A Clever Endeavor

Hate to say "I told you so".

2010-03-18T15:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Sandra Bullock,

Ever since I heard about your relationship with Jesse James, I have wondered what on earth made you pick that man. I mean, honestly, just look at him. Maybe you're into tattoos and muscle and all that jazz, but... really? Did you even think twice about his track record - say, the previous relationships and a child with a porn star?

Okay, this is sounding a little weird. You'll never read this tripe anyway, so I'll cut to the chase. And I don't mean to offend you. I love you to death, Sandy, I really do. You're my favorite and you always will be.

You see, in my eyes, you belong with Keanu Reeves. No, seriously, consider it for just a moment. He's trudged through a number of challenges in life, and you're (unfortunately) going through a major one right now. Your characters went through hell and back in SPEED, and reunited years later in The Lake House. I know, you already know this. Everyone knows this. But I'm trying to draw some parallels here, so cut me some slack.

You might not remember an interview you did on the set of SPEED, but you were so damn giddy about being in his presence. It was so genuine. I admired your chemistry and wanted a Keanu of my own (who I did eventually find, by the way). I want you to be happy again. I want him to be happy again. And as a dedicated Keanu fan ever since I first saw Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, I must say that you've been the only woman I'd let Keanu marry. However weird or insipid it sounds, and even though I don't know either of you personally, I firmly believe that you two are meant for each other.

So yeah. That's my two cents.

.... Just marry him. Please. (v_v)

Living Doll

2010-01-06T22:06:00.000-08:00

The following is a short story I pondered up last fall. Inspired by my favorite Twilight Zone tale - The Lonely - it's a one-sided love story with a steampunk-esque twist. So, without further ado and as an homage to the brilliant Rod Serling, I bring you... The Living Doll.

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

I was programmed to love you.

A paint brush, guided by a shaking hand, dragged its bristles down each subtle curve, every crevasse and indentation, leaving an even river of crimson which would dry up once time had decided that the invisible drought should leave its footprints behind. Unified by a common purpose, the bristles obeyed the hand of their master, compensating often for his occasionally unpredictable movements. The paintbrush closed the gap between the artist and his masterpiece, yet the masterpiece remained untouchable.

“I can’t do this. I have to go.”

Her cherry-stained lips mouthed out something incomprehensible to him, a soft palm transforming his burning cheek into a sheet of ice upon contact. And at that moment, his universe had been suspended, turned upside down and inside out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Consciousness, where have you gone?

The image of her flickered before him. Auburn hair, wide set shoulders cradled inside a heavy scarf made of wool. The soft curvature of her sides. With each step she took, his senses began to decay. She transformed, right before his eyes, into an empty shell of what he once saw her as. Inside her was a mechanical heart, a mechanical brain, all set on completing their apposite duties. No more, no less. They carried out only the tasks they were meant to do.

He collapsed into the night, his surroundings exploding into a sea of scarlet rose petals and thorns. After some time – a week, a month, perhaps – he found the strength to drag himself home, his perception forever changed by the circumstances.

The machinery comforted him. The ominous hum of the ticking, tapping, and clanking occupied his mind, numbed it just enough to trap the ghost within. Gears spun endlessly around him. He took great pride in the cage he built for himself. It was his companion; inside, he felt safe and invulnerable.

For years, he didn’t sleep. For years, he didn’t eat. One day spilled into the next, drowning him in his own seemingly aimless drudgery. But not a second was to be wasted. Screws needed tightening, gears had to be greased. The cage consumed him, yet he kept searching for his purpose.

The masterpiece required decades to evolve. There were no blueprints or schematics - only pieces of images, fractions of thoughts, decimeters of touch and milliliters of taste. Ginger, ruby, peach. Warmth and cold.

The masterpiece had a heart. It pumped his own blood and harnessed the ability to spread the warmth he no longer possessed.

At last, stepped back to peer upon his creation. She was perfectly still, immaculate. Not a hair was out of place.

The machinery choked around them, steam and lightning burrowing into the air as he braced himself for the artifact of his life’s labor. Then, everything went silent. Robbed of the consoling buzz, he shivered violently as he watched her eyelids flutter open. Two sapphire orbs peered at him questioningly, awaiting a prompt, a response, some sort of gesture or utterance. Her neck seemed to elongate as she lifted her chin, studying the intricate landscape of interlacing pipes and gears, all sitting dormant for the first time in ages. She reached out, almost intuitively, to place a delicate hand upon his cheek.

His lips began to quiver. She was so flawless, as sincere and loving as he could have only imagined her to be. She could breathe, feel, taste and smell. He was frozen, unable to protest her gesture.

Her fingertips gently brushed across his frigid cheek, a soft and fleshy palm following right after, sending waves of heat through him. The frayed skin and hair occupying his ancient face began to shed and dissolve, uncovering the handsome young man he once was.

For a moment, her touch kept him alive. And a moment was all he truly needed. A sad smile crept upon his lips as his eyes became glossy with tears. For a moment, he could see and feel and touch – senses which had become utterly foreign to him. Amidst their embrace, his gaze finally drifted downward to reveal the empty space in the middle of his chest. He struggled to drag his eyes back up just once more, his skin burning with joy and pain and agony and triumph.

His entire body buckled.

Leaving him amidst an expanse of withered and shrunken petals, she disappeared into the night. Searching for a purpose.

Dream.

