The Auto Zone

November 12, 2012

I’m feeling generous today.

Shut up, it’s not like I like you or anything.

I just can’t bear the thought of you suffering without any new material :P.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I am terrified of driving.

Normal people don’t think twice about the mundane task of navigating the open road—it’s a part of modern life. To me, driving is mythical. Roads are strange places, empty stretches that separate pedestrian territories, patches of no-man’s land that crisscross the country. To me, roads are something like an autobahn Twilight Zone—the Auto Zone.

I didn’t realize when I entered the Zone, but looking back the portal stretched wide in front of me at the intersection of reality and fantasy, also known as Hickory Ridge Road and Cedar Lane in Columbia, Maryland.

I was on an odyssey home from the eye doctor’s office. It was a straight shot, and straight shot equals straightforward in the real world. In the Auto Zone, though, a straight shot can quickly merge into catastrophe.

As I was sitting at that fateful intersection, safe in my right lane haven, the Auto Zone ensnared me. The light was green for the left-turn lane across the intersection, and the car in that lane began its arc. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a motorized lightning bolt. A yellow VW Beetle sped by, its owner ensnared in a deadly text message. In that moment, the world changed. A cop standing on the corner saw the whole thing; the hospital was less than a quarter of a mile away. I was forced to leave the scene to clear up the road, but passing through the intersection did not take me home. It took me to the Auto Zone.

Strange things happen in the Auto Zone. It keeps you on your toes because you know that without any warning the road can change from work commute to some sick combination of Homeric and Lovecraftian* myth. The worst part is nobody who enters may escape—once the Auto Zone has you, its tar pit grip fossilizes you.

In the eternal journey through this strange land, I found myself upon divergent roads. I decided to take the I-85 to I-95 route from Clemson to Maryland, and it made all the difference.

The drive began with a cup of coffee and some lo-fi tunes. The dull morning lazed around my car, just begging me to let my guard down. I should have remembered the words of my mentor when he said, “Never let yourself drift too far while you’re out there.” The coffee tricked me into thinking about Schrödinger’s Cat, and soon my mind shifted into semi-comatose autopilot.

Around Charlotte, two and a half hours later, a bump in the road shook me out of it. Nothing prepares you for a trip through the Auto Zone, and my feeble mind can still barely comprehend that next seven-and–a-half hours.

It all started with a duck. Now, that sounds like the beginning to a nice day in the park. Except that this duck was six feet tall. It was silver. It wore a top hat. What really stood out about this duck, though, was its method of transportation: most ducks walk or fly, but this one was driving a motorcycle. I did what any rational human being does when they come across a gigantic bipedal gentleman mallard biker.* I bid the big bird good morning.

This duck was coming from a party. The motorcycle had silver stars sticking off of its back, and the duck looked festive but hung over. However, this was a good-natured duck, even with a headache, bleary eyes, and dry throat. Maybe he had met a nice lady-duck at the party, and that’s what put him in good spirits. Whatever the case, he looked at me, saluted, and sped off.

I don’t know what happened to the mythical party duck, but I didn’t have much time to wonder at that moment. The incident made me keenly aware that something was stirring in the Auto Zone; it heightened my senses.

It wasn’t long after that my car violently let me know that it was hungry. I pulled off to get some gas, and the whole process went smoothly. Gas stations are the temples to the Auto Zone. Whatever devious higher being controls the Zone—be it Toyota, Ford, Audi, Mercedes, or Lamborghini, King of the Auto-Gods—it keeps its temples safe, for if the temples should fall, no human shall be able to worship their might. No, my trouble resumed as I re-entered the highway.

Traffic was heavy; it was about lunchtime, and I was in the middle of the Charlotte exits. I eased my way to a normal driving speed amongst the thronging lunch break, and everything seemed back to normal. Just as I was getting settled in for another few hours on the road, I glanced in the rearview mirror. A van was approaching. Fast. The driver was hunched forward, looking to smash through the wall of cars around him.

He sped up—the Auto Gods were displeased with my pilgrimage from their temple. I could see the whites of his eyes in my rearview. A wreck was about to happen. In that eternal moment before the crash, I wondered what an airbag felt like and where the duck had gone. There was no exit lane. The cars around me all swerved away and then…nothing.

At the last second, the van driver found an opening and drifted around my little Honda. I looked just in time to see an older man with long silver hair and thick glasses flip me off. He sped away, weaving that elephant of a vehicle through near-rush-hour-volume traffic. The Auto Zone had not let me go. It was just toying with me.

