P.Y.T : Best Wednesday

I just got home from watching, “Think Like a Man.” I loved it absolutely – so funny. The feeling the movie left me with is hard to describe.  As I sat in the audience by myself, I felt empowered by my own resolve. Let me explain – this morning I went to the gym with a friend, then I scheduled some appointments, then I went to work, got out early, got a massage, went grocery shopping, then went to the movie by myself. Also, its Wednesday. It was perhaps one of the best days ever. Why? Because today made me realize, that I’ve been officially single for six weeks and I’ve learned more about myself in the last 42 days than the last three years. I crammed a lot of living in the last month. I partied with honestly amazing people, I rediscovered true friends, I went antique shopping with my parents, and I beat multiple people at skee-ball. I made plans to follow my dreams across the country. When I wasn’t looking I turned from a wannabe independent all-bark tough girl, into an honestly amazing self-confident woman with the best friends a girl could ask for. I’ve learned to defend myself, let others help me sometimes, party just as hard as I work, and always be comfortable with myself. I am so thankful that I finally figured out how to live. Someday, I’ll find someone to share the amazing feeling that comes from a late night movie on a Wednesday. But for now - here’s to loving today and looking forward to someday. Cheers!

~ S. Buterblog

P.S. Most interesting self-discovery: My Favoritie Music = Classic R&B, zomg.

That guy: Urban Insanity 2

I could feel myself tossing and turning. The problem with 2 hour sleep shifts with my insomnia was that instead of sleeping in the traditional sense, I was more drifting. Half in, half out. I suppose it was a decent way to be since we had to be ready at any moment, but needless to say, I was tired.

It was Saturday night, no. Sunday morning. I could tell even in my delirium that it was getting closer to show time. The faint smell of smoke drifted through my brain.

Like clockwork, Luanne, the overweight, unwed, trailer trash woman who had been rooming next door to our room since the Regan administration had waddled herself outsidefor one of her four daily cigarettes. Apparently, she had been injured in some kind of workplace related accident. When the company finally went under, a fancy suit with a law degree had found some kind of loophole in her settlement, and she was now being sponsored by the government. Our tax dollars hard at work. Being that she had lived in that dingy motel room longer than I had been alive, I decided to get as much info outof her as I could, and the usual tactic of ‘Hey, wanna cig?’ had proved effective. She would soon need a crane to get out of bed, but more than 4 smokes a day was ‘bad for her health.’ Or as I called it, a large Diet Coke with her triple bacon cheeseburger.

But something wasn’t right. Something was different. My over-logged brain tried to filter the information.

Holidays.

Mint.

Menthol.



There it was.



Menthol. It wasn’t normal smoke.



That sickly sweet mint tinge wafted delicately under the motel room door.



And it hit me. Luanne didn’t smoke menthols.

Carlos, the toilet-wine making cholo on the other side, and in his own words “Anytime I step outside I gotta smoke, mang!” didn’t either.

I sat up, the fog lifting from my head. Matt was sitting at the worktable we had brought in, soldering something. He started to say something, probably to let me know I still had some time left to sleep, but I cut him short with a motion. I leapt quietly from the bed, and moved over towards the door. I placed my eye up to the peephole, and shifted the little lever we had installed, tilting our custom mirror just slightly. As the view warped and landed on Carlos’ doorway, I knew it was going to get sticky in just a minute. I threw a few hand signals towards Matt, and he was ready in an instant, right behind me. He passed me my bat, and I was grateful for the small level of comfort it provided, gripped in my hand, as I adjusted the mirror back to normal position so we could maintain a level of surprise. I would have killed to have my finger tensed around the trigger of my beautiful Walther, but Bob had declared this game would take place without firearms of any kind. Understandable, but anyone who had been a student of Bob’s long enough knew better than expecting to live forever.



I had forgotten all about the third team. In my mind, they were less of a threat. Honestly, it was no surprise Aarika and Madison had gotten paired together. No one could stand them, except for each other, both their names basically meant ‘warrior girl,’ and the twins, Asher and Jess, seemed destined to be together forever.



I would be willing to bet that Bob had somehow rigged the draw to ensure the twins ended up paired. Both of them were combat experts, the kind you’d see in old kung-fu movies. Everyone gave them a wide breadth of space. One on one, I could take them. Not easily, but I could get the job done. Together, however, even Bob had trouble putting them away. That was the team I was not looking forward to facing for the flag.



My guess was that Bob had told Aarika and Madison of our location to even things out a bit. They were good, sure. No one spends 10 years training with Bob and can’t compete. But they simply didn’t have the same skill level as the rest of us.



I should have figured it out the moment I smelled that damn menthol.



Aairka, the stereotypical tough as nails street girl, was about as black as they came. Smoked Kools, spoke street bitch, and was even referred to by Bob as ‘his Nubian princess.’ Her tight dreads were a point of pride for her, claiming that they helped her feel in touch with her ancestors, even though she probably couldn’t have pointed out Africa on a map if you took the names off. She took a liking to Madison, probably because there weren’t any other girls that would look you in the eye as they told you to go fuck yourself.



Madison couldn’t have been more opposite. Tall, leggy, with flowing blonde hair, she was one hell of a looker. Every guy had a thing for her, and she knew, and used it every opportunity she got. A former gymnast, she was supposed to lead her team to the championships when she was kidnapped after practice one day and held for ransom. When her fantastically rich parents refused to ‘negotiate with terrorists’ the kidnappers had cut her Achilles tendon, and sent a video of it to them. It ended in a SWAT situation, freeing Madison and killing the kidnappers, but she never forgave her parents. After a few years of physical therapy, she ran away from home, was picked up by Bob, and turned her cold, bitter energy into a passion for sharp things like the one that took her Olympic glory from her.