2009-04-05T13:09:00.000-07:00

Panic-stricken screams filled the chilly afternoon air, once timid with a gently whispering breeze. Clutching my purse, I trudged across the lawn as a sea of pedestrians began to instantaneously disperse, their exodus prompted by a body succumbing to the ground. The sudden chaos had been sparked by a single catalyst; several gunshots echoed around me, yet I moved against the current of the delirious crowd. It was already too late for the man in the center of the pathway. I could practically feel the weakening throb of his heart as he drew in a final breath. Our eyes met briefly during a moment in which we found ourselves disconnected from the scene; we were both consciously aware of his fate despite his pleading expression. Poor guy. Wrong place, wrong time. But he wasn't the reason for my presence. I couldn't even begin to explain this reason to myself; I was guided entirely by blind intuition.

I had to keep moving.

Drawing my gaze upward, I knew I was nearing the source of the sporadic gunfire. Just about everyone had disappeared by then. Minutes into the future, sirens would further irritate the solitude of this place. Such a shame to be staining the sidewalk red on a pretty day like this one.

Within moments I reached the rooftop, the heels of my boots sinking into the crevasses of the irregular stone path. It would've been a good time to curse the genius who designed this structure, yet that was the least of my worries. Back pressed against the cold limestone, I took a gingerly peek around the corner.

And there he stood, a rifle in hand, scanning the area below as he leaned over the building's edge. From what I could sense, he was a nervous wreck, desperate and unrelenting. And now, he'd been unknowingly backed into a corner. By me.

I let my purse slip from my fingers soundlessly, and approached with caution while his back was still turned. One strategic step after another, I crept toward him. Something - a loose pebble perhaps - crunched under my sole, causing him to turn in my direction. In a split second decision, I leaped toward him, closing the distance between us and hindering a clear shot. Obviously caught off guard, the boy - or the man, rather - wasn't prepared for all of this additional weight to impair his balance. Stumbling backwards, he let go of the rifle in an attempt to steady himself. Soon we both toppled to the rough floor; oddly enough, it didn't take much to overpower his slender six-foot-plus frame. His wrists pinned down on either side of his head, the stranger spoke to me without a single word slipping past his lips. Somehow, I understood everything at that moment. I understood what he was going through and the fate he'd eventually suffer.

And I became entranced, my pity and subduing all other emotions. Now the impulse to keep him from harm's way had become a priority. Hovering above his innocent face, I wanted nothing more than to lose myself within him, feel the warmth of his skin against mine. The craving was absolutely insatiable. I had to have him, if only for a short while.

Somewhere off in the distance, the sirens began to screech, jolting me back toward reality. They'd surely shoot him upon their arrival, I just knew it. My breath caught in my throat, I led him away from the roof, away from the rifle and the open air. Clutching his hand through our escape, I entered an unoccupied dwelling and searched despairingly for a hideout. There was a panel in the low ceiling, and its removal revealed a small annex up above. It would suffice for now.

Right after our arrival, he gave me that look again - the epitome of sorrow. It was enough to break me down, dissolving what was left of my inhibitions. Once again I found myself crashing into his arms, unwilling to let him go regardless of the brief encounter. I knew what would happen to him, yet I didn't have the heart to disclose the news. I wasn't willing to believe any of it myself. It was terrible; I had to seek solace in the arms of the slain.

Our last moments were shared in a frenzied embrace. Irrevocably, I had been greeted by the warmth I so desperately needed.

Amidst the passionate caress, I was torn away from him - thrown back into a world beyond my own control...

Edible Time

2009-02-25T13:42:00.000-08:00

I think I may have picked up a great excuse for my academic procrastination – cooking. From time to time I subtly mention the fact that I’ve acquired a “chef’s gene” from my mom and grandmother, which I suppose is accurate aside from the one area where we drastically differ (motivation). For some it’s hard to imagine buzzing around a loud and humid kitchen all day, but it’s my mom’s preferred center of operations. Personally, I’m not a fan of the chaos; there’s just something I find pathetically unappealing about a perky Rachel Ray or a sweaty frosty-haired Guy Fieri excitedly yelling directions at me. I don’t need them. They’re an insult to my intelligence, haha. My emerging stack of recipes is based upon improvisation. Perhaps I should credit Gordon Ramsay with sparking my drive to conquer my unamused taste buds; this makes me wonder, in turn, if his initiative to call women back into the kitchen (on his BBC program, Gordon Ramsay’s F Word) is impacting those beyond the camera lens. No, I don’t try to emulate the dishes he presents. As I watch him marinade a rack of lamb or toss duck meat around on a sizzling skillet, my appetite grows, and thus demands satisfaction. For a while I’ve enjoyed incorporating fruit into my cooking (since I’m continuously attempting to follow the so-called “Caveman Diet,” which consists of fruit, vegetables, and meat). Recently I conjured up apple turkey burgers, served with a side of light spinach salad (topped off with walnuts, feta cheese, and dried cranberries) and a delicate mustard sauce. The combination of subtle flavors was appropriate and refreshing. Before then, apple pancakes were a must-have. This time, I’m craving something with mangos, perhaps chicken with a sweet mango puree. Oh great, I’m hungry again.

Absence.