In that moment, I knew my resolution could not waver. I had to stay focused. I would not be lost to the Zone. I would prove that there was someone who could beat it.

The radio station flipped from talk radio to classic rock. The car radio was once the word of the Auto Gods. It prophesied in their name, and drivers who adhered to its tenets were relatively safe on the road. Call me an orthodox driver.

Like a grease monkey filled with automotive piety, I kept a prayerful vigil over the road. I was a prophet and could read the signs to know that my faith would be tested once again. But the Auto Zone has its demons as well. They are nameless, preying upon drivers with distractions, weather, and car trouble. Outside of the Zone, they have little power over the road. Once a driver has been snared, though, they must be ever watchful of these deceivers.

In the exhaust of two Zone happenings, I began to suspect demonic involvement. With this menace in mind, I had no choice but to press on. The hours passed again with no incident. Miles upon miles went under-wheel with no change in the scenery; North Carolina stays much the same along the interstate. So much so that I didn’t even notice when every other car moved over to the right lane.

From oblivion an SUV came weaving through the crowd. I was the only one who didn’t notice. Speeding death came toward me for a second time, but this time it missed—the car swerved around me. It was jarring, but not terrifying like the van. Something was off.

Nobody was in front of me. Nobody was behind me. They were all in the right lane.

Flashing lights rose over the horizon. They, too, were coming at me fast. I panicked. The right lane was blocked—cars had lined up there as far as the eye could see. I thought for sure the Auto Zone had won.

One of the cars to my right braked. A gap opened up in the traffic; I swerved in just in the nick of time. The police sped past me in pursuit of the speeding SUV. I had joined in a high-speed chase.

Cars moved back into their own lanes. The world moved back to mundanity. My thoughts moved to the happenings of the Zone that day. All of the drivers who had crossed my path at the whims of the Zone had been human. Was I wrong? Did the Auto Gods exist at all? Had I ever left reality? Were people just bad drivers?

These doubts plagued my mind—how could people simply be free to be bad drivers? The hours passed along I-85 through Virginia as I contemplated my shaken faith in the Auto Zone and its deities. Was all that I had learned a lie?

As my entire driving life crumbled around me, I noticed that, once again, everyone had moved into the right lane. “What the scrap heap? Twice in one day? If an Auto God exists, it hates me.” I decided to stay my rebellious course. If the road wouldn’t answer my questions, I had to test it. To hazard righteous judgment. To the junkyard with the consequences.

I rolled down that fast-lane to nowhere. The feet flew by, my hair almost whipping in the breeze within my hermetically sealed high-velocity travel tube. I laughed in the face of those automotive deities of ten minutes ago. Modern man needs no god to control the autobahn, only his own hands on the steering wheel. Another car entered my field of vision.

I didn’t need to slow down. If there were gods, they would stop the wreck. If there weren’t, I would die and it wouldn’t matter anyway. We inched closer. The other car’s lights illuminated me—its headlights.

A rear-end collision was survivable, but not even the agnostic in me wanted to tempt fate. The southbound side of the highway was on the other side of a forested median. The human in the driver’s seat of the other car had nowhere to go except the wrong way down the highway. In my sacreligious fervor, I had just enough time to swerve out of the way.

It was too close. My first brush with death in the past few hours got me thinking again. What if the Auto Gods work through people’s everyday actions? What if the Auto Zone acts solely as a catalyst for bad driving habits?

“Mitsubishi, if you can hear me, please give me some sign, anything to show me you’re there.” The static on my radio was not reassuring.

I had reached the Mixing Bowl, the Jerusalem of automobiles and their operators. The faithful pass through the land of motor oil and gasoline as they move to their destinations within the along the East Coast. I was a pilgrim on a journey of doubt, my faith on trial for placing me in a few potentially lethal situations.

As I passed through this never-ending flow of disciples, one lonely traveler caught my eye. He pulled up next to me, and we traveled together for some time. His car was nothing special—a sedan that looked like it had been through a war. He was an average person. Who drove with his knees.

I shook my head. The Auto Gods had given me a sign of their existence in their own way, twisting a mundane situation, a coincidence, to reassure my waning faith. Every road I travel bears the mark of the Auto Zone, but I rest easy knowing that each mile is watched over.

I kind of want to start doing this again. I probably will. Mostly because I miss it or something. Keep your eyes peeled. Or not. Or something.