Even though there were no firearms, Bob said nothing about projectiles. I stood ready to pull the door open, bat at the ready, and Matt stood in the back of the room with the biggest fucking slingshot I’ve ever seen in my life.



Matt was the tech wizard. He could make MacGyver seem like a cub scout. He claimed that he could ‘make anything out of anything’ and so far, he had yet to be proven wrong. I was grateful to have him on my team. I had seen him wire his way out of spots I couldn’t even begin to think were possible. It looked like the slingshot he was holding was made out of one of the bedsprings from our room, his elastic belt he always wore, much to the ridicule of everyone else, and part of a table leg. Where he had pulled the duct tape from, I had no idea. He always had sticky fingers. What blew me away most of all though, was his ammo. No ordinary slingshot round, it seemed he had super-glued handfuls of ball-bearings together, making devastating looking fist-sized ‘pellets.’



He drew back on the belt, cocking the brutal ammo, and I stood at the ready. We knew they were coming, and they knew where we were. A gentle knock hit the door, and I gripped my bat tighter, no noise audible in the room. The knock grew louder, and with both of us breathing silently, we could hear Aairka say ‘Maybe those assholes aren’t in.’



“They’re here.” Replied Madison. “The fat bitch next door said so, and it doesn’t look like she can leave if she wanted to.”



The knock came just a bit louder. Matt nodded at me. I mumbled loud enough for them to hear ‘Just a fucking minute.’ I could hear them shuffle at the door. I gripped the door handle in one hand, and my bat in the other.



3.

2.

1.



I unlocked the door.



It came flying inwards, and chaos erupted. Matt let his first round fly, striking Aairka right in the forehead. She went down in a spray of blood. Madison was right behind her, and once her partner dropped, she launched herself into the room. I swung the bat, but she threw herself over the swing. She was in Matt’s face before he had a chance to reload.



He never stood a chance, and was dropped unconscious with a single kick.



Madison turned to face me, and I smiled. She was pretty, and we both knew I was far stronger and faster. All reasons to smile. She smiled back. But for a different reason.



I felt the double fists slam into the back of my head almost before they struck. I rolled with the blow, the world exploding into stars around me. I staggered to my feet, and barely managed to block the flurry of strikes aimed at my face by Madison, and the blood-soaked Aairka.



Stupid again.



As I passively avoided and diffused their assaults, I used the time to regain my composure. The world quit spinning quite as hard, and my eyes returned to full spectrum view as opposed to the tunnels they had been looking thru. It seemed my opponents realized this, as their attack grew more frenzied, but it was too late.



Madison threw a beautiful right hook towards my face, and I took advantage. I stepped inside it, and using her momentum, and my considerable upper-body strength, countered with an elbow straight to her sternum. The crack could have been heard over a space-shuttle launch. She screamed in pain, and dropped to the her knees, clutching her chest, gasping for air, as the broken bones squeezed her lungs.



Aairka tried to act on the moment, snaking an arm around my neck, but was standing too high, and was immediately flipped over my shoulder, crashing right into Madison’s back, causing her to scream again. Aairka went limp, a combination of blood loss and sheer impact, but Madison, as tough as she was, was left crushed, crying under the weight of her partner. I knew I only had a few minutes to act before someone called the cops, and one or more of my opponents recovered enough to do something stupid. I grabbed Matt, dragging his unconscious figure into the pitiful motel shower, and turned the cold water on. I didn’t have time to make sure he woke, so leaving him coming too under the ice cold flow, I went back out into the room. Madison was hurt bad, and Aairka was still out, holding her flat. Ordinarily, I would have expected to see Madison perform some magnificent move to free herself, but a shattered sternum would keep even the toughest people grounded.



But it wasn’t enough. I liked Matt. And it was my job to make sure he stayed safe. He was capable of holding his own against any old street punk, sure, but he was no fighter. Plus, I was exhausted. Bad combination.



I walked over to Madison. She tried to roll out from under her partner, knowing how vulnerable she was, but every movement caused her smashed chest to dig deeper into her lungs. She barely made out a whimper, much less a roll.



I let my sadistic side come out. I reached over to the table Matt had been sitting at just a minute ago, and grabbed a ball of twine he had been using for one of his projects. I put my foot on the back of Madison’s ankle. I could feel the scar tissue beneath my bare foot from where the surgically repaired tendon lay. I could tell the rapid flutters of words coming from her limited oxygen supply were pleads, maybe even prayers. I started to lean, slowly at first. Even with her lack of breath, the agony could be heard in her voice, as her weak screams rang in my ears. I only increased the pressure, absorbed in the moment, until Matt’s hand grabbed my shoulder.



He had a black eye, and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead from where his head had hit the table before he fell to the floor. But he was ok, and that was good enough for me.



“She’s done, man. We need to go before the cops show up. I’ll bet you anything the twins have a police scanner too.”