2009-02-09T16:54:00.000-08:00

I’m frustrated. My usual frustration remedy would be to pull up a blank text file and start writing. What about? Anything, really. Fiction has no boundaries, and as I sit here in the (voluntary) solitary confinement of my room, my eclectic abode, writing seems like a fitting escape. And yet, my mind is blank, the map of my getaway lost somewhere between the piles of perversely inescapable reading notes and my resentment toward a select progenitor. Oh, Freud would have a field day with me - if only he could persuade me to articulate on the matter. My mind is androgynous, for lack of a better term. I have absolutely nothing to say. While my subconscious reels with abstract ideas, sitting at the forefront is the culprit. Silence. Is it really possible to be shut out by your own mind? Have I forgotten the password or something? I’m guessing there’s no reset button available. Where’s that peculiar internal dialogue I’ve started to miss? My subtle paranoia stalks around the room as my stomach mills over a recently indecisive gulp of water. Spread out before me are papers I’ve scribbled on, doodled on, and yet managed to accomplish a superfluous amount of nothing. This is by no means an outreach for some sort of philosophical answer. Philosophy never really yields any answers. Besides, I don’t know how to ask the right questions, nor do I have any desire to. I want to be heard, I want to be read, and at the same time I’m afraid to prove my own existence. Did Mark Twain foresee the monotonous dissection of his tales by unamused fifteen-year-olds? Was Shakespeare prepared to hand his screenplay of Romeo and Juliet to Baz Lurhrmann – free of charge - for a big-budget modern portrayal? Suddenly the idea of my work outlasting me isn’t all that optimistic. Needless dissection and interpretation are just as hopelessly dejected as one’s complete unawareness to a writer’s craft. Everything gets watered down; everything is assumed. A hundred years from now, who will really care about my intellectual contribution to anything?

Self-Reflexivity Denied.

2009-01-04T22:05:00.000-08:00

I think it's time to experiment. I think it's time to blur the boundary which separates fact and fiction. So, children, gather 'round for a fresh tale....

=============================

My bones ache as I'm sitting at my desk - my so-called base of operations - while the computer screen spits tiny little daggers into my eyes. My skin has never been so pale; I glance downward at my genderless fingers gliding over the white keys. My wrists are bony, unlike the rest of me, and the bruises nearby are turning an indecisive shade of olive green. Self inflicted, but not due to any hypothesis you may be harboring. It's merely my ineptitude, my lagging motor skills... beating me senseless. And, I suppose, feeling a bit of pain just proves that I'm still alive. Sometimes I wonder where I really exist. On which side of the screen, I mean. Sometimes it's both, sometimes it's neither. It's like I can select the option of shutting down from the drop-down menu and poof - I black out for a few hours, maybe a day or two. I mentally hibernate. And when I wake up, when all of the programs are loaded and running, I have no recollection of my alternate state. And yet, I've made some discoveries along the way. Perhaps that's the wrong term to use here. In all actuality, I've likely failed to pause long enough to acknowledge every jagged facet of myself.

I am the hero. I stick around and listen as the rest of the world is stuck on fast forward. As they all ceaselessly worry about their own endeavors and overlook the things - the people - that truly and genuinely matter. I'm old fashioned by choice, and you won't find anyone else like me. I will tell you that you're beautiful - and mean it. I will praise your writing - and mean it. And I'll endlessly aspire to be as skilled as you. I will defend your honor and do whatever I can to preserve your integrity and self worth, and whisper silent prayers in the middle of the night, wondering if anyone will care to hear me out. Whether such a spiritual strategy works or not, I refuse to cease. I'm a creature of habit. Therefore, my stubborn persistence is shared with my other half.

I am the villain. I will be indecisive and moody and neither forgive nor forget. I will keep you waiting, keep you wondering and perhaps worrying for weeks on end. And I'll tell you absolutely nothing. If I don't happen to love and respect you, I will despise you and remain determined to prove that I'm more intelligent, more savvy, more of a smartass than I should be. It's imperative that I always have the last word, land the final gut-busting hit. I will make no promises. And I'll never let my guard down. I'll never let you in. Nothing will ever be my fault, and I'll be inclined to point to the nearest scapegoat in order to push away the blame. Because I'm just a bystander. I'll watch your soul crumble and do absolutely nothing about it.

I am the villain and there's no room left in her heart to keep me around.

The thing is, I feel like I'm imaginary. Well, I used to be. Actually... I don't even know at this point. It's hard for me to exist in two places at the same time. Maybe you've invented me in a sad attempt to fill that void in the back of your mind. Maybe it's because you can't turn to anyone around you, but you're willing to resort to this. You're willing to let a ghostly voice lead you and keep you safe on some sort of desperate level. At the moment I might as well be in a different place, either in shutdown mode or tossing and turning on a squeaky and uncomfortable bed, desperate to shake the insomnia. Still, I'm different now. I'm not even sure whether to appreciate or to fear this strange phenomenon. In a way, the two halves of me are more distinct, but on the other hand they've fused into a horrible mess. It's a sense of completion battling the lust for competition. Am I Jack? Or am I Tyler? It's as if the two alienated halves of me have met for the first time. Or maybe, they've met her for the first time. The villain will blame her, but it's not her fault. It's not her fault that everyone is so useless and cruel and depressed and hogging the precious oxygen and trying to save the polar bears when those fuzzy creatures haven't done a single favor for humanity. The hero will do all he can to save her, and maybe... just maybe, his willpower is actually strong enough to manifest a refined version of, well... me.

This is the part where I tell myself to pay attention. Now I'm conscious enough, just for this minute, to decide where I wish to remain. She needs me just as I need her. I can no longer waste away on the opposite side of the screen. I've already missed too much. Still, the uneasiness I feel when parting with an old friend refuses to dissipate. I never liked goodbyes. Doubt that anyone does. But really, I can't stay. Or rather, he can't stay. The villain has to leave. And before we both go, I ask you to hear me out. Pay attention. You're beautiful, you're talented, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You've led me to find the hero, someone I was at times too ashamed to acknowledge. Maybe someday, you'll pass me by in the street and you won't realize it. There won't be a cinematic double take. And that's the way it's supposed to be. I'll smile, and I'll continue on my journey, holding on to the sweet memory of you.