 

Seriously, I have no clue if I’m going to be consistently blogging again. Let’s play it by ear.

I hold the cusp,

the impasse of geometric figures,

the ventricles of a Gothic spire,

to the haze of an integrated bisector,

in the divergence of forgetting

and creation,

to the breaking point in history

of glasses which saw with 20/10 hindsight

that Mayan calendars were simply

interrupted.

.

Of civilization–

though nothing can be said

against the meeting of ends

on a crescent moon

that make a wedding ring in suspension

for the marriage of comma and

colon; creates an entirely new thought

that leads only to the contradiction

of burning leaves.

.

In my hand.

Desecrating the Dead

April 11, 2011

One topic of discussion that came up in class today was the difference between digging up a Native American burial ground and digging up one of the deceased members of Clemson’s Board of Trustees. The first thought that popped into my head was “Duh! if you dig up a Native American Burial ground, you get cursed!” However, the professor insisted that with a Native American burial ground, it would be done out of cultural inquiry, and digging up a member of the Board of Trustees past would simply be seen as disgusting and somewhat heretical (meaning that tenured professors would probably get fired for doing something like that. In introducing this, the professor asked, “So, who wants to go over to the cemetery and dig up a trustee?” to which I replied, “Why not? He could have some good stuff to pawn on him.”

 

This got a few nervous chuckles (OMG! Is it okay to joke about grave robbing?!?), and for the next while I decided to keep my mouth shut–a decision that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that recently I have been increasingly sarcastic in my contributions to class discussion. This got me thinking about the ways that we honor the dead. We bury them at an elaborate ceremony in formal attire, sometimes with their organs taken out and placed in jars, and with some symbol of their riches in life. But WHY do we do that?

 

These days, I think we have moved past the thought, even in religious circles, that we take anything with us when we die, whether or not we believe in an afterlife. So why bury the dead with material things? I’m not saying that the open casket ceremony should feature a nude corpse per se, but there’s no reason to bury someone in their most expensive suit. They’re dead. It’s not like when the worms and bacteria come, they’re deterred by the formal attire. Fine dining seems not to exist in the insect world.

 

 

Oh my! This casket is fancy!

 

So am I crazy to think this? Maybe. But if you think that your wealth will do you any good beyond the grave, then by all means take your expensive articles with you that could instead be used to pay for the funeral or alleviate the burden of your passing, financially.

 

Me, I’d like my body to be donated to Shark Week.

Thrice I set my friends on fire while brand new
faded paper figures haste the day when
Gatsby’s American dream becomes a
mindless self-indulgence of the format.

The super friends heard that the dear hunter
signed the contract in cursive with Sunny
Day Real Estate and the myriad to
escape the sound of animals fighting.

As I lay dying by the arcade fire,
please don’t panic! At the disco, or the
whale who is another day late, asking,
“Does it offend you, yeah?” of fleet foxes.

But I sit in the company of thieves,
and you will know us by the trail of dead.

Don’t You Ever Interrupt Me

February 21, 2011

Hey, wow it’s been a while. Here’s something to tide you over until I get my act together and finish writing a short story or something. I wrote this short critique for one of my classes and thought, heck, why not share it with you guys too? Watch the video, read the bit, and remember…haaaaaaaaave fun with it 🙂

 

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Julian Smith has garnered fame as a YouTube performer over the past few years. He specializes in comedic sketches and music videos, of which many of the songs have been put on iTunes.

His latest song puts him in the shoes of a bibliophilic rapper who can never seem to shake distractions away from his reading time. Nowhere he goes is safe from distractions:

At home
Sitting in my favorite nook
My girls trying to get me eat some dinner she cooked
I’m reading a book, girl
I’m reading a book
Don’t you ever interrupt me while I’m reading a book.

His gravelly yell scares the poor young woman away—she only wanted to do something nice for her man, but ends up the target of his rage. Smith goes on to drive down the road whilst reading, when a cop pulls him over:

On the shoulder
I got pulled over
Pigs try’nna get me roll my window lower
I’m reading a book, pig
I’m reading a book
Don’t you ever interrupt me while I’m reading a book.

Despite the clearly illegal aspects of driving while reading, Smith once again becomes enraged with the heinous interruption. Not even in the solitude of his car can he escape interactions with others.

The following verse takes Smith into what should be, as a reader, his natural element. His rapper self seems perfectly at home there:

I’m at the library, where they call me a crook
I never even pay for my library books
I take them from the shelf
and if anyone looks I say,
“I’m reading a book, man
I’m reading a book.”

