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Four hundred years ago, there was one single string of the human race. And 4 thousand years before that, there was only one string of ape. But as history is bound to repeat itself time and time again, we find here that there's been another break in humanities genetic history. Now there are the Boids, who are considered the ape equivalent of modern society. They are typically looked down apon by the Humayne, like you and I. The balance of these two species has been uneven since the Fifth war. It appears we approach war once again my fellow Humayne.
Names are silly things. We pick a sound for our influential young offspring, and that sound, or combination's of sounds, identifies that child until the day they die, or go through the painstaking process of changing it. There's always a debate among the parents of said child. Will they like their name? Can we add anymore letters? Should we add a silent 'q'? But such questions get intense and cause problems. A word of caution to you, the future identifying sound givers: If you give your child an odd name, or even just an odd spelling, it will be mispronounced.
It's said that if you through a penny down a well, you will get a wish. Most people would wish for money or world peace or love. But I was never one for all the priss and pearl. My wishes, instead, go toward world destruction. I've been working on giving nickel poisoning to the population for years. Every coin shop (and yes they exist), every road booth, every farmers market, I look for old coins made entirely of nickel. Some aren't even American currency. Then, I take the coins and through them down every well, hoping it will be active.
My thumbs were flickering as fast as human muscles can move. The buttons made faint clicking noises with every letter that popped up on the screen. Suddenly the letters stopped. There were no longer any numbers or dash marks. Instead a field of snow had invaded the tiny screen in my hand. I looked about and bit my lip, hoping no one would notice that this very basic phone was showing something not very basic. A wall of text popped up where I had previously been planning out the weekend. My eyes scanned quickly. Looks like my plans were canceled.
A hundred words to describe how I hate you. You're disgusting to say the least. You're vile and vain, while still being able to be one of the worst human beings on the face of this planet. A hundred words to tell you that you're the most nauseating person I've ever met. Some might find it hard to fill a hundred words with hate, but with you and your constant annoyance as a muse, it's not that difficult. If there was a chance I could send you cholera in the mail, I would take that chance in a heart beat.
If there's anything that bothers me more than intergalactic drama and petty thievery, it's got to be the cookie cutter forms used to standardize the minds of the young. If billy knows the meaning of thousands of words beyond the one's he's supposed to know, but he can't spell lick, he's held back and considered dumb. When I was in 5th grade there was a special math class, but you had to know the pythagorean theorem to get in. I'm sure my mind would have been able to handle it. But I was never taught it, so I didn't know.
My dearest friend showed me a video, and while I wouldn't recommend it for all ages, it had an interesting premise. It begins with a woman complaining that the club was shut down, so she tells her friend to have a 'kiki'. Which was slang for an exclusive party. And it's gotten me thinking about the ways our language has evolved. Since the beginning of time we've been constantly changing and shortening words to mean something new, and it's some how gotten on to the point where anyone can make up words. So I will make up words. Terulyin nervatis
Sometimes I sit and think about what I should write, and when that inevitably doesn't work, I turn to the news. Everyday there's a new phenomenon that doesn't get explained, and so I make it my job to explain it in the most fictional way possible. Say there was a series of earthquakes, boom, apocalypse novel. Super human strength? Super humans teaming up to fight other super humans. I also find it really exciting when the events of a book, like for instance 'Flash Forward' start happening in real life, like massive crow death in the middle east, that happened.
Life with out internet is like some vicious, cruel joke. How am I expected to entertain myself and not become a public menace and nuisance when I don't have cats to look up and laugh at. Without the distraction of the internet, my study hall period is filled with anguish and frustration. I spend the time making paper air planes that could, structurally speaking, knock down the sky needle. Why must I be tormented by the lack of unlimited knowledge at my finger tips twenty-four seven? This is a horrible, menacing, atrocity, up with which I will not put.
In four days, I'd managed to screw up everything in my life. In, four days, I robbed a bank, broke out of jail, snuck in and out of the oval office, tasered a well meaning but all together ineffective cop, put food coloring in the water supply of five different towns causing mass chaos and hilarious reactions, got caught, got rescued by a couple drag queens, and ate 36 burritos. All through out my shinanagains, I learned that corn does not remove tatoos, you can't always trust your family, and that the best part of life, is just living it.