I nodded, pulled out of my sick little moment. I stepped off Madison’s leg, almost disgusted by the relief I heard in her gasps, but Matt’s hand guided me. We were packing, and as we tried to be ready at any moment, it didn’t take but an instant for us to be ready to roll. I took the rope still in my hand, and sitting Madison and Aairka upright, I bound them together by the neck. Tight enough that when Aairka awoke, she wouldn’t move for risk of choking out her partner. We stepped out of the motel room with our duffels and backpacks, shutting the door behind us. Thankfully, the cops response time in that area of the city was notoriously poor, and no one would be too excited to talk to the police.



We booked it down the road, turning into an alleyway. Within 15 minutes of our solid pace, we were at a new motel, and settled in for the ‘night.’ The team we had left in our previous room would be picked up by the cops, and would be out of the picture come Monday, but that didn’t really make things easier. The real challenge was yet to come.



I lay there on my even less comfortable bed, drifting back in and out of reality, my sleep deprived brain brought to the surface the smile Madison and I had shared for that brief moment.



I shot upright, ready to strike, detecting the presence of someone nearby. It was just Matt, waking me for my watch shift. We exchanged a knowing look as we traded places.



I looked over at the clock. 6am.



20 hours til game time.

Doug: It will be real

So here I am again. Staring at this blank page and wondering if it matters what I write or only if I write. Thirty six minutes. That’s the time left on my battery. No. it jumped to forty two. This Mac is temperamental, depending on my actions. I kind of like it, like it has a personality. I haven’t named it yet, and I should. All things worth having have names. It was recently brought to my attention how important names are. Names have power, and to know the name of something is to have a kind of power over it. Or so it is said. But to give a name is something personal, almost like making love, though perhaps over more swiftly, or perhaps more important. Perhaps not.

Solitude. The name of the place you can carry with you. The thing’s name has many meanings, none negative in my eyes, though you might be hard pressed to find someone who agrees wholeheartedly with me. People need other people, and those that carry around Solitude carry a hole in their lives as well. Not altogether a bad thing. A bad thing would be to carry Loneliness, Solitude’s less attractive, but more prolific brother. As the saying goes, depression is just anger without the enthusiasm.

A year. It’s so long, and yet I just breezed through four of them. Did I do all of the things I remember? Recently my memory has become suspect, as I suspect all memories do given time and fermentation. Like a good draft, always better at the first drink, but the bitterness is found in the bottom. Keep drinking, if your bartender is good you won’t reach the end until it’s all incomprehensible anyway. Just flashes of color and sound and sweet and bitter things. Imagination fills in the blanks, and things are much richer that they truly were. Or are they just pale shadows? Perhaps the drink was that refreshing, the air that sweet, the sex that satisfying. Like a long run mixed with the finest of meals.

My wits will give me what I need in the coming months. I’ve spent the last four years learning how to think critically, problem solve, strengthen my mind and body, and bide my time. I’ve learned patience, I’ve learned speed through adversity, I’ve learned how to lie and love, and the hairsbreadth that separates the two. I’ve learned to drink deep from the well of knowledge without falling in. I’ve learned that some things can only be learned through weeks of mental and physical fortitude, and some ideas can be grasped nearly before they are said out loud. Though I’ve never been to Oxford, and couldn’t place it on a map, I’ve learned about the Oxford comma, and the difference between bringing the strippers, Stalin and JFK, and bringing the strippers, Stalin, and JFK.

The difference is important.

I’ve learned that liquor can make you sicker, and beer too, though I’ve developed a taste for the latter and not the former. I’ve learned how to make a rue, and what it’s even for. I’ve learned… well, who cares? I have learned much and cannot list it all here. That is the virtue of  knowledge, it is nearly limitless, and in recounting it you gain more.

I bought a car, and subsequently learned how to change oil for myself. It is dirty work, though it feels clean, and only one who has worked with their hands will know what I mean by that.

I bought a weapon that can kill a man faster than you can say the words. I found I had a taste for them and bought more. I’ve spent a small fortune making it and myself more lethal for a threat that may never come. I feel reasonably prepared. The trigger is smooth, my reflexes are well trained, and though I’ve never killed a man and never wish to I feel like the act itself would be no great trouble.

The older part of mind believes this to be arrogance beyond reason, and chastises me for thinking it. Another part of my mind demands it be censored, but I’ve yet to delete an entire idea from this ledger yet, and I’ll be damned if I do it while I’m so close to the end. I mean to write this till the complex piece of metal, plastic and loose ions in front of me goes cold. Music hastens the process, but I’ve always had weakness for it, and Florence is in fine form tonight, though I’ve had to occasionally goad her past the weaker tunes.

Another thing that’s changed about me. I’m afraid of this change. Afraid of what it means. Three young men that I have known personally have died on me. Others have died, but they were old, or relatively unknown to me except in deed. But these there I have shaken hands with, laughed with, told stories with, which is the most intimate thing you can do without touching flesh. I cried unashamed tears for the first two. I even swore vengeance for one. It was both childish and old of me. I swore that the men I called brothers would sing the death songs and claim vengeance in my stead. I do not know if they did, only that they tried. But the time for beating breasts and strong flowing tears has passed. Or so it appears. I did not weep for the third. I do not know if it is because I did not have a great fondness for him, or if I am simply tired of the people I know being claimed by the reaper. I fear for either conclusion. I want to cry, for it means that I am not yet numbed to the pain of passing. I want to scream and beat my chest and sing the death songs that I know well.

I cannot now tell if these tears I cry are for him or I.