Smith has suddenly become some kind of social terrorist. According to him, he steals books from the library (though library books are already free), but then wonders why people look at him as though he is insane. The horrible irony of this verse is that he is a distraction to everyone else while complaining about distraction.

In the last verse, the criminal side of Smith comes out full force:

At a stupid birthday party for some stupid kid
take a book from a present
They were supposed to be his.
Now I’m about to find out what happens to Captain Hook
Cause I’m reading your book, kid,
I’m reading your book.

Madness finally overtakes Smith, causing him to steal a child’s birthday presents. His irritation with reading distractions led him from simply seeking out a new refuge to petty theft. Through it all he cannot understand why people keep butting in on his reading time, eventually becoming a source of interruption and frustration himself.

Smith’s rant ends with his flashy, bass-boosted video being cut out mid-sentence by a bagpipe solo. The interruption of his activities is all encompassing, going beyond his reading time and into other aspects of his life, such as his musical career.

Smith’s frustrations with interruptions can be summarized in the pre-chorus:

Why are all these people always interrupting me?
What I gotta do to try to make them see?

The video pokes fun at the gangsta appearance by having the angry rapper rant about reading. In the serious rap scene, reading would almost certainly never come up as a topic of frustration. On top of that, the angry rapper commits crimes, but none of them are particularly impressive. He drives while reading and is pulled over; he supposedly steals books from the library; he steals a book from a child. All of these amount only to petty crimes and simply make him come across as a jerk rather than badass.

On the other hand, the video also portrays readers as petulant hermits who cannot stand the slightest social interaction that would take them away from their fantasy world. The reader is portrayed as belligerent, though never overtly violent. Readers are also portrayed as blatantly unsafe—the implication of verse two is that Smith was driving down the road while reading.

Readers also get the mental instability treatment in the video. Smith’s character loses his sanity over the course of the two and a half minutes, becoming a literary bandit and a menace to birthday parties. He changes from being distracted to being the distraction. In the library, he yells at the people who watch him stealing books, distracting them from their own books. He then prevents a child from reading by stealing the books meant as gifts on the child’s birthday.

The video portrays reading itself as an addictive force that breaks down social relations. Smith’s reading addiction tears down his relationship with his girlfriend and gets him in trouble with the law. In his desperate search for a fix he commits several crimes to obtain a new high. In this light, readers are simply addicts to whatever material they can get their hands on. Their irritation with interruption can be seen as a sort of withdrawal symptom—withdrawal from a willing suspension of disbelief that put them within a fantastic world (in other words, a high).

The ending bagpipe song emphasizes the theme of distraction and annoyance. Bagpipe has a negative reputation, and for good reason. The bagpipe is one of the most difficult instruments to block out because it is loud, the sound constantly fluctuates, and nine times out of ten it is played by a hairy man in a kilt. Smith emphasizes this by having a bagpipe solo interrupt his entire song. Unfortunately, Smith cannot block out the grating noise and the video ends.

“I’m Reading a Book” emphasizes the need for solace while reading, with distraction coming under pain of death for the distracter. The general message of the song comes in the chorus:

I’m reading a book, I’m reading a book
Don’t you ever interrupt me while I’m reading a book.

In this interpretation of reading, the reader either comes across as mentally unstable or a crack addict, but to be fair enough distractions would drive anyone insane. Thus, by Smith’s argument, the entire English department—students, faculty, and everyone else involved—is a time bomb waiting to destroy or at least inconvenience anyone foolish enough to disturb reading time.

Fight Club

February 13, 2011

The movie Fight Club. I have seen this movie twice now, and it resonates with me.

 

The points raised about our stagnation, our dependence on our consumer lives, though nothing new, are still poignant. I feel as though my feet are rooting to the spot. As their tendrils stick farther into the land of academia, I see life outside and want to ax those growths. Photosynthesis of knowledge is not the same as eating the steak of real life.

 

Another spot of philosophy–the question of whether or not we should value our mistakes. The game Braid focuses on time travel and whether or not it is ethical to correct mistakes. It questions whether or not protecting the people we love from our mistakes is the right thing to do.

 

I can’t answer these. I know that despite these thoughts I will continue living the lukewarm consumer life. I will continue bringing harm to others.

 

What if change is possible, though?

 

I promise this blog won’t go into my personal demons too much. This is a special occasion.

 

I am Jack’s crumbling esophagus.