There's this constant buzzing noise. Some days it seems to pop up to something a little higher. I'm not sure where it comes from or why I can hear it, but my biggest fear is that one day it will become loud enough that I can't hear anything but this insistant buzz in the back of my head. Or even worse that the buzz will go away completely and leave me with intense silence for the remainder of my life. If I were no longer able to hear the buzzing that kept me aware of life, what would I do?
People say not to compare your life to others. But they don't realize that it hurts to watch someone else live out your dream. I know I can't be mad at someone else for doing a wonderful job at something I wish I did a wonderful job at. But I just can't stand watching all the people be happy for them instead of acknowledging me, and all my effort. At times it does feel like all my work and pride is in vain. And at other times I feel that there is no future for me, anywhere in the world
I know the pain of a heartbreak. Not one that comes from silly girls putting all their hopes into one single person. Nor one that comes from losing a love. That pain is black and white, and easily fades. My heartbreak is working your hardest and trying your absolute best and feeling that all your efforts were worth it and that you did perfect, only to be knocked down by a few strokes of a pen and an opinion. It's the kind of pain that you think about. It burns into your head and beats you up, until nothing's left.
I always break these commitments. 100 words a day means remembering and being inspired. It also means compacting all the inspiration (should you get it) down into these few words that would hardly make a monologe. But more than that it mean writing when you don't want to. Writing when you can't stand to look at a computer, or your reflection in the brief moment of darkness on the screen of that computer. Even on days when you don't want the world to know you exist. Or when you want to forget technology and watch the sun cross the sky.
I've thought a lot about writing a story that many years from now will make high school students groan and growl. Mostly because the thought of having to find and pick a college absolutely terrifies me. What if I can't find more than one? Then what if that one doesn't accept me? It's truly fearsome to think about the future while standing where they expect you to already know what you want. My goal is that 20 years from now I don't regret my entire existence because of the choices I've been forced to make as a confused, scared teenager.
Sometimes I like to think of what would happen if people weren't shaped like we know they are. Like what if everyone was shaped like pies. We would look like cartoon characters but in real life. And if I've been taught anything by cereal commercials, characters made to be cartoon characters, should stay that way. Imagine having to look at poorly make uped, overly happy, in your face pie people all the time. That's a really terrifying thought. And then they try to do a song or a dance. Now imagine that you yourself are one of these creatures. Terrifying.
One of my biggest annoyances is when you tell someone that they never listen to you, and you have perfect black and white evidence, but they try to tell you that you're wrong and they do actually care. It bothers me more if I say something and get ignored because people automatically make assumptions before they hear the words coming out of my mouth. I'm saying it for a reason, whether it be to be informative, questioning, or funny. When I have questions it really bothers me. Because usually I'll end up saying that person's name 5 times, even yelling.
We've started planning. Or rather, I've started planning. I've began writing out the letter to Tony. The car accident is to be set up for Gretta. A couple of cats are being wrangled for Susan, and a few dogs for Kevin. And I've put in motion the actions that will get Trudy fired. Eventually, all of these together will lead them to the broken down factory on the corner of White Post road and Green street. It will take a little bit for each event to work out, but if my calculations are correct, and they are, it's all perfect.
Trudy was fired today. It took some time but things went perfect. One of the most important files to ever go through the trusted hands at Anarbor Law firm has suddenly disappeared. In fact, it disappeared while in the care of a Trudy Steampaw. Of course, she was upset by the incident, even I would be, a document that you never received found to be missing while you had no idea what happened to it. To be honest, she wasn't that great of a secretary anyway. It wasn't hard to believe that she didn't care much about any given file.
I sent out the letter to Tony. It won't be long before he comes around. The day is getting closer and the target times are getting narrower. I'm hoping the letter reaches him at just the right moment, that would make things so much easier. Right now the letter should be hitching a ride on a truck. From that truck, a conveyor belt moving up to a waiting air plane. A hopefully smooth ride to the next post office. (All the hands it goes through scares me,) And a final delivery to 846 Crepping Street Apartment number 6, Orlando, Florida.