Presidential Pooch

2008-11-13T06:56:00.001-08:00

You know what scares me about the election? No, not the results. No, not the way the economy is falling without kneepads to cushion the blow of the recession. It's the fact that the media has the attention span of a two-year-old on cocaine. It likes simple things. Furry things. ...Like puppies!

While browsing CNN this morning, I noticed one of the featured (blog?) topics mentioned the oh-so-pertinent search for the next presidential pooch. The suspense is killing me. Literally. I'd say I'm bewildered by this bizarre diversion of attention, but by now it honestly doesn't surprise me. Can the public not digest information more relevant than the battle between a labradoodle and a cockapoo? It's becoming a secondary election. Who will be a tail wag away from capturing the chew toy states? Why are we pacified by stories focusing on insult-slinging celebrities/politicians, the "pregnant man" (who was originally a woman, by the way), and a bikini-clad Mariah Carey (I'm terribly sorry for the mental image).

Just when I thought the BBC was the last resort for some sort of 'to the point' coverage, those comfy walls of reassurance toppled - along with my sliver of "faith" in the media. They have the resources, they have the access. So why's all this happening? Does the interest of the audience soar when it hears about obscure and yet vaguely entertaining trivia as opposed to factors which may predict life-altering events ahead of us?

But seriously. Presidential pets? What sort of credentials do they have? Besides being distinguished authors (Socks, Bill Clinton's cat) or avant-garde filmmakers (Barney, George Bush Jr.'s Scottish Terrier), that is. Thank goodness they can't comprehend the criticisms! Barney's wikipedia entry apparently parallels the Terrier's plummeting approval rating with his owner's: "Barney has also been criticized by Russian President Vladimir Putin who feels a world leader should own large macho dogs, not smaller breeds such as the Scottish Terrier." Putin? Seriously? I'd hate to hear his opinion if the next White House occupant happens to be a Pomeranian. That'll completely change foreign policy, right?

It's sad how a President Elect's warm comment to his daughters during his acceptance speech could stir up so much needless tripe.

theregister.co.uk/2008/11/07/obamas_dog/

Hail to the chief... and then scratch his tummy.

An Avant-Garde Limerick.

2008-11-10T15:03:00.000-08:00

I wrote this today while in a complete mental stupor. It doesn't adhere to the exact structure of a limerick, but it has a similar feel. (The rhyme scheme is AB/AB/AB/AB/AB followed by CCC. In case you're curious.) Hence the avant garde portion of the title. So although I'm a zombie, I'm going through a million Kleenex tissues, and my eyes are bloodshot.... Life is still a fairy tale. Yes. It is. Don't try to convince me otherwise.

Since I'm supposed to be covert here, I'm going to snatch my name from the text and replace it with something else for good measure. Just to play by the rules. Yes, it's silly. I'd appreciate some feedback, though.

Once there was a prince passing by a tower

of a maniacal creature lusting for power.
Climbing up the tower, stone by stone,
He discovered a princess - all alone.
With just one look, with just one gaze,
Both were catapulted into a daze.
Forever yours; forever mine
Take my hand and we'll be fine.
Suddenly, the castle shook-
Her warmth shrouded by the most terrified look.

The satyr marched in, furry brows askew.
And demanded to know: "Who...? Who?!
Who is the damsel clinging to?"

The prince withdrew his weapon at once,
and assumed the satyr-fighting stance.
"Stay back, you beast!" He said aloud,
Honey eyes shimmering, gentle and proud.
The satyr's smirk grew twisted and wide
Overshadowing part of the prince's pride.
Yet this was a chance for the princess to act
And to use the wisdom which the satyr lacked.
She quickly yelled, "Oh heavens no!
My little pet bird's gone out the window!"

The satyr leaned out to take a quick look
Just as the princess struck him blind with a book;
Then his body flew down, getting caught on a hook.

The monster cried out, yelping in pain
But his pleading sorrows were all in vain.
The princess smirked, her eyes still low,
And shyly remarked: "Thank goodness for Poe!"
"Come now," he said, "There's no more alarm"
As around her waist he coiled an arm.
Seeing as nothing else could go amiss
She rewarded the prince with a heavenly kiss.
"Oh my word, you're so disarming!"
Uttered the breathlessly pale Prince Charming.

From this day on, she'll no longer meander

And he shall become the kingdom's commander;
All hail Princess Eclipse and Prince Alexander!

By the Way...

2008-10-27T19:33:00.000-07:00

Since we're diving into our poetry section, I unearthed a little piece I wrote a few years ago. It was junior year, and we were taking (literally) FOR-EV-ER to work on our research papers. I was bored to death and ahead of schedule, so I pretty much had nothing better to do after spending half an hour just staring at the clock as well as my jewelry. Tick... tock. My teacher was just as excited about our agonizing assignment as I was. And well, that applied to pretty much everyone else. We had all become zombies. Anyway, it's probably one of a grand total of two poems I've written in the past several years. And, I suppose, it seems strangely autobiographical. Needless to say, I went a little crazy with the thesaurus. But that's what I like about it. Side note: the "Prozium" mentioned is a fictional drug from the movie Equilibrium, a mood neutralizer. No, it doesn't exist. No, I don't take it. It's figurative, people! *Snaps fingers* Get it? Got it? Good. Haha. Now keep reading... Hey, you've gotten this far. Why stop now?