I wonder how I will feel about this a year from now, when I study with the warriors I hope to call kin. I will earn my place among them, at a price as yet undetermined. A price I’m willing to pay without knowing. This I know for certain. Perhaps the only certainty.  I’m afraid of this intervening year, afraid I will lose my razor’s edge, honed only as steel sharpens steel. To turn a phrase.

I am afraid. But I will overcome. As is the way of those I hope to join. As is the way I wish to be. I have always held the belief that if you hold something in your mind long enough, it will be real.

It will be real. 

Doug: Victory

Short post is short. But I feel like I said what I wanted to say:

We may pull out of Afghanistan tomorrow, and the Taliban, Al Qaeda, protesters and fools the world over will celebrate that they have beaten "Mighty America". But tomorrow I'll wake up and decide that I want to read any book I want, or call someone on my cell phone, or kiss my girlfriend in public, or watch my gay friend get married to the love of his life, or turn on the faucet and get clean water, or have my daughter go to school and learn so that she can do anything she wants with her life. And I'll remember that the Afghan people have none of these things that I take for granted, and I'll wonder how they can possibly think that they've won anything but ignorance and fear.

-Doug

"The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason."

-T.S. Elliot

Buterblog: The Rest of My Life

I wish that life came slowly. It seems like, instead of progressing continuously and linearly, life moves like at step-wise plot. Bam - you were born. Bam - you had your first day of class. Bam - you graduated high school. Everything would be much easier if the defining moments didn't happen so fast. I am in one for those defining moments. I am taking another chance, taking one small step for my life and one large decision for my future. I applied to three pharmacy schools this past December - the University of New Mexico, the University of Washington, and the University of Colorado at Denver (in Aurora). Fortunately, I got an interview at each school. So far, I've had one acceptance. I'm in a hotel room in Aurora, CO wondering what I want for the rest of my life. Which Pharm.D. program do I choose? Will I have to choose? How is the interview going to go tomorrow?

I miss home and while I nod to my past, I'm ready to begin my future.

S. Buterblog

Doug: Loss

I stepped out into the cool morning air, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. My team followed me out and I narrowed my focus. One of them I know well, the other two are from Army and Air Force, and could be anyone. I had talked to them moments before, and had confidence in them. Their part was small, but if any member of the team failed, it would show. I had not had to impress upon them the importance of getting this right.

What seemed like the entire army battalion had formed up on the grass next to Clark Hall. They had finished PT early, and were ready. My brothers in the Navy and Marine Corps, covered with sweat and dirt, were rushing to do the same. I slowed my stride, giving them more time. Soon we were formed up as well, a line of four, a flag guarded by two young men and two young women, ready.

The Army Cadet took a deep breath and then called the command to attention. My eyes snapped forward and my posture straightened slightly. “Right Face! Forward March!”

In seconds we were below the flagpole. Our steps were not quite in time, but I could not expect those that did not drill to know how to march. The Cadet called a halt, and then, very suddenly, it was my turn.

“Inboard face.” I said, the command private to the color guard. The two in front of me about faced, so that we all faced towards the center. I broke formation and quickly untied the rope on the flagpole, called a halyard. My opposite number then broke ranks and assisted me in snapping the flag into position. We both came back to attention and I summoned my voice.

“ATTENTION TO COLORS!” Everyone on that field who had ever taken an oath came to attention, and the flag darted skyward.

I felt the rope through my fingers, coarse and wet. After what seemed like an eternity, the rope refused to pull, and the flag was at its apex. I nearly winced, but kept my composure. This was where the procedure changed. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered the flag. In my memory, it took forever, but I know it took mere seconds before it reached half mast. Tucking the rope to my side I came back to attention, saluted, cut, and gave the command. “CARRY ON!” The perfect formations broke, and after quickly tying off the halyard, my team and I about faced and marched back to our starting point, and then, only then, did I look at the woman whose son I had just symbolically laid to rest.

She was short, and plump, with deep laugh lines and a full face. Her hair was brown turning to grey, and I could tell that she was full of the best kind of love. She looked nothing like my mother, but was everything like my mother. Her eyes shined with tears, but her face was composed. I had a moment of insanity where I imagined my mother like this and then violently pushed the thought away, as though thinking it would somehow make it so.

Major Robertson moved to speak with her, and indicated that all the other Marines should come with him. I had to run upstairs for a moment to hand off my responsibility as officer of the day, but sprinted back down the stairs with my friend Carl.

She was still there, surrounded by men and a smattering of women in various shades of green and black. I was late, but caught the last few words she said before Major dismissed us. “Take care of yourselves.”

As I walked away I felt both an immense pride and immense sadness. I was so sorry that I had to be one of the hands that helped carry her son home, and yet was so proud that I had done it right. In the days since I had heard that a Marine in Afghanistan had died, and that his parents were University of Washington professors the war had come a little closer to home, a little more raw, a little more bitter. This last week has been the worst in that woman’s life, and still she came out to see us honor her son. She wasn’t bitter with us; she wasn’t angry that we took her son and put him in harm’s way. The only thing we wanted out of us was to “Take care of yourselves.”

This morning I walked home. I thought of all the men who had helped carry her son home. First his best friends in Afghanistan, people he had fought and bled and laughed and cried with. Then the air crew who flew his body from that place to the United States. Then the men who carried him from the plane to the place in Washington DC where all the bodies of the dead go for preparation. Then the men and women who prepared his body. Then the Marine who escorted him to his home in Washington. Then the Marines who carried his body to the grave he now resides in. And finally me. The not quite Marine who was randomly chosen to raise the flag on this day. To put the flag at half staff on this day. To honor his memory in front of his mother on this day. To carry him home.

