"Child at Heart"

Children don't have new ideas. They absorb information. From their parents. Peers. Society. Then they grow up, and they realise that quite a bit of the stuff they learned was a lie. They come up with new ideas, think new things, break free and look around. Sometimes they give up after a while and become old-hearted, unable to look at new ideas, think in new ways. Some people never even think for themselves in the first place . They still hold negative opinions about whoever they were supposed to hold negative opinions of as a child. If it happens that their parents wanted them to hate certain ethnic groups that's what they become racists. If they were disiplined for questioning authority, and were supposed to have blind respect for there country they become nationalists. Rather than use reasoning to think of new ideas they use it to rationalize defenses for there old ones. So I think it's strange to hear the phrase "child-at-heart" It's usually a positive phrase describing somebody who enjoys childish games. That doesn't make them a child-at-heart in my opinion. A true child at heart is a racist, nationalist, xenophope who can only defend his or her ideology with empty slogans and catch-phrases. He or she maintains all the lies and falsehoods they absorbed in their youth, and will never grow beyond it.

A Work of Fiction

The class was had just settled in, had taken out their folders, and were ready to have their homework checked when one of the students on a whim asked the teacher "Can you prove you aren't a work of fiction?"

"What?" Asked the teacher.

"It doesn't seem possible to prove we aren't just characters in a story. We don't think we are, but then neither do characters in stories. Our whole lives could just be part of the story"

"Well-"

"No actually I guess they probably wouldn't be. Stories usually only tell a brief part of a life. So most of the stuff we remember wouldn't have happened. This conversation might very well not be happening. One of us might just be remembering it. We'd have to remember thing that didn't happen, since we'd be created by an author after such events. We might just have fake memories and the illusion of chronology"

"You're sounding rather pretentious. Anyway, if you want to think you're a fictional character feel free to, but right now I need to check homework."

"Would it be so bad to be fictional? To know that your life might exist to be an emotionally resonate work of art? I think it might be comforting really. You might actually be more important than a real one. Somtimes the death of a fictional character has made more people sad than the death of a real one."

The teacher just sighed.

"I think I'll write a story about this conversation.", The student said.

"I don't think it would be that interesting."

"Well I could change it to make it more interesting of course. After all it would be a work of fiction."

Into the ground (poem)

We planted the seed
put the little pellet into the ground
in the distance a funeral
the seed and corpse, opposites of one another.
We put the seed into the ground so it would grow into a plant
grow into something that can make flowers or fruit
change from an object into somthing alive and pretty
We put it in the ground so it could fulfill a potential.
When they put the corpse in the ground it had stopped growing
It had gone from somthing alive, somthing that might create
Might be looked upon with affection,
into an object, a cruel parody of all prior creations it had made,
of the affection that anyone might have had for it.
Seed and corpse. We put them into the ground.

A Recording of a Fairy Tale Therapy Session (story)

"I don't know what to say mister."

"Well Miss Riding Hood, your mother set up these therapy sessions after your encounter with the wolf."

"Is she mad at me? Oh I'm real sorry, I won't go off the path again. I won't, promise I-I-"

sound of crying

"It's ok. Nobody is mad at you. We're just concerned. Did the wolf harm you in anyway?"

"No sir, the woodsman saved me."

"Yes I was informed of that. You must feel very grateful to him."

"I-I guess so sir..."

"You sound unsure."

"The wolf, he just wanted to eat me. And that's just what wolves do right? And being eaten isn't so bad really...."

"Surely you aren't sympathising with the wolf?"

"No! I mean it's just that...well...it's just...."

"What?"

"I can kinda understand eating something, but I can't understand what the woodsman wants. And guess I owe him something cuz he saved me but I don't know what he wants except he reminds of the wolf sometimes. The way he looks at me. And I'm kinda scared, but he isn't gonna eat me or anything so I don't understand it."


sounds of crying recommences

Why I can't go to the library anymore(story)