I've always wanted to do something really important. Something that would leave a mark on the world. I know I'm not cut out for polotics because I can't bring myself to pick sides. But I want philanthropy to be a big part of my life. The only problem is that most philanthropists are mega crazy rich. So the way I see it, I have to first become a celebrity, whether it be as an author or an actress, and then I can give all my money away. It seems really simple but the truth is that others who've tried, failed.
If I just lurk behind I can learn so many things. Sometimes I'll just pretend I'm no listening, but people don't know that I am paying them attention. Often times I do it selfishly, just to find out if they're talking about me. And the way others talk about other people behind their back, I can be one hundred percent sure that they're talking about me the same way behind my back. Often I know they're making fun of me, but I won't do anything. Probably has something to do with my morals or what ever, either way, I'm unhappy.
I've picked up a new hobby of listening to songs and deciding wether or not they would make good show choir songs. Some of them, I even think up my own choreography to. It makes me feel like I could actually make the choir, even if I'm like Olivia Newton, hopeless. Things tend to go bad for me when other people are better than me. No mater how hard I work and work, it never seems to be good enough. I'm just not given chances to prove that I really can be as good as people who are actually talented.
Sometimes I worry that I really am crazy. That I'm delusional and, although I think I'm friends with everyone, I'm really just one of the biggest losers. I write this in an entry so far behind so that no one can read it. There can be no good that comes from someone knowing how I feel. That's why I fake it and put on a laugh and make another joke. That way people can't tell what my real emotions are, even if they can't tell what the fake one is either. The only problem is, what happens to those emotions.
If Jimmy leaves his house at 7:02 and he gets in the car after walking at 4 miles an hour, then it takes him approximately 4 minutes to get the car going, how long does it take for him to get to Kathy's house while going 25 miles per hour if her house is 40 minutes away? Trick question, Jimmy doesn't want to go to Kathy's house because Kathy is a rage-aholic and he doesn't want to be around her because the last time he was, she threw a bottle and almost hit his cute, pretty boy, face.
Today we read poems to a bunch of 7th graders and I don't know how to feel about it. Most of it was really awkward, the kids didn't really seem interesting and most of my poems were too personal or awkward to read. There's just something about reading poems that from people that you know personally that just makes things weirder. Instead, it'd probably be easier to have like stations set up where the kids can come freely. And maybe instead of a poem written by us, a poem written by someone else that we draw randomly from a stack.
"We only need to find the right book" Ridely said from the backseat. I glanced at him in the rear view mirror. He'd been acting weird for the past week. Where he used to be bubbly and friendly he had become reserved and only spoke when absolutely necessary. I guess today was a better day.
Along with acting weird, he looked like he'd been living like a caveman in alaska for 6 months. His hair was thin and looked to be falling out, and his fingernails were chewed to nubs. He looked so sick, i needed to help
I tore my eyes away from the dark pits staring back at me in the rearview mirror. Best to focus on the road and now how sickly he looked. In the passengers seat next to me. George fiddled with the radio, I gently hit his hand away from the turner. The last thing we needed was something that would make Ridely more jumpy than he was.
"Turn right" I followed the direction into a suburban neighborhood packed with condos. Most of them were modern looking and nothing seemed really out of place in the perfect American dream neghiborhood
We pulled up to a condo that looked just like all the others, except there weren't any Hondas in the driveway and the grass out front had given way to lush weeds.
"Um," George muttered. "Who's house did you say this was?"
"I didn't." Ridely replied, his voice was the strongest it'd been in weeks. He hopped out of the car and moved up the driveway so fast it looked like he was getting in from the rain. George and I made eye contact and we decided to stay in the car.
It was about an hour later that we were starting to get seriously worried. He'd only needed some book that he claimed his grandfather had left for him. Now it seemed like he'd never get this book that was so direly important that he had to get it durring rush hour.
"Should we go get him?" George asked, concerned but also scared out of his wits. I didn't know weither or not we should go in. The way Ridely left made me think he didn't want us there.
Despite my instincts, I pulled the door handle
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