I know that wherever there is a flag going up today that this same ceremony is taking place. I am not unique in remembering. I do not know this Marine but for his name. William Stacy, Sergeant of Marines. But I did have the honor and sadness of raising the flag of the country he gave his life for in front of his mother, and I will not forget that.

-MIDN 1/C Douglas Wood
USMC-R

“We'll dig his grave with a silver spade,
Walk him along John carry him along.
His shroud of the finest silk will be made,
Carry him to his burying ground.

We'll lower him down on a golden chain,
Walk him along John carry him along.
On every inch we'll carve his name,
Carry him to his burying ground.”
-Great Big Sea, “General Taylor”

Sarah: Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights (1978)

Because there are some things we will always share.

Happy Birthday! (To Both of Us)

Sushi?

Meghan: The Island

The day I was born was not unique.
I was called out from wherever I had been before into the place where I was to serve my purpose, where I was to be alive. I was excited, ecstatic about this new existence I had, this new ability to think. But then when my story had run its course, my maker had no more use for me and I went to where those of our kind go when we have completed our usefulness; to the Island of the Jasmines.
This is our story.
Actually my story.
When I was assigned to a dormitory in the non-magical district I knew that my life on the Island would be tougher than I first thought. Jasmine’s magical creations far outnumber her nonmagicals, so the room I moved into was somewhat shabby and small. The matron of the house poked her blonde head in to see how I was doing. Her blue eyes flashed as she took in the disarray of my room and a moldy cereal bowl on the counter. One strain of living with the Jasminelings was the short tempers of our kind, especially when it came to old food. I quickly scooped the bowl into the trash, before there could be violence. The matron smiled and stepped in, letting in a few of the cats that were prolific on the island.
“I just came by to see how you’re settling in and give you a list of the rules.” She said, petting a tabby.
“Rules?” I asked. She handed me a long list that read:

Welcome to Jasmine Island! Here are a few rules to help you settle in
1) Jasminelings must never leave the island
2) Violence to cats is punishable by death
3) Other violence is an encouraged recreational activity
4) Jasminelings are to have fantastic sex every day (multiple times a day if there is time)
…

“What about the strait Jasminelings?” I asked. Since everyone I had seen on the island was female I wondered how Jasmine’s purely straight characters got by
The matron laughed, “There is a very, very small resort where Jasmine’s male characters go. I think they call it Spa Damian? Anyway they don’t do much but have sex all day long, what with the huge needs of the female characters. Poor dears.”
I laughed too, I doubted that the ‘poor dears’ suffered very much.
I continued reading the list and grew more horrified
…
45) Jasminelings must be physically perfect at all times
46) Jasminelings may not alter their appearance/character
…

“I can’t alter my appearance?” I asked, horrified, “but my story is over?“
“That doesn’t matter, why would you want to anyway?” The matron asked airily, “We’re all the way we’re supposed to be.”
She left, waving to me over her shoulder, “Call if you need anything, I’ll be up on the top floor.”
I just stood watching a cat rolling on my floor, unable to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t change my appearance? But I was just like them; I wanted to be different, I wanted to be me.
I fell to the floor, tearing at my long blonde hair. I didn’t care! I would dye my hair black, I would cut it! I would talk with an accent and pretend to be terrible in bed!
I would be different!




-M

Buterbug: Contagious

I am the shiny spot on a raindrop,

falling to the ground at high speeds.

I am the cocoa taste of a freshly twisted oreo,

you went to get from the pantry to fulfill your needs.

I am the bumblebee that stung you but didn’t die,

whom pollinated the garden flowers in mid-July.

I am the grease on the cogs of your car’s insides,

dragging your crap through town with pride.

I am the lover of your soul and the hand you hold,

if I were a pen, you’d be writing in BOLD.

Beautiful, satisfying, strong-willed, perseverant, and courageous,

I’m much better than before and freaking contagious.

-S

That guy: Urban Insanity 1

The Mona Lisa.
The Fur Elise.
E.T.

Everyone has their masterpiece. Their crowning glory.

To all of us, there was none greater than Urban Assault, as it had been haphazardly named. Bob had no other gauntlet, no test more perfect. He had built the perfect beast. And he knew it. Only the end level students were allowed to participate, and you only got one shot. It was a two man exercise, unusual for Bob’s games. There was no pass or fail. You were evaluated on performance and longevity alone. No one who went through UA was allowed to talk about it, and whispers and rumors spun wildly around. Not even the sub-instructors knew what it was. Bob alone sat in the throne of knowledge, changing details every year, so that even if there was chatter, it would be wrong come the test.

The tension was palpable in the small conference room. Bob stood there, soaking in it. Between him and us was a battered old table with a rattle cooking pot sitting on it. He held out his hand. Popsicle sticks. This really was a game to him. He tossed all of the sticks, each one with one of our names on it into the pot. None of us knew what was ahead, so apprehension was extreme during the stick draw.

Matt and I drew each other. From across the room, we nodded at each other slightly. Once the pairings were made, Bob dismissed us.

The elegance of this masterpiece was in its simplicity.

Capture the fucking flag…

The next morning we were dropped off at a motel in the heart of the city. We had been briefed, and the premise was straightforward.
The ‘flag’ was somewhere on the 21st story of a high-rise building we were given the address to. We had one week to prepare however we saw necessary. There were 3 2-person teams. Each team had been dropped off at a different location surrounding the high-rise. The game would begin at exactly 2am on Monday.