I had a bad day. It started when I woke up. I woke up because of my parents screaming and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. Turns out my parents were being tortured to death by an insane murderer. I got tortured a bit too but not to death cuz the murderer remembered was late for an appointment. Anyway I was so busy being tortured that I was almost late for school. It wouldn't have mattered much though cuz after I got there the school burned down and I heard a lot of people burn to death and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. They brought me to a hospital but I didn't have any injuries so they just had me meet with a psychologist. But the psychologist hated me for some reason and said that I deserved what I got anyway. So I left the hospital and went walking through town without really having any idea of where to go. And I ended up coming across the murderer. The murderer was real happy cuz he was a perfectionist and he hated an unfinished job more than anything. So I got tortured some more but didn't get killed cuz the murder was insane remember and started to hallucinate and forgot all about me. He started to scream about all the horrible things he's done and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. It started to rain so I looked for somewhere to go. I found a library and went inside. I was feeling real tired cuz of how bad my day was so I fell asleep by accident. And I got woke up by the librarian cuz I was whimpering in my sleep and you aren't allowed to make noise in a library. And she was real mad cuz I was wet and bloody and the chair I was sitting on was getting wet and bloody too. So she kicked me out of the library and told me I wasn't allowed to come back. And that's why I can't go to the library anymore.

Shapeshifter (poem)

It spent it's entire existence changing
slipping from one to body to another
twisting from one form to the next
it forgot it's name and everything else about it
just keeps changing, to make it's life more convienent,
it's whatever it's audience want's it to be
but since it can be anything it wants
it's never learned to want to be anything
and shall always be nothing at all.

Last Nightmare (story)

Last night a teenager named Lev was running down the street. He knew he had to get home before his mom got upset. He couldn't be late again or things would be awful. "Why did I lose track of the time?" he thought to himself. He was going as fast as he could but he was still going to be late. He turned the corner and was crushed by the car of a drunk driver.


Lev found himself on the stage of a small auditorium. In front of him was a middle aged man in a tuxedo. The man was balding, fat, and smiling broadly. He had a microphone and was addressing an audience. The audience was made up of people suffering from a variety of horrible maladies. One man had bloody bits of metal protruding from his face and chest. Another had insects crawling all over him. One women had yellow bile seeping out her skin. All in all there were about three dozen people in the audience, all with equally dreadful afflictions.

The man in front of him spoke "And tonight we congratulate Lev, recently killed by being hit by a car."

He turned and gave Lev a cheerful nod.

"Lev has had quite an insignificant life. He has had no notable achievements, or has really ever accomplished anything worth mentioning. What's more, he would he never have accomplished anything had he not died so young. He was living in vain and his death means nothing at all. It's a truly pointless life has been snuffed out. Please rise to honor the most recent addition to the multitude of people who have died, and have no reason to be remembered.


The audience rose from their seats, almost as if they were being violently forced up. They gave a chorus made of shrieks and moans of pain. The man who had given the speech pointed to a black door off the stage. Lev slowly walked to it, put his hand on the knob, and opened it.

My Most Recent Poem.

Speaking vulgarities with a foreign accent,

To have learned to use the oral dirt

That was scooped up in a new land

And wear it like a cloak.

Oh the ironic charm of spoken bitterness

The alien words have an illegal sweetness

And I eat them like fruit.




Meant to be in the style of French Symbolists. I'm using this for tomorrow's Modernism test.

The Cutest Racism (story)

Two Chinese girls are boarding at an American private school. It's 4:30 pm, and they are in their dorm having a conversation while they do their homework together.

Translated into English


"Hu? Why are you hanging out with that Japanese boy?"


"Masaya? Why not?"


"Japanese, Koreans, horrible people. Almost not human. History teaches us that."


"Yi, your roommate is Korean. Mine is too"


"Ugh I hate her. She's so messy, I have to clean up after her."


"Sounds like me and my roommate"


"So your roommate is filthy too?"


"No. I'm the messy one. I make her clean up after me."


"You shouldn't do that! You can't just make other people clean up after you!"


"You just said Koreans are hardly even people so why do you care?"


A long pause. Yi has a look somewhere between annoyed, angry, and confused. The 2nd girl looks bored out of her mind. Then Yi says:


"You still haven't said why you're hanging out with Masaya."

"Yi, just cause your parents wouldn't even let you watch a TV show if it was made in Japan doesn't mean you have to be as bigoted as they are."

"My parents gave me proper values and a sense of-"

"Sounds like we'd hate each other. Anyway I like Maseya. He isn't -quite- as much of an idiot as most other people in this school."


"You think he's cute don't you? People say he's cute but he isn't. Japanese aren't cute. They're ugly."


"Who says he's cute?"


"People"


"By people do you mean you?"


"No, no-I think he's-"


"Gorgeous?"