Respite

January 31, 2011

Listen to this as you read (it’s the song this was written to):



As I watched, the floor

melted from beneath me,

leaving stars underfoot.

How long did I walk

along that constellation path?

Must have been miles

or maybe more. The Milky Way

unwrapped itself and I

took a bite.

Though creative thoughts wane

in the growing shade of

future days and glories yet sung,

the path long trodden gives no way

to any derivation,

rather pulling what it deems

a necessary cacophony. Horns and

bleating sounds bar the way

with fronds of every fiend

that could ever come to pass

tangling the feet of those on

their lonesome.

Yet in memory I see the path,

strive for its stepping stone means

of hopping up and down the river.

In memory, I am feeble

yet can move boulders

with the slightest budge.

Here and now, my spirit

is encircled; thoughts of comfort

cannot seep through.

But comfort is not the goal.

Nor those future triumphs.

How can such a passager

grasp me through its teeth?

When do those who torment

break free from their shackles

to exact their revenge? What should

bother to slip me from the stones

but my own failing?

Ce n’est pas possible

pour les enfants me

frappent. J’ai la grâce

de mon Dieu, qui guide

mes pas.

Psalm 4

Evening Prayer of Trust in God.
For the choir director; on stringed instruments. A Psalm of David.

1Answer me when I call, O God of my righteousness!
You have relieved me in my distress;
Be gracious to me and hear my prayer.
2O sons of men, how long will my honor become a reproach?
How long will you love what is worthless and aim at deception? Selah.
3But know that the LORD has set apart the godly man for Himself;
The LORD hears when I call to Him.
4Tremble, and do not sin;
Meditate in your heart upon your bed, and be still. Selah.
5Offer the sacrifices of righteousness,
And trust in the LORD.
6Many are saying, “Who will show us any good?”
Lift up the light of Your countenance upon us, O LORD!
7You have put gladness in my heart,
More than when their grain and new wine abound.
8In peace I will both lie down and sleep,
For You alone, O LORD, make me to dwell in safety.

Far more beautiful words than I could ever create.

*The following bit of fun was written by the author as an experiment to see how the drink “Simmer” affects his writing. It was grape flavored. It was delicious.

 

The author sat idly in his room listening to the prattling of Comedy Central and writing this piece. A buzzing noise jumped into his room from outside of his window. It didn’t catch his attention at first—he was distracted with the realization that his keyboard had no end button. The noise crescendoed until it drowned out all thought. He looked out the window in time to see a giant flaming hand flying at his head. Its molten coal fingers wrapped around his skull, dragging him through the window screen.

Flames jiggled their way up his nose, tickling the sneeze receptors at the top. The pressure built up inside of his skull, squeezing his brain down to a single molecule when—

“AaaaaaaCHOOOOO!” The author opened his eyes (if he hadn’t closed them during the sneeze, his eyeballs would have popped out) to a flat, dark brown landscape. He took a step forward and his foot slipped through the ground into a goopy, minty substance.

The rest of the ground fractured, letting the goop seep out. The author’s foot sank deeper, until he was in up to his waist. Any movement only pulled him down faster. The mint smell overwhelmed everything else—the goop reached his ribcage. Pieces of the former ground floated all around. He grabbed for them, but they melted out of his hand as soon as he touched them. The goop reached his neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something kicking up the goop as it rushed over top. He waved his hand frantically, trying to call out, but the goop only poured in his mouth. The tip of his nose went under.

Then he was pulled on a boat.

A small, bearded man in a pointy hat threw a towel the author’s way while an Albatrossian paddled with his wings. The boat skipped over the water faster than the speed of sound, since an Albatrossian’s extraordinarily large wingspan can move a greater volume of liquid at a rapid rate. The author licked the goop off his fingers in time to catch the towel thrown by the bearded man.

“So,” the author said as he toweled off, “thanks for saving me. Are you a gnome?”

“Why does everyone think that?” The man yelled. The Albatrossian cackled. “Shut up you glorified, accursed fowl. I’m just a hobo with a boat; pointy hats are the royal style this year.  And you are most certainly welcome.” He harrumphed down into a seat. The author cleaned the goop out of his ears. An awkward turtle jumped up out of the goop.

“Um…where…”

“Spit it out before I eat you, kid!” The angry gnobo glared so hard his eyes shot blood (or possibly became bloodshot, it was hard to tell through the bushy eyebrows. “I have not had the privilege of a meal, hot or otherwise, in days.”