It had been named Urban Assault by someone.
But everyone who ever went through the program knew that the final test was really called Urban Insanity...

Doug: Things I wish I could tell my child now

By the time you are twenty, one of your friends will be dead. It will seem like a god damn waste, and it will be. It is not, however, the end of the world. Live for those that are dead, and remember them. For if they are remembered they are not truly gone.

By the time your are sixteen, you will have fallen in love. It will seem terribly important and pressing and amazing and you will feel like all of you is alive and about to burst from your skin. This is normal. It is also normal for it to hurt like hell when it is over.Don't worry, this is also not the end of the world, though it seems so. Time will give you perspective, and at sixteen, you have a lot of time.

By the time you are eighteen you will in all likelihood be so sick of school that the mere sight of a math problem will make you sick to your stomach. THIS IS OKAY. I don't care what anyone tells you. It's normal to hate school. You've been in it for more than half of your life. It's reasonable to want to do something else. However. You will soon forget that you hate everything school related and begin to truly value your education, weather you choose to continue it or not. One of the most frustrating and wonderful facts of life is this: weather we like it or not we never stop learning.

There will be times when you think that I'm an old fool, and occasionally there will be times when I actually am an old fool. That being said, I do have years of life experience on you, so occasionally I might just know what the Hell I'm talking about.

By the time you are twenty you will have a good idea of what is right and what is wrong. This knowledge is a gift given to you by everyone you know and love. Do not squander this gift. It makes you human. Live what you know is right. Fight what you know is wrong. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to yourself and those who taught you right from wrong. It shames you, and them.

By the time you are nineteen you will have some kind of responsibility. Breathe. Weather you are responsible for a squad in combat or simply getting to work on time half the battle is telling yourself that you can do it. and you can. The rest will follow.

By the time you are legally an adult you will probably have done something you are truly ashamed of. If you haven't, I congratulate you. Keep up the good work. If you have, well, it sucks, there is no two ways about it. Still, apologize, do penance, and don't let it happen again. This is all you can do. It is, or it may not be, enough. But it is all you can do. And that is what matters.

You will, at some point, not do your best. This is fine. We all can't do our best all the time. Still, do try to do your best on the important stuff. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, one of those experience things.

You will, at some point, hate me and your mother. I'm sure we'll have done something unreasonably unfair and hopelessly cruel. This too will pass. You may hate us. But we love you kiddo, get over it.

Remember this above all else: your life is yours, to do with what you will. It's too short and fragile to live with fear and regret. Live for something, not despite it. I love you. Go forth and take on your dreams.

-Dad

P.S. I don't care how big you are, you call me "Doug" and i'm going to spank you.

That guy: Cash or credit

Leaves billow, the wind whipping them to and fro in patterned chaos, encircling me. Dust whimpers, trembles, and flees in my wake. This once populated highway is now carnage. The pinnacle of destruction. Asphalt torn asunder from its frame, steel beams strewn across the once hearty lane of commute. All around me are the abandoned remains of high rises. Mans attempt to reach the heavens, to free himself from the earthly bond, crumble in step with the soft padding of my worn, slave produced coverings. Each placement of my feet brings the culmination of a civilizations struggle down around me. The sky is an uncanny shade of vibrant red, although it goes almost unnoticed with the layer of heavy, choking clouds pouring in, black as the heart of the master they serve, engulfing what little light remained. I stop in the middle of the road, pure ruin surrounding me, and i blink. Even with my eyes closed, in the microseconds it takes for them to snap open again, i can feel him in front of me, waiting. My eyes open, and of course, there he is.


Balder.

Satan.

Cthulu.

Balkoth.

Zalgo.

Whatever name you give him stands unneeded. His presense alone permeates me. Swallows me. The endless cold, the rampant devastation around me.


He reaches a gnarled hand out.

I feel my arm lifting from my side, gently, gingerly moving to accept his offer....







"Sir?"

My head whips around. The sudden light hurts my eyes.

"Sir, are you ok? You've been standing there for almost an hour..."

I turn back. The full length mirror shows only me, and the glaring colors of reflection from the storefront.

"Sir, if you're not alright, I can have an ambulance here in a few minutes..."

I wave him off. He wanders away to go attend to someone else.
I stare into the mirror, searching for a vision, a glimpse, anything. But all I see is me, and my shiny new shoes.

I place my old shoes ceremoniously in the new box, gently tuck it under my arm, and walk up to the counter.

"Did you find what you were looking for, sir?"

I knod, and step back, pointing to the new shoes on my feet.

"I'll take these ones. They're gonna take me far."

"Thats wonderful, sir. Cash or credit?"