"Stop it. I really hate you sometimes"


"Well you're free to leave me alone, rather than enduring my company"


Yi gets up to leave. Hu says


"Wait. I have something I was supposed to give you."


She reaches into her pocket, takes a piece of paper with Chinese writing on it, and hands it to her scowling companion.


"What is this?"


"Read it."


A pause.


"It's a love note to me..."


"Uh huh"


"But who's it from?"


"Masaya of course."


"But it's in Mandarin."


"Yeah, he's taught it to himself to impress you. I helped him a bit. Not much else to do in a place this boring. "

There is a long, awkward pause. Then Yi starts to cry. She goes to her room. Hu watches her go impassively. Then she smiles despite herself. She'd never admit it, but she likes this kind of sappy romance.

The Mind Reader (story)

I hate it. I sense the things in everyone's head for miles around me. It's nothing but a cluttered mess of thoughts and feelings, sensations and images. Nothing makes sense. It's so difficult to write this because I keep on seeing and feeling so many things. And i hate it because I forget what's mine and whats someone else's. Do i feel the warmth of the sun? is that someone elses feeling? don't know. Just trying to write but it's so hard to remember what I'm doing. Can't focus on anything when feeling everything. and sooner or later the pain. someone will get their heart broken or will be hurt and I will feel it. i just laughed. Somthing funny about imminent pain? No somebody else must have heard something funny. risk of feeling pain cant be funny. it's scary the risk of pain is scary. i hav to keep writing. need this to remeber who I am. scared to forget what thoughts is myown. Writing sofast feel urgency. Is this urgent? got an image of messy paper with math problms on it. Somebody else's homework is late. This isn't urgent. I can take my time, use grammar. Have to keep writing so when I wake up I have a somthing that helps me remember where others end and I begin. What's my name? I don't know. Whenever I try to think of my name a dozen pop into my head. Don't know which is mine and which are just people thinking of their name. Horrible fear. a knife. Not being stabbed. somebody else is. hurts theyre dyeing.god ithurts ithurtsithurtsithurts.

my third story

This story takes some of the elements from my first story. I think of the first as a draft for this. It wasn't good enough to stand on it's own.



He was dying. He lay in the hospital, slowly watching himself deteriorate. He was waitng to turn from a person into a corpse, an object. A chunk of biological matter without any meaning or significance. Naturally he was a bit bitter. His mother was planning to visit him today. He sighed. Their visits were the most painful parts of his death. Reminders that the only thing he was and would ever be was a pointless tragedy. He sighed again and tried to think of something to do. He decided to start writing his last requests. He wasn't sure what they could be, what he really could ask for after he died. He knew he didn't want his school to have some announcement on his death. Couldn't stand the idea of people being sentimental about him, now that he was devoid of sentiment to almost anything else. The idea of a moment of silence or a sappy obituary in the school paper was repulsive to him. He took his notebook and was about to start writing when there was a soft ding and his mother arrived. She looked far more sick than he did. "Hi sweetie, how are you?" His mother asked him. There was a pause. "I'm dying" he replied in a monotone voice.


"Sweetie don't say that"


"It's true"


"You need to have a good attitude"


"For what reason?"


"Having faith improves your chances-"


"Faith in what? God?" A note of anger began to creep into his voice "Why should God save me huh? What makes me worth it? And what if he does? What right does he have? So many people die in tragic accidents, if I live, God might smite an orphanage in some third world country full of
aids and famine. If he saves me I'll kill myself just to spite the bastard"


Their was a long silence. His mother began to cry. Shame flooded through him. He couldn't do this. He couldn't hurt his mother when he was so close to death. A final impression is even more important that a first one.

"I'm sorry"

"It's ok, your upset, you don't mean it"

They talked about casual, forgetable things for a while, passing time with one another. After a while she reluctantly left to go home. He knew she was afraid she wouldn't see him again. When she had left he took his notebook and wrote "Death is the greatest cause of forgiveness"

Then he lay down to rest for a while.

