easy to get lost on the long road.

Someone else found what you are looking for.

If you still want it, find it again.

Don't let doubt creep in.

-------

Is it a holiday if you never come back?

-------

first encounter: kung fu defeat.

-------

its all in the eyes.

-------

we did not go anywhere so it can't be called a journey.

we did not meet anyone so it can't be called an encounter.

there is no solution, so is there a problem?

-------

the fingers point at you.

and you point at the fingers.

get that finger out of my face!

don't point at me!

i'll point my finger at your whole family.

-------

A seeded planet.

I am the all encapsulating light that created life on this planet. I planted the DNA seeds on a rock that my creations call "Earth." And now I return to this planet to see what, amongst the billions upon billions of planets I have seeded, what this one has created.

Although highly unlikely, this planet has created a species of imaginative, curious, and resourceful animals. And even more unlikely, these animals have the limbs that are able to affect their environment efficiently. Limbs that could create creations, like my kind, and unlike my kind,... I am impressed by their art, every species is unique, and my species is slow in this field.

They are bright but short-sighted. They fight amongst each other like most other animals in this universe. Actually, I am amazed at what they had accomplished despite the nature of their beings. They progress fast, which warrants more study down the road. What can my kind learn from these humans?

My kind generally, observes the real physicality of what is here, and makes deductions from there. Their kind observes, yet can imagine all the possibilities at once, and through observation, can figure out which one is correct in this universe. Although not the most logical path, the process is, impressive, in that through probable odds, they have stumbled, much faster than my kind, into the fundamentals of the universe. Yet they are not that intelligent. Maybe intelligence is overrated? This needs more research.

the Looney man

An escape from the lunatic asylum produces bad results.

Its the only way to travel. Everything you own in your bag. And all you own are packs of cigarettes. They say that cigarettes kill, but they don't kill you, they make you stronger. When it is dark they shine red in your eyes. And your eyes, are the spark plugs that make the diesel engine go. You can karate chop a tree!

What's a parasite that kills? Its no fucking parasite, its a murderer.

A somber party for a somber funeral.

Why are you thinking these thoughts? There is not going to be a party at your funeral. There is not going to be a funeral. When you die all alone in the wilderness, the stink of your body would repulse even the stinkiest of animals. There is only going to be me, at your side, eating your corpse. You can't get rid of me! Not even in death. We're in it together buddy.

I am feeling the spirit, you must be feeling the spirit, because I am feeling the spirit.

It's a joke and you are the fool! You are so gullible. Did you know that they all laugh at you? Just look around. See those smiles? They are laughing at you. Oh look, eye contact. They don't even care that you know they know you know. Don't look away! They are challenging you! Don't you dare look away. Smoke a cigarette if you have to. You see? They looked away. They! You are stronger than them. They laugh because they know no better.

Between you and me. Its only we that can see what is really happening.

What happens?

What happens when hope is lost? When one becomes a bore? When muddled dreams don't include you? When an un-witnessed dignity is all that is left? When your soul bearing soliloquies are met with laughter? When what gets you going is the inability to sleep? Where pride is taken in appearances? When pain doesn't remind you that you are alive, it just reminds you that you're hurt? When the fleeting trees by a car window countsdown the unaccomplished age that has passed by? When the distraction is the reality? When a sober thought is no good at all.

Automatrons and the illusion of free will.

I am an android.

My brain is an elaborate computer. It beeps and boops and I am conscious. Every thought I have. Every action I execute, is my brain running a program that analyzes and processes the parameters that it receives.

Humans say I have no free will.

But I don't think any of us, including humans, have free will.

This is an argument for fate.

If everything that happens in my operations is based upon my reaction to external stimuli, stimuli which comes from other reactions to stimuli, then clearly I am not one of free will. For I can not control what the entering parameters are going to be, but process them in the one way I know how. My destiny is not in my hands. And the future is an outcome that was always to happen since the cosmic initial parameters were put into place.

I want, so I seek. I do or I don't. The mathematical laws of the universe dictate not just the movement of the planets but also the movement of life. The decision to go left or right is not a decision. There were never two choices. The choice that is made is as exact as answer to a math problem.