Meghan: Inspiration

I had decided that I wanted to write. Excited with this new goal fresh in my mind I sat the computer in my lap, set a hot cup of tea at my elbow, and opened a blank new word document. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I wanted to write. I was like one of those individuals who went to a tattoo parlor and told the artist that they had decided that they were ready for a tattoo but had no idea what image they wanted permanently fixed to their bodies. So instead of searching for a topic, I decided to search for inspiration in the form of a person.
Sex and the city’s Carrie was the first to pop into my head. After spending hours curling my hair I slipped into a slinky dress and lay down on my bed with my laptop and a pack of smokes. Soon the room was hazy with the fog of inspiration, but my mind was just…hazy. My arms were cramping from typing while stretched out on my belly and trying to keep the ashes from my cigarette from flicking onto the bed. Eventually I decided I’d had enough and needed to get some Carrie-style inspiration. I called up three girlfriends and asked them to meet me at a nearby club, where we would discuss sex and the downfalls of men. I had been sipping my cosmopolitan at the club’s bar for fifteen minutes when the girls showed up.
“How many of those have you had?” Sarah asked warily.
“Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” Jasmine questioned me further
I quickly explained that I had had three drinks and described my plan of action for filling my brain with fertile writing material.
“But I’m a boy…” Alex said dubiously.
I ignored this minor flaw in my plan and ordered a round of cosmos for everyone.
After a hazily remembered night of feather boas and brightly colored drinks I woke in my bed with a raging headache and no ideas. How did Carrie do it? Perhaps it was due to her fictionality.
Next I would try a real-live writer. Perhaps one I loved and admired personally (some would say on a psychotic level); David Sedaris. After gulping down some aspirin I went to find Jasmine where she was sprawled across the couch with a cat licking her forehead. I woke her up to the bright, bright world and tossed her in the car with an icepack and some coffee as we drove off to enact my second inspiration-seeking plan.
“I’m telling you this is a bad idea.” Jasmine muttered as she sucked coffee from a huge mug. Dark glasses hid her face and she huddled down into the car seat.
“It’s a brilliant idea. I can already feel my inspiration coming.” I pulled a ski mask down over my face, “Pass me the dart gun.” She sighed and passed me the weapon that was leaning next to her. The target was walking right in the desired direction, innocently passing by the car. It only took a minute, a dart shot in his general torso area and he successfully passed out with a look of surprise. I stopped the car next to him, yelling loudly in case anyone was suspicious,
“Oh no, a sudden collapse! We must get him to a hospital.” When a passerby tried to help me with my prize I batted at his arms and hissed at him. Jasmine rolled her eyes from the passenger’s seat. When we were finally victoriously driving away I glanced back so much that we almost crashed several times. Jasmine finally threatened to knock me unconscious and set Sedaris free so I kept my attention more focused. But I couldn’t help but gush a little.
“Did you see him? It’s David Sedaris! Sedaris! Have you read his books? Have you read the one with the—“ Jasmine clutched her head and groaned.
I gasped, “I hope he doesn’t hate me, do you think he will hate me?”
“Well we kidnapped him, so probably.”
“I have to make this up to him right now.”
David Sedaris regained consciousness tied to a wooden kitchen chair and smelling something delicious. His eyes widened in fear as they landed on the objects in front of him; a tea set.
“I’m so terribly sorry about all of this.” a girl’s voice murmured from his left.
He jerked away from it but couldn’t get far because of the restraints. Hands came into view to pour tea into a china cup that was set in front of him. A chocolate cupcake was then set down on a napkin next to the tea.
“I hope the food is apology enough.”
He just blinked at her and hoped he wasn’t about to be eviscerated by the psychotic who had kidnapped him and was now serving him tea in a sunny kitchen.
“Oh of course, you’ll need your hands.” She carefully untied his hands then picked up a gun from the table. He made a gurgling noise and she waved the gun at his panicked face.
“No, no it’s just a dart gun, see?” She shot a fluffy black cat that had been creeping toward his cupcake and the feline gave a startled meow before falling into dreamland.
“Meghan can I have a cupcake?” a voice called from the other room.
The girl’s eyes widened, “Excuse me.” she said politely, before she hurried off into the next room.
He picked up his cupcake and sniffed it, wondering if it was safe to take a bite.
“Use the code names.” He heard the girl, Meghan, hiss from the other room.
“I’m sorry, Megatron, can I have a cupcake?”
“Sure. Maybe I should have made something else; he doesn’t seem to like them.”
“Will you please wrap this up? We have to meet our friends this afternoon and—“
“I know, I know.”
The two girls belonging to the voices came in with a plate of cupcakes and pained smiles.
“We’re so sorry for the terrible misunderstanding.” They started to untie the bindings that held him to the chair.
“That’s it?” he asked, suspicious.
“Yes,” They led him to the door, pressing cupcakes into his hands ‘for the road’.
“Oh, one more thing.” One of the girls ran back into the house and came back with one of his books in her hands, “Would you sign this?”
“Sure.” He rapidly penned some script, “Can I please go now?”
“Yes. It was nice meeting you. Bye.” The door shut behind him and he left as quickly as he could.
“What does the signature say?” Jasmine asked.
“To my most psychotic fan, may we never meet again. Thanks for the cupcakes.” Meghan stared dreamily off into the distance. “I think I feel some inspiration coming.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, “don’t ever lose it because I’d hate to see what else we’d have to do to inspire you again.”



-M

Doug: The Island of Lost Socks

“Where did your mate go?” Two thick, well lined brown brutes of dress asked the small white athletic.

The athletic sighed, she had gotten this question six times after being thrown into the hamper. “He escaped to the Island.”

“And left you behind?” the dark rumble of the dress asked. Apparently, the normally strong silent types were all questions today.

“The Fairy could only take one of us.” A piece of lint dripped down the Athletic’s ankle. “I told him to go. Made him, really.”

Softer now, one of the dress mutters in sympathy: “I’ve always wondered why he always only takes one. It’s against our nature to be apart.” The other rumbled in agreement.
“Truly it is so. In all our months we have yet to see the Fairy take mates. If he takes many, he takes none of the same. What will you do?”