My Dad

I'm so sorry for my father. He knows we don't relate to one another. He claims he was a lot like me at my age, and whether or not that's true we don't have anything in common now. We don't even understand each other. I think he blames himself. He really shouldn't, he was never the classic image of a "Dad" I suppose, even in the most basic things. Never talked to me about sports, his childhood, shaving, girls, morality, ect. I'd probably be a homosexual if certain christian right wingers were correct (they aren't and I'm not). But, I don't care about sports, I learned about shaving and his childhood from my mom, no advice would help me find romance and I'm glad I though about morality for myself because it gave me a chance to think about philosophy. But now he feels guilty for all that, (not that he would admit it) to the point where he's desperate to spend more time with me. And since we don't have the same interests, apart from the show Dexter, he's going to try to learn about video games from me. He doesn't care about games, doesn't know anything about them, doesn't really want to. He's just desperate to redeem himself for not defining me in relation to him, by defining himself in relation to me. He really shouldn't feel this way. He's had rich life, he was a radical who was arrested for protesting, he married in his twenties, got a very civil divorce, and married my mom in his 40's. His family was poor but he was very successful, if a bit of workholic. I shouldn't be what primarily defines him.

Short Story

Inspired by the show Dexter.



I found out Elise was dead. They announced her suicide on morning announcements. I stopped and turned cold. Not because, as most people might assume, I was sorry for her. This was a new situation and I had to be careful not to give any hints that might let people see how empty I am. I thought about how a person who wasn't empty would react. How well did I know her? I had talked to her occasionally, but was not considered to be her friend. Should I pretend to cry? I looked around, most people seemed to be distressed, one girl is crying but I think she was a friend of Elise's. I figured that I didn't need to cry. I wondered if I might have something to do with her suicide. I stole 30 dollars from her purse last week. I didn't think that 30 dollars would cause anyone to commit suicide but it could be a final push. I felt chilled with fear for a few minutes, but nobody had seen me steal the money. Nobody would know that I might have had something to do with her suicide. I felt safe again. I almost smiled but I remembered that wouldn't have looked right to the class.

After first class (which, to my enjoyment, was cut short due to the teacher consoling the upset students). I watched a kid get harassed in the hallway. After a moment one of them slapped the back of his head. I was almost able to empathise with him. Not the kid being hit, but the one who was doing the hitting. I always have an interest in that kind of thing. An exertion of power over a weaker creature. It appeals to me. I almost wanted to join in, but I recognized the kid being bullied, an awkward but very wealthy student. I waited until his tormentors had dispersed before I approached him. I feigned sympathy for him, and apologised for not helping him. He forgave me. I knew he would. He would have done the same thing. He was a coward, I could tell by looking at him. I could befriend him, make him trust me. I could steal his things and he wouldn't have the courage to admit to himself that some he trusted had betrayed him. I smiled. He took that as a friendly expression and tried to make some small talk.

Halloween

Halloween was ok. My sister invited five of her friends over. I don’t trick or treat but I followed them around at the bequest of my sister. I dressed as a nun. Her friends were pretty nice, though I was disappointed that they didn’t want to watch “Let the Right One In”, my favorite movie. It’s a Swedish movie about a 12 year old boy who befriends a mysterious girl that’s just moved in next door. He learns she is a vampire, and that she murders to survive, but she has been so kind to him that he can’t turn against her. It’s a fascinating film that’s sweet, creepy, funny, and morally ambiguous. Rotten Tomatoes lists it as the best reviewed vampire movie since “Nosferatu.”

New poem

As I walked down
The road of his life
I felt with my feet
the stones, the grass, the dirt, and other things,
My feet grew sore, as they encountered all these textures,
but I felt alive,
as I touched the memories of a dead man.

Indie games

I’ve been waiting to play some games. I like indie games, pretentious art games, punk experimental games, games that exist to defy the mainstream. Made by starving artists and new-age geeks they present one of the last entertainment forms that remain truly counter-culture. “The Path” was my favorite, a surreal interactive retelling of Little Red Riding Hood that felt like you were playing a David Lynch movie. Something less artsy and more humorous is “AaaaaAAaaaAAAaaAAAAaAAAAA!!! -- A Reckless Disregard for Gravity” a game about base-jumping in the far future, with each level being described in a made-up jargon and your score measured in teeth. New video games are so often clones of old games, and genres are so homogenous that I love these indie games for going so far out of the realm of convention.

very short story

This is a story inspired by my modernist class.



There is a man who sufferers horribly He has spent years of his life with disease, alone with no one to care for him. Today he prays to God. 'God' he says, "please help me through my pain.' God looks upon him, and sees his miserable life and pities him. He cures the mans illness and blesses him so that he will soon find true love. God ensures he will live happily ever after. Done with his task, God goes on to smite an orphanage in a third world country that is plauged with starvation and aids.