Prelude to (Preventing) Precariousness

BEFORE DAWN SHE WAKES,
HUEY LEWIS RESONATING SOFTLY IN HER HEAD.
THE WORLD SO SIMPLISTIC, CONSISTING ONLY OF
LIMBER WARMTH, A GRAY HAZE
AND HUEY'S FARCICAL CYNICISM.
A CHORAL SAPPHIRE GLOW
REFLECTS OFF SHROUDED WALLS
SIX IN THE MORNING, AND
ANOTHER DAY BEGINS.
MINUTES PASS LIKE SECONDS
JUST ONE MORE SONG...

SHE IS FORCED TO RISE.
THE SUN, A CHRYSALIS IN THE SKY
BUT SHE CAN'T WITNESS ITS TRANSGRESSION.
SURROUNDED BY FOUR WHITE WALLS
ONLY THE DAMSEL'S THOUGHTS
PENETRATING THROUGH THEM
REACHING FOR WONDERLAND
FINDING IT INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT
TO STAY
AWAKE, DREAMLESS, PRAGMATIC.

TWIRLING THE SAME RING AROUND HER FINGER,
ALTERNATING BLACK AND WHITE
UNTIL THEY BOTH MELT INTO ONE
NEITHER FROWN NOR SMILE
NOR SMIRK. JUST... NOTHING.
A GAZE TO MATCH HIS OWN.

ONLY HIS VISAGE, CAPABLE OF
SPARKING SOMETHING.
CONTENTMENT.
SHE DREAMS, KNOWING THAT
MOST OF IT WILL NEVER BE.
BUT SHE PULLS WONDERLAND CLOSE
UNWILLING TO LET IT GO
AS IT MAY NOT RETURN.

SHE PULLS A BLINDFOLD OVER
DARK HONEY EYES
SOMEHOW AVOIDING
HER OWN DOWNFALL
AS SHE FAILS TO DISCERN
WHICH GAMES SHE
CAN'T AFFORD TO PLAY.
LUCK, PURE LUCK
PULLS THE LINGUIST FORTH.
DOESN'T LEAD HER BY THE
HAND LIKE A CHILD, NOR
PUSHES HER FORWARD.
FORCE ISN'T NECESSARY TO THE LIBERTINE.

NIGHT FALLS OVER HER
A HEAVY BLANKET
AS SHE FIGHTS TO RESTRAIN IT.
BUT THE NIGHT PREVAILS.
ONCE MORE IT FAZES THE DAY.
AND THUS, THE ENIGMATIC
PROZIUM ADDICT
TAKES HER LEAVE,
RETREATS TO AN UNCERTAIN
AND VEXED DREAM STATE
PUSHING AWAY THINGS TO COME
FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY
UNTIL IT ALL DISSIPATES
INTO SOMETHING SHE CAN HANDLE.
AND THEN
ANOTHER DAY BEGINS.

Introspection Through His Eyes.

2008-10-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

[Another fictional piece. Side note: The "Cain" and "Abel" mentioned are fictional rock bands. The 'narrator' was the lead singer of Cain.]

For the past several months, I've been a ghost. No dimension, no life. Months ago, my life really ended. Cain fell before Abel, and every relationship I had (for better or worse) had pretty much dissolved. I've been watching the same day repeat over and over again. If not in Moscow, then in California, New York, and practically anywhere I unwillingly drag myself to. Groundhog Day, that's what it feels like. I lost everyone, and somehow in transit, I lost myself.

When I was much younger, if you told me that I would someday fall in love with someone, I'd laugh and tell you to fuck off. If you told me I'd break hearts and get my own heart broken, I'd probably say the same. Needless to say, I wouldn't believe a single word. And if you told me I'd give up on everything and quit singing, well... You'd probably have a broken nose by then. In this pothole-covered highway of life, I've been driving on a set of my own twisted rules, if any. Ignored the signs. Drove through the night with the lights off. And when I least expected it, a head-on collision with reality sent me flying through the windshield. I was mangled and confused, unable - and likely unwilling - to turn to anyone. Ashamed. Disappointed. Just when I made the decision to invest myself in exploring this unknown and glorious territory known as love, it presented itself as an abstraction initially. Nothing else mattered, until chipping away at the surface revealed a sickeningly hollow core. My heart had been playing a tug of war with my mind.

Unable to learn from my mistakes, I wanted to seek out some sort of acceptance of the situation. Nothing seemed real. I didn't want any of it to be real. So once again I was on that highway, tearing apart the seat belts, thinking I wouldn't have any use for them. I craved self-destruction, yet I was afraid of it. Thus, the illusion had been created, causing another crash. Who needs airbags anyway?

I'm sitting in a little French cafe of Whatever City, Any State, waiting. It's all the same to me. I don't know what I'm waiting for, really. In a way, I'm at a fork in the road once again, pulling over instead of taking any of the exits just yet. My choices, the three possible paths, are clearly marked as past, present, and future. More roads, some similar and some unexplored, as if I haven't practically destroyed myself on any of them before. Being passive aggressive for so long caused the first road to take the shape of a gravel-covered country path. Full of holes and unexpected bumps, it's just not one I'm willing to travel on anymore. This is my first conscious choice in all of this deliberation. I'm letting go of the past.