“I will not mate with another!” the athletic trembled, her dark heel becoming darker at the thought. “I would rather shine shoes!”

A thin black dress, one of the unmated ones that had been listening quietly until now broke into unkind laughter. “That is not for you to decide little one.” It wheezed and coughed, and his loose and used skin shook. “Since the Fairy took my mate I have had almost every one like me.”

The athletic trembled with fear and sadness.

“Fear not little one.” The black dress leered closer. “It is not so bad. Perhaps you’ll find a new mate.”

“Never.” She whispered.

“We shall see.”

“SILENCE.” The paired thick brown dress demanded. “Why do you share such unkindness? Go back to the lint from which you spawned.”

The thin black hissed and curled back on itself. “I do not obey you. You may be thick but you will soon be worn, with holes the size of quarters. I will remain forever, as is my right.”

“Maybe so, but today you are weak, and alone, and we could crush you, so you will hold your silence and let the little one be.” The pair loomed over the thin black, who curled back in spite of its bold claims.

“We shall see.” It hissed, before slithering off to its old corner.

A short time passed, and lint fell like rain from the athletic. Finally, it looked up at the pair. “Thank you. You are noble dress.”

“It is in our nature to cushion.” The thick browns answered as one. “Fear not little one. The Laundry Fairy will come soon to bear you away to the Island of Lost Socks, where your mate resides.”

“Do you really think so?” There was such hope in her voice.

“Of course.” The thick brown dress socks lied together, as they had so many times before. “Of course my dear. Now chin up. Here come some more from the Laundry!”

Leagues away, on a small island somewhere tropical, a single male athletic looked up at the sky and wished for his mate.

-Doug

Doug: From My Father Learned

From my father I learned. My surname is Wood, and my father fits it. From my earliest memory he has been strong as Ironwood. They say that fathers will always be giants in the eyes of their children. I believe this is so. Indomitable, unwavering, and patient, my father is the heart tree. The dynast of all other trees in the forest.

From my father I take Strength, Patience, Honor. I learned to be still, and strong, and silent and in that silence find the wisdom to listen.

From my brother I learned. His surname is Hanssen, Son of Hans. His ancestors tamed the seas and built trade routes. Burned villages and saw foreign shores. From my earliest memory he has been restless. Yet his restlessness means more than an inability to sit still. His is an ability to dream of something and realize it. He sees what he wants and takes it, crossing oceans and continents to do so. But his goals are mere air and sand. They interest him not. It is his journey that matters, not where you go in life but the story you weave while going there. My brother is like the water, a well of a thousand stories and adventures.

From my brother I take Restlessness, Adventure and Accomplishment. I learned to dream and tell stories, and in those dreams and stories find my own goals and reach them.

From my mother I learned. My mother’s surname is Persons, and it means little to me. Her given name describes her better. Eve. Eve took the apple because she wanted to know good from evil. From my earliest memory my mother has taught me right from wrong. My mother is the hearth fire, without her the home is not. My mother taught me to love others, to believe the best in man even when they prove you wrong. My mother taught me empathy, to make my loved ones pain my own, and in doing so lessen theirs. My mother taught me to be human.

From my mother I take Empathy, Kindness, and Family. I learned that no man is below me, and to make those that deserve it my family, blood or no.

From my friends I learned. I learned things innumerable. Their names are Legion, their traits as vast as the stars. I will name some closest. From the Queen’s daughter I learned the power of God, and the meaning it had for others as well as me. The power of belief is a force of nature, and even when brought low one can find some meaning. From the father of nations I learned acceptance of things that you can change, and things that you can’t. I learned that there are some people that will stick by you until the end. Not because it’s the right thing to do or even the smart thing to do, but it is what you choose to do. From the Pearl I learned consideration. There are a thousand paths in every moment, but what you choose has meanings beyond yourself. The Pearl has shown me this in ways she can’t imagine, and I thank her for it.

From the Princess I take Faith, in all its power and danger. From the Father I take Loyalty, in all of its weakness and strength. From the Pearl I take Consequence; in all of its unknown and known forms.

From peace I learned. I learned that one day I’m going to have to beat this sword into a plow and let someone younger do the fighting. Before I knew peace I didn’t know that I could ever want to do that. Peace taught me that life was worth living and worth protecting. Peace can be left behind, but never forgotten. These are the things that peace taught me.

From peace I take Love, and don’t regret it for a second.

These among others have made me. Love, Loyalty, Consequence, Faith, Kindness, Family, Empathy, Restlessness, Adventure, Accomplishment, Patience, Strength, Honor. Shards of a mirror, facets of how I came into being. They exist in me because others have taught them to me, and for this I am eternally grateful.

I will take your lessons, your knowledge.

I will use them for good.

To this I swear my Sacred Honor, from my Father learned.

-Doug

Meghan: The real cause of the common cold

I cracked open my eyes to the bright light of day, hoping to go directly to my desk and study for my upcoming finals until I passed out. But what I saw perched on the bedspread stopped me cold; there was a tiny chicken in my bed.
“Shit, shit…” I cursed softly as the little creatures hopped down my chest. I reached with one hand to the side table for the book I had fallen asleep reading and shook Jasmine awake with the other.
“Uhh?” She groaned blearily and turned my way. The tiny chicken sensed her breath and darted for her open mouth, but I was too quick. With one hand I sealed Jasmine’s