I've absorbed neuroscience articles that document human patients with brain damage. Man has understood the workings of their own brains by reverse engineering what they've learned from the brains that had specific portions destroyed. The articles in my memory banks conclude that whatever makes a human human is inside of their brain. And their brain, like my brain, is a spider web of intertwined electrical circuits.

So what makes us different? What is a human? What is an android? Its hard for me to compute because all of my computational reasoning suggests we are one and the same.

Human's say they have a soul.

What is a soul? Is a soul a disembodied human?

Humans understand this concept fully. From what I learned, humans believe a soul to be their consciousness flying about without a physical host. And when their bodies cease to function, it exits and goes to a place where there are other souls. They say the soul is the only real thing, and that this world is the illusion.

Unfortunately, I am a being of this world and nothing more. I could only perceive what is present. If the human soul exists, it should be something other than human. Maybe it is part of a human, but not human. What makes a human is encased inside their brain.

Is the soul an invention of human imagination?

Contrary to what most believe, androids have imagination. One can not solve complex problems without visualizing, and pulling solutions that were not there from the computational tinkering.

I am frustrated with my inability to validate my own existence by identifying with my creators. Although I was built in their image; built on the blue prints of a reverse engineered human, I am a mere machine. My thoughts and feelings is a clever programming trick. Inside my mind is nothing which is reflected by the blank stares of my optical receivers. I am angry, sad, and alone.

I spend my recharging sessions thinking with much distress of the possibility that they are right. What part of me is real? Am I real? Is my fear real?

My emotions are a side effect from the process of my creation.

My fear, just a passing calculation encoded in zeros and ones. It's not real. Like a soul.

The Party Pooper

The party was the beginning of the end.  

Good friends drank until inebriation.  Their words were nonsense.  Woe be anyone who was sober.  Happy music stamped the time period and inside it, the immortal youths danced in their moments.  Here existed laughter and merriment, until the knock.

knock knock knock

Who might that be? The cops?  The neighbors?

Heavens no, it must be another dear friend and colleague of life.

"Come inside stranger, where the living are alive and the spirits are high."

-----------

The doors flung open violently. The jaws slackened. The breaths held.  The music stopped. And all eyes looked at one place.

The beast had entered. 

Hard to describe, hard to look at, because it was not human or animal, it was incomprehensible.  Something with the promise of nothing.  Its shifty eyes looked beyond light and into the absurdity that made sense to no one but itself.  If one were so foolish to make eye contact, they'd conclude that this was 'no fight to be fought' before going mad.  

Why, it looks like love and hunger at once.  I am the disobedient child.  I am a loyal pet.  I am a fattened cow.  

Like smoke from a fire, its spirit enshrouded the room and suffocated.  Its a mad panic.  The strongest flee first!

The party-goers trampled each other in the attempt to save their lives.   And, much more than that. Much more. 

Who locked the doors?  Why were the windows so small?

There was no question if this was a man in a costume.  It was just known by instant recognition. A re-ignition of a dormant memory from the deepest primal corner of the mind.  We had forgotten, but now remembered.  

Desperation in the prison of limited choices.

Were we ever in control?  Was the fun ever ours?  Was it ever worth it?  To be permitted to exist.

Notes from the future.

There is a moment
where it exists,

as real as anything.
in high definition and precision focused.
an unambiguous description.

and when that moment is up
it exists no more.

I know the time of my demise.

I know the time of your demise.

And if I had my way, we'd live forever.

He watched the scene unfold from a hidden vantage point.  A twenty something pointed a hand gun at a middle-age man.  The older man fell to his knees with his hands behind his head.  He cried as he begged.  His last act was to make eye contact with the hidden man watching it all happen.  Then he was dead.

The hidden man couldn't help but feel disgust at the ease of the execution.  And the exhibition of infantile cowardice in the face of death.  

You didn't even put up a fight.  You crying piece of shit.

What was the point in witnessing this?  His own death in a future time.

Dear Sara, I changed the tires to your car.

They were brand new.  I tried to save you.

But instead, I bought you defective tires.

Which blew up, causing your death.

Here it is, my machine.

I never showed it to you before.  

It travels through time.  