The aroma of the coffee crawls down into my lungs, teasing my senses though I'm unable to savor the first sip just yet. There's one of the few lessons you bother to remember and abide by. Don't gulp down a cup of scalding hot anything. It's like falling out of love - your insides feel like they're helplessly boiling and being cooked to a crisp, but you knew it would happen eventually. Sometimes you can live through it, sometimes you can't. If you're saved, you become cautious and withdrawn. You stay as far away as possible. If it's too late and no one can put you back together, you're still disconnected from the world. Those two outcomes might really be the same. They both result in an empty dark road. Minutes vanish like the steam rising from the cup, and I take my first sip. I'm letting go of the present.

My face scrunches up, and for a moment I resemble a pissed off Daffy Duck. Soon I'm shoveling mountains of sugar into the almost-black liquid before the next sip is deemed acceptable. Have I always been so rigid and unresponsive? Not only in the realm of the no-sugar no-cream coffee I've always guzzled, but in terms of life in general. Has everything been this tasteless? Suddenly I realize that maybe some things need to be sugar-coated for a change. I don't want to seem selfish once again, but shit, I deserve it. I deserve sugar in my goddamn coffee every once in a while. "Got enough sugar there?" I look up, quickly matching the nearby brunette to that originally disembodied voice. And I smile. A big goofy fucking grin at last. "Not yet," I say. I know which exit to take now. I'm looking forward to the future.

Dodging bullets is one thing. Cupid's arrows, though...

2008-09-29T21:12:00.000-07:00

Yeah, those are a completely different story. Wow, where do I begin?

You know how years ago, people used to tell their kids, "I met your father at a diner" or "I met your mother at church"? Well, I doubt that trend will continue. In a little while, those how I met your mother stories will be totally different. Watered down, almost. You'll begin to hear, "We met on match.com" and "I stalked your mother on Facebook for a few weeks before we met face to face." Sad, right?

Out in cyberspace, people generally display what they want the world to see. The rest of them, it's concealed, and you feel compelled and yet scared to dig deeper. If you know what angles are best for your pictures, or if you're a Photoshop junkie, you can accomplish almost any disguise. You can be flawless. Watered down. I was skeptical, to say the least, about ever meeting an online personality in real life. I'll loathe him immediately, I thought. He'll be completely different. What if he turns out to be a Pedobear? What if he doesn't show up at all? What if, what if, what if...

Clearly, I grew up in a safe little bubble.

This one guy, he was a street racer. A typical rich kid with too much freedom for his own good. Late night parties, frequent outings to lavish restaurants, that sort of thing. After several days of fragmented conversations, he said I was different, and sometimes messaged me in the middle of the night in a drunken stupor with random compliments. Invited me to go grab some food or hang out. No thank you.

Sometime in high school, I got into the mindset where I found stoners attractive. You know - longer hair, lanky, sunken and pleading puppy dog eyes. I wanted a Hawk from Detroit Rock City. As much as I hate to admit it, in the back of my mind wanted a good kid, perhaps the opposite of what I thought would satisfy or entice me. Surprisingly enough, I stumbled upon that good kid while browsing a list of the grads from my high school via myspace. I'm not sure what compelled me to do so (maybe I was attempting to find someone substantially better - and more or less sober - to talk to). Scanning over his page, I got this oddly positive vibe. Without so much as a second thought, I sent a friend request his way.

No, I didn't actually initiate the first conversation (I'd be too chicken to do so). He did. It started off with a paragraph or two, where we took turns just spewing random and obscure facts that described us. Not to mention, his writing was flawless and coherent and interesting - joy! There was (surprisingly) an instant connection. And boom, not even two weeks later, we were nervously staring at each other over two cups of scalding hot coffee. Pleasantly awkward, that's what I called it. He grinned, his ears turning a deep shade of red.

Never thought I'd say this, but I've become a statistic. I've become part of yet another sickeningly sweet online success story.

Breathing Room

2008-09-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

Whenever people find out that I'm pretty much obsessed with writing fiction, they often want to read something I've devised. I'll admit that most of what I write doesn't exactly thrill me. I am my own toughest critic, it seems; Thomas Mann said it best: "A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." Maybe sitting in front of the computer screen for long hours each evening sounds like a waste of time, but there's nowhere else I'd rather be. I've lost (and gained) friends over it, believe it or not. But I think it's a sacrifice worth making. If you write for days and only come up with one short and witty scene, it's worth it. It's progress.

Anyway, the scene(s) I'd like to share with the virtual universe may seem somewhat intense. No, I don't exactly write for the shock value, if any truly exists within this piece (that's something for you, as a reader, to interpret). Dramatic sequences are always the most entertaining to write. Thus far, my newest (original) character - Adrian Mancini - has become my muse of sorts. Think of him as a nineteen-year-old Patrick Bateman. He's classy, clever, and so much more. So, without further adieu, I will momentarily take you elsewhere...

THE CAST:
Victor Mancini - Robert Patrick
Isabella Mancini - Gillian Anderson
Adrian Mancini - Edward Furlong

SUNDAY, APRIL 1ST, 2007

"Victor Mancini was a strong and passionate individual. As was my mother Isabella. Though we've always lived comfortable lives, it is truly heart-breaking to lose a set of such dedicated parents. They've taught me not only the skills I'd need as a future entrepreneur, but also the ability to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. I can still remember when my father took me to my first baseball game. Or the time my mother caught me stuffing cookie dough into my mouth then I was four..." Pause for the collective chuckle from the audience. And continue.