The end.

PSAT

I'm taking a the PSAT on Saturday. I'm hoping to get a 180. I got a 164 last time, so it's definitely within the realm of possibility. If I can get a 180 I could join Mensa. I don't really want to be a part of the organization, but being part of somthing that most people are not "smart" enough to get into is appealing. I suppose it's superficial to want to be able to do somthing just for the perception in carries with it, but it would be a way of validating my worth to myself. I want proof that I am smart. Somtimes I feel I just pretend to be.

Miserable Lunch

I had a miserable lunch on Friday. The adjustment counselor decided, in order to help me make friends, I would have lunch with three kids she knew. It was just awful. They were two grades younger, and it definitely showed. One of them was the son of a math teacher I had last year, and while he was potentially weird enough to be interesting I didn't "relate" to him or anything. The counselor tried to stimulate conversation by having us answer stupid, pointless, insipid, questions like "what month is your birthday?" and, "what is your favorite candy?" How the hell would anyone get an understanding of someone else with this kind of information?

I find it hard to talk to one stranger, it's impossible to try to talk to three strangers at once. There would even have been a fourth; a truly obnoxious, annoying girl ,who thankfully had other plans. I don't know why the counselor thought it was a good idea. I think that she thinks if you put a bunch of weirdos together, they will all become friends. It was embarrassing, awkward, and barely tolerable. The worst part is I might have to go through that all over again next Friday.

On being sloppy

I am sloppy. Nothing I do is ever neat, no matter how much I try. I can't fold clothes neatly. I have trouble eating certain foods. I can't do any sport requiring coordination. My handwriting is atrocious. It's so frusturating. The handwriting especially is annoying. I'm the only one who can read it, it's humilating if someone else needs to try. One time in English class last year we had to write a few paragraphs about somthing, and then do peer review with someone else in the class. I said to my partner "Can I just read what I wrote aloud, instead of you trying to read it? My handwriting is really horrible and I don't want you to have to try to read it. She said that was sweet. But it really isn't. Not wanting to have to watch someone have difficulty because of one of your more signifigant flaws is a desire born from pride, not sweetness. I didn't explain that to her though. I wonder if I should have.

Exchange students

My sister is probably going to have two exchange students over for the week of thanksgiving. She is friends with both of them, they are both female sophomores, from Asian countries ( Japan and Taiwan) I'm kind of looking forward to it even though I'm so bad at social things, just because they would be a nice change of pace to the normal holiday vacations, where I either spend my time alone or try to keep on the good side of my mother when she's getting stressed out by preparations. I think that talking to them might be easier then talking to normal peers, because there might be a definite short-term goal of the conversation, apart from the vague and insubstantial "get to know each other". It's easier have a conversation when it starts of with exchanging concrete information. Asking them about their countries, or explaining something, could easier than just beginning with small-talk. I guess what I really hope is that they find me likeable, because sometimes I wonder if I can appear likeable to anyone who meets me. Sometimes I think almost find myself unpleasant. But if someone can live in a house with me for a week, and still think I am ok, I might feel a bit better.

(Does this sound pathetic? I hope not.)

Edit: It turns out they will both be Chinese. My sister wasn't able to get the girls she knows best.

Doors

In school there are two sets of double-doors to the main entrance. For some reason one set is almost always closed. At the end of school today however both sets were open. Yet everyone was going through the first set to leave the school, despite it being quicker to have split into two groups. I don't know why the just chose the door they normally chose, maybe they disliked the idea of doing somthing differently than what the norm was for all the time they were at school. At any rate nobody broke out of the normal routine dispite a more efficent alternative having manifested. I was the only one to use the second set of doors to skip past the group going throught the first set. I allowed myself a few seconds of feeling smug.

Fairness

I have a weird obsession with being "fair". I say it's a weird obsession because I don't mean fair as in being just or treating everyone with an equal amount of respect, but a need to do the same thing for everyone. Last year for example, my history teacher would give out candy sometimes, as prizes for getting certain questions right, or similar achievements. I would always give whatever candy I had away.However once I gave someone a piece of candy I wouldn't give one to them again. I would have to find someone else to give the candy. I also try not to say any ones name in any of my classes, until I finally know the name of everyone in that class (which usually takes me a much longer time than others). If I use sombody's name, and I don't use somebody else's name, then I am not treating them equally, and things don't "balance out" for me. I can't offer a rational explanation for this behavior, it's just a weird quirk I have.