“Yes sir!” The author inched back a bit with every word. “Where are we, um, exactly? And where are you taking me?” The Albatrossian chirped up.

“Eek, do where go to we PTA? Land of in here mint the junior!”

“What my avian friend Douglas here is trying to say,” the gnobo growled from his stomach, “is that you currently travel through the land of Junior Mint, Mister School Board President.”

 

[At this point the author sleep write laterness. Au revoir, um people. My arm doesn’t have any feeleling int.]

Spontaneous Blurb

January 24, 2011

It’s kind of funny. I’m an English major, yet I have trouble speaking and writing well. I guess this may teach me, but probably not (what little good it’s done so far haha). I think of this because this morning a friend and I prayed for our communicative abilities to flourish. You see, we both have ideas along the same lines that we feel God wants us to convey. So here’s an attempt to convey said ideas:

 

1. This world is hateful and depressing. Seriously, even our entertainment is disgusting (I enjoy degrading humor just as much as the next person, which is kind of sad). We get our kicks off of watching other people get belittled on TV, YouTube, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, real life, etc. Then there are the things we read. I can’t read many of my friends posts any more–they’re too depressing (and praised for their realism, at that). What the crap? I know life isn’t going to be unicorns and sprinkle pooping butterflies across an ice cream sandwich landscape, but come on. Even my Christian friends spend most of their time just pick-pick-picking at each other, and I want to flip out at them for it (but won’t). I mean the principle command of Christ is “‘You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” (Matthew 22:37-39 NKJV). As one of my favorite philosophers, Soren Kierkegaard, said in his essay Works of Love,

And now the introduction to this discourse ends with what it desires to make the object of consideration: the commands of love to one’s neighbor and love to oneself become synonymous not only through this as yourself but still more through the phrase “you shall.” Of this we shall speak:

YOU SHALL LOVE,

For the very mark of Christian love and its distinguishing characteristic is this, that it contains the apparent contradiction: to love is duty. You shall love–this, then, is the word of royal law.

 

Wow. Just wow. We’re commanded to love. Not in the insipid, dead-end sensuous meaning of love. That exactly opposes what God wants. That way serves the self. We have to love our God; we have to love our neighbor; we have to love ourselves. Yes, this final bit is a vital part–how can we show Christ’s love or even neighborly love to others if we wallow in self-hatred? Instead, God wants us to love ourselves by fulfilling His command. I am guilty of being hateful–that I live with every day. It weighs down–no, ninja strikes me to painful humiliation every hour. Or it would like to. Sometimes it does, but when I parry with prayer, it runs away.

 

What really got me thinking of this, though, was that cruise. It was like every vice and hatred compounded itself onto one boat. By hatred, I don’t mean that outward hatred that most people think of today, I mean hatred of God, of His command, in not loving. I watched for days as people my age(ish) ran around drunk every night looking for someone to hook up with. I saw grown men and women fighting over trinkets really not worth anything (OMGZ! Tanzanite Studs! So what?)

 

College is the same. Maybe I’ve just had odd roommates, but my apartment smells like weed, they spend their lives drinking and partying, and for what? I know that this isn’t unique–Greek Life was almost shut down here last semester because a student almost died from a crack overdose. And I’m the weird boring one (maybe it’s true, I haven’t almost died since coming here!).

 

But enough about that. I’ll just irritate more people if I go on that route.

 

Back to the depressing part. Why does only depressing or pervy literature/poetry get accolades? It’s sickening. Angst is seen as wisdom and beauty. When is depression beautiful? Cynicism is the spice of a great work. Why can’t something optimistic be great? If I really took what half of my professors say to heart, I’d kill myself out of sheer hopelessness. One in particular basically touts that there is essentially no future for people my age. (Disclaimer: I am not suicidal)

 

2. The world is without imagination. Vampires, that’s all I have to say. Or when people try to, we get Lost. There are some notable exceptions, but for the most part I see very little inspiration or novelty.

 

The point of these was to convey my (unofficial) mission statement in writing: to convey a godly, loving, imaginative tale every time. Yes, there will be villains. Yes the characters will be human, and yes, they will mess up and have moral dilemmas. But the point will lay not in the hypothetical situations and dilemmas, but in the choices the characters make and the consequences. Think what you like.

 

Psalm 120:1-2

In my distress I cried to the Lord,

And He heard me.

Deliver my soul, O Lord, from lying lips

And from a deceitful tongue.