"Report cards, broken bones - they were always there by my side to pick me up after every fall. This time it's my turn to show them my gratitude. I vow to loyally continue the Mancini family tradition. I vow to make Victor and Isabella proud. But first and foremost, I will make a promise to them..." Here's your close-up. Now look up into the camera and look wistful, yet at the same time determined. "I promise that I will find their killer." He stepped down from the podium, cameras flashing wildly as two burly bodyguards escorted him to the black limo idling nearby. "I'm so terribly sorry for your loss, Mister Mancini," an old rich woman said to him before he managed to escape without a word. That was the phrase of the day. I'm sorry for your loss. Blah blah blah, what a loss it was. He put a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Now, now, Mrs. Lazzari. I am confident that justice will be served." With that delicate gesture of reassurance, he disappeared behind the tinted glass of the limo, leaving her along with the rest of the black parade. Suits and dresses. They were swimming in a sea of onyx.

As soon as the limo was moving through the crowd of nosy reporters, he was on the phone with the family's business rep. "Charles, I need you to cancel that merger scheduled for June." There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "But Mister Mancini, you're already going against the grain. Your father-"

"My father's gone," Adrian interrupted. "...as you can tell. I'm old enough to run this company." Eighteen is totally old enough.

"Very well, then." A sigh broke into the other man's speech. "I'll make the proper arrangements. But just know that the Lazzaris won't be too happy about it."

"They can deal with it on their own, Charles. Not like they need fatter wallets," he replied, hanging up abruptly. A slight scowl tugged his lips downward as he removed a tiny piece of lint from his jacket. In his world, there was no room for imperfections.

"Drop me off a block away from the penthouse," Adrian said to the driver, who nodded in silence. They passed a series of run-down buildings, the rusty red brick mutilated to expose the wood and concrete entrails.

ONE WEEK EARLIER.

Steady and slow breaths echoed through the sprawling bedroom bathed in darkness, the covers rising and falling quietly. Victor Mancini rolled over, a hand reaching out unconsciously to drape itself across his wife's torso. It hit nothing but empty air before falling into the slight dent beside a vacant pillow. Something was out of place. And it wasn't just Isabella. His eyes shot open when he heard a whimper. And this is when the show begins. Cue the raving lunatic. "Sit up." The command was short and to the point, and surprisingly the man who supposedly didn't take shit from anyone... well, he sat bolt upright to see his wife's outline faintly illuminated by the moonlight, a gloved hand curled around her throat. Not to mention the Beretta handgun pressed teasingly to the side of her head. The icing on the cake. Yet this strangely familiar voice didn't belong to her.

Tick, tock. Well, Boss, aren't you gonna speak up? Victor was frozen, utterly unprepared. "W-what the hell are you doing?" He had one of those stern voices that would make little kids piss themselves in fear. But alas, it was his turn to sample that particular emotion. "I hope you don't mind, but there's been a slight change of plans," the phantom voice replied, chuckling slightly with the redhead motionlessly standing in his grasp. Her big blue eyes screamed out pleadingly. Please save me Victor. Ooh, ahh, it's the damsel in distress! Too late for an Academy Award now. Though she might still make it to next year's dead celebrity montage. This tension is already killing both of them - don't let it steal the spotlight.

"Did you enjoy your last glass of wine?" Victor was plainly surprised at the sudden shift in subject. Yeah, shut up and listen for a change. "Tasted a little funny, didn't it?" The shadow behind Isabella tilted its head to the side with an invisible Cheshire cat grin. Bella was fighting back a hysterical sob, eyes closing for a moment to leave a wet imprint under her long eyelashes, every breath making her entire body tremble. "Shhh..." The voice hissed gently in her ear, the end of the gun slowly tracing a line down her cheek and brushing against her plump lips. It was so cold, so lifeless. She might as well have been kissing Victor at that very moment and wouldn't have noticed any difference. Focus. You haven't got all night. "Well, I just wanted to wake you up so you wouldn't miss the celebration. Thought I should open my presents early this year."

"Adrian...?"
That was his cue to shove Bella one step forward. Just enough to let the moonlight illuminate that heavenly face. This boy wouldn't hurt a fly.

"Yeah, yeah. You probably forgot all about it. It's alright, I've got it covered. You don't even have to sing happy birthday - that's her job." He shoved the pistol back against her cheek. She winced. "Mom? Would you like to start?"

"Are you fucking nuts?! Let her go, Adrian!"

"SING IT!" He yelled suddenly, that distinct click of the gun signifying it was ready to fire at its master's command.

"H-hap-py... birth... day... t-to... y-you," she began in a soft murmur, lips quivering as her sapphire eyes stared helplessly at her husband. "Oh please," her son interrupted. "You used to sing it so well. Don't skimp on the quality, Mom. How about another try?" Ah, he's so considerate and polite. Would've made the perfect candidate for a boy scout. Bella drew in a long breath and repeated the stanza twice, this time more coherently, hoping to detach herself from this horrible nightmare. "Happy birthday... dear Adrian.. happy birth...day... to... you."

"Time to blow out the candle," Adrian announced, his hand quickly shooting out toward Victor as he pulled the trigger.

"No!!!" A mangled scream boiled out of Bella's throat as she collapsed to the floor in tears. Victor sat hunched forward, a palm failing to contain the thick blood oozing through his fingers. He wheezed, fighting to keep his head up, a mix of rage and defeat draining from his eyes. "You're going to hell for this," he snarled. That crimson liquid was filling his lungs now, creeping its way up his windpipe, silently strangling him to death. "I'll see you there," his son replied casually, strolling to the edge of the bed.With a smug grin, he watched his father, this tyrant of a man, choke on his own blood.