First Day of Junior Year

Things went ok. The schedule was confusing so I went to a class to early a few times, but that was only because they modified it for the first day. The teachers seem nice. One thing that's worrying is that the math teacher wants us to know every ones name by next week. I'm horrible at remembering names.

I remember last year when I was new to the school. The school had a thing called "New Student Ambassadors". A group of juniors and seniors would give the new students a tour of the school it help them get around. I'm have trouble talking to strangers and I don't think I was a very good companion for my Ambassador, a bright and friendly girl. She tried to chat with me, obviously doing her best to try to make me comfortable, but I'm not very good at small talk, and I'm sure I seemed aloof. We were supposed to exchange e-mails at the end, so I would have a "friend" to connect me to other students, but it was so awkward talking to her, that I refused embarrassed, by the thought of her trying to make me a part of the school community when I couldn't even have a normal chat with her. I suppose my refusal just made me seem even more aloof.

Now one year later I don't feel any more connected to the school. I don't feel like a part of any group at all. I haven't made friends there, and I don't have a sense of community with the other students. Maybe this year will be different, but I think it's just something inherent in my personality that keeps me detached.

Horoscopes

Horoscopes are fascinating. Not for the advise they give, it's all vague meaningless waffle. But they something fascinating and bizarre about this culture. We produce something nobody takes seriously, for no readily apparent reason. What is their appeal? Do some people secretly believe their horoscope? Do some people just like to see them and feel superior to such hypothetical persons? Is it just a tradition so firmly ingrained we just don't question why we do it any more, like birds flying south for the winter? Will we ever move past them? Why do we create pointless things? I suppose there's no answer to these questions, but it's interesting how bizarre a lot of ordinary things are.

Xbox is broken

My Xbox 360 has been broken for several weeks. When we tried to print a label to ship it there was an error with the system and we couldn't get one to print. Mom called the company but they didn't help much. Later it worked but there was something wrong with the label, so we would have had to pay 15$ to ship it. Mom decided that she wasn't going to pay when Microsoft had already messed up previously. She called Microsoft again, and once again they were unhelpful. At this point my mom lost her patience and asked the woman on the other line if she would like " to hear her smash the Xbox with a sledgehammer" and threatened to put a sign on her lawn reporting how poor Xbox service was. I asked her if being shortchanged 15$ was really worth the anger she had worked up. She said that it wasn't the 15$ but "a matter of principle" I wanted to ask her how destroying something worth 250$ that had given me countless hours of enjoyment, to get back at someone who probably couldn't care less, because they took up a lot of her time and shortchanged her 15$ was principled. But I didn't. When she's angry trying to reason with my mother is like trying to give a back rub to a porcupine.

Poetry

Two poems I wrote, nothing outstanding, but I think they are worth posting.


"Sometimes I manage to forget that I am lonely
but then I forget to not remember
and then I remember why I forgot"



"The judge was the prisoner,
So as punishment
he locked himself,
in his own head,
almost drowning in sour memory,
and threw away the key."

Omegle

I really like Omegle. It's a very simple website really, and it has a big problem with trolls, but for all that it's still the best place to have a conversation with someone who you may have very little in common with. That's something we really don't do much. Most people we talk to and socialise with live in the same area, are the same age, have a similar lifestyle, have similar social economic standing, belong to the same cultural back round, ect. Omegle gives an opportunity to talk with those who may be very different, and whom we would not have an opportunity to meet otherwise. President Obama says "what holds us together is stronger than what pulls us apart" and that's probably true, but it's worth remembering that what hold us apart is what makes other people interesting.

Well I've created a Blog

Let's see how this goes, hopefully I have enough to say to justify this blog. I guess for my first post I'll recite a little rant, I had earlier about internet newspeak.

I just hate talking in internet shorthand, It feels wrong to talk in a way that really has no purpose other than to be exclusionary to anyone other than the primarily, Caucasian, upper class, American, people who created most of that newspeak language. It's obnoxious, elitist, and most significantly of all, makes us all sound much more similar, masking our individuality by predestining what terms we would use to describe things. I'd like to think I have enough intellect to not need linguistic crutches to communicate.

Not a bad start.