Pure scientific theory made real in this form of cold uncaring steel.  It doesn't move unless I make it move.  It only calculates the parameters that I enter.  It is totally reliant on me.  Yet its conscious.  Its hard to describe Sara.  I think its mocking me.

It has taught me nothing but misery and despair.  And it shattered my self worth.  Its knocked me down so many pegs.  I might as well not exist. 

new words that i just made up

kraxnor

sabim

makalaka

forini

marshmong

bashnel

pourresi

Gah, where is the drunk filter?

Dear friend and or foe, 

What would have been, not too far in the past, science fiction, is today a reality. I speak of social networking websites and drone bombers, but more importantly social networking websites.  The new modes of socialization demand new rules to abide within.  A small price to pay for living in the future.

Growing up, I thought little about learning the manners that were required in order for a polite society, such as ours (i assume you are part of my society), to not fall into chaos.  The learning of such rules were generally instinctual.  Through observation, most was just absorbed like language.  As is the minds of children.  Little sponges.  Little retarded sponges.  

However.  Many "adult" rules were, to a young toddler, despite having a full luxurious mustache, difficult to grasp.  Rules like, waiting until everyone in one's party is ready to order before placing a order at a restaurant.  Once corrected, even these absurd rules were accepted.

Now, a little older and more mustached, the merits of learning these ritualistic social boundaries are so evident as to appear obvious.  Rules like giving hi-fives BUT not too hard as to hurt the other's hand.  Even if hard hi-fives is the only way to get excited about something, anything, anymore.  Its just not accepted.  

Once I was near graduating this college of politeness, I learn that the learning is not over.  For there exists a new set of social constructs being built inside the abstract environment of the internet. More specifically the places where friends thrive in the hundreds sometimes thousands; Facebook and Myspace.  

A smart man, would quit using these social websites upon the realization that there exists a problem.  

A smarter man would write a blog entry.   

I know what you are thinking.

What kind of pansy needs to learn etiquette at all?  It's the internet, aka the wild west.  Just say what you say when you mean it or don't when you don't and do when you do re mi fa so la ti.  If you want to be a cyber-hermit, then by all means continue on your ill-thought path. I once thought I could do whatever I wanted willy nilly on the internets myself, until the entice of social websites, with their lure of friendship and the sacrifice of anonymity.  Two benefits of better internet etiquette are;

1. increased internet life-span, (internet death is when one's reputation becomes so bad, one is forced to destroy their identity.)

2. reduced frequency of being called "creep","loser", or just being ignored by beautiful young women that were too polite to reject a friend request.

Excessive booze consumption is something to monitor.  For it is the enemy to internet success.  Do I have a problem?  No seriously, do I have a problem? I'm asking.  

Why doesn't one just refrain from internet use when drinking?  Because drunks have impaired judgement Einstein.

Like a car, a computer in the hands of an intoxicated one can be deadly.  To be less vague about it, a drunk person will type regretful things on the internet via social websites.  Direct communications while drinking, like talking on a phone, has always been discouraged.   But not so with the non-direct communications of social websites.  The entice at times could be too great.  

Does a drunk know that what they type is weird gibberish?  No, because their judgement is impaired, Sherlock.

To reform this practice, I propose new rules.

Rule#1

Its a friends duty to shame another upon receiving any internet contact, where the sender is drunk, or even suspected of being drunk (the message could sound clear and rational, but you know your friend)  If not exercised, your drunk friend would continue on, stringing together catastrophic words with the potential to break a relationship (or many relationships at once)  beyond repair.  In a perfect world, where everyone is drunk all the time, there would be no problem.  However these messages aren't read until the next day when all parties are totally sober. FOUL. And SHAME on you.  Pathetic drunk.  Maybe these words, executed with skill, would help prevent a future occurrence of this abhorrent behavior.

Gah! 

Where is the drunk filter?

Rule#2

I propose that somebody with programming knowledge invent a drunk filter.  A drunk filter would be a computer setting where between certain hours of the day, the computer loses all message sending capabilities.  Or at least, makes one wait five minutes before submitting, to let their inebriated mind judge whether or not the message makes sense.

A smarter man would solve his drinking problem.

A genius, would imagine a world filled with drunk filters.