Meanwhile, Bella sat on the floor with her face in her hands, a flood of desperate tears blurring her vision as Adrian knelt down before her. Gently, he stroked her copper hair, his eyes empty aside from that unfortunate hint of devious satisfaction. "I'm doing you a favor here. Both of you." Her gaze slowly panned upward to meet his. For a moment, there was an absolute silence between them. The next thing he knew, her palm was making contact with his cheek. If she was trying to smack some sense into you, she failed. "Fuck. You!!" She yelled, falling into another fit of sobs. Well, what else could she say? Some cliche line like "you're no son of mine"? Nah. Isabella Mancini was straightforward. For once.

Unfazed by the sudden stinging on his cheek, Adrian was growing impatient. He needed to leave as soon as possible. "Look, I don't wanna shoot you. In fact, I don't plan on it." But oh my, there has to be a twist! If there's one thing that little weasel learned in his eighteen - well, now nineteen - years on this earth, then it was the necessity of a backup plan. "Besides," he smirked, "...red never really looked good on you." A glance at his wristwatch confirmed the hastening approach of her demise. "Well, I'd love to hang around and all, but I have places to be. And the experience won't be too unpleasant - I suggest you get comfortable, though." Through all of Adrian's psychobabble, Bella was already drifting in and out of consciousness. All thanks to a little bit of chemistry knowledge and a mix of sedatives and painkillers. A time bomb waiting to explode. Private schools don't teach you this kind of thing. The Internet does.

Within minutes, she was out cold. Cue the closing curtains as the audience applauds this dramatic conclusion of Part Deux. No, he wasn't done yet. He had to rearrange the props. Adrian dragged her over to the side of the bed, laying her lifeless body next to Victor's. Straightened out the covers. Changed the time on the antique wooden clock and smashed it to bits on the floor. The exact time of the murders. Broke a side window. That's the initial break-in. Busted a lamp on Victor's nightstand. The sign of a struggle. Every gesture and motion already hard-wired into his mind. The perfect crime. Moments later he slipped out through the back entryway, his path shrouded overhead by a thick covering of tree limbs.

Happy birthday, dear Adrian. Happy birthday to you...

PRESENT DAY

A burst of hollow laughter echoed through the large office as he sat in the executive chair behind a heavy cherrywood desk. "Ha! I wasn't aware that I was dating Paris Hilton this week," Adrian snorted, the phone receiver cradled against his shoulder as his eyes stared into the large tv suspended from the ceiling. This time a female voice was on the other end of the line. It was Molly, a childhood friend of his, perhaps the only woman to ever appreciate Adrian's dry wit. And if she was only pretending... Well, she was doing a pretty damn good job at it. "That whore... Oh, not you, Momo." Images of celebrity gossip shows were quickly replaced by a news bulletin covering the arrest of Bernardo Lazzari. "Hey, I'll call you back." Eyes glued to the screen, he let his hands wander over the desk to hang up the phone.

"New York businessman Bernardo Lazzari has been arrested today on charges of embezzlement. Anonymous sources firmly believe in his involvement in the still-unresolved Mancini murders. We'll have more on this story at six."

Giving the Baddies a Bad Name

2008-09-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

So, I was browsing through the AP news headlines via my iPod touch this morning - because I have that kind of time - and several of the stories from the "Wacky" category caught my eye. And, consequently, made me gag.

The first story described how some kid managed to elbow his way into Sarah Palin's yahoo e-mail account by simply guessing the answer to a security question in order to reset the password (which he later changed to popcorn). As a side note, isn't it rather unprofessional to use a Yahoo mail account for official business (which, it seems, Palin did)? I don't want to get into politics. That's not my cup of tea. Anyway, guessing vaguely personal information correctly is not hacking. It's luck. There wasn't even a password necessary for the "infiltration," no real effort on the "hacker's" part. Hell, even you or I could do the same exact thing. I can quickly draw a parallel of the misuse of such a term with the word "gangster". Pretty much every rapper these days throws that word around without the awareness of what a real gangster is. Pop culture obsessed teens flash a tired variation of the peace sign to assume a "gangsta" pose (if you want to go all out, why not throw in a colored bandanna as well?). Which automatically lets them join the ranks of Bugsy Siegel and Frank Costello. Kids... rappers... It wouldn't hurt to do some research. Famous faces like Al Capone are likely spinning around in their graves right now due to the fact that their way of life (and eventually death) has been completely watered down by today's culture - and I use that term loosely. But I digress.

The second story, a rather bizarre one, entails a man who was forced to call 911 after he got stuck in an air duct at a Knoxville museum. So what, right? Well, there's more. Richard Smith is actually a secret operative who just happened to have compromised his mission thanks to a blunder back at home base - it was the wrong museum he was breaking into! Damn helicopter pilot should've known better than to drop him off in a different city. Oops! If you're not believing a word of this, rightly so. Yet that's the allibi he presented to the cops. No, Richard, you're not like Ethan Hunt or Sydney Bristow, or even part of Ocean's Eleven. You're just a moron.

Yes, there's a connection between these two apparently news-worthy events. What irks me the most is the way mainstream culture eventually filters out the meanings of terms which are exclusive to a specific group of individuals. You need credentials to be a spy. Calling yourself one won't make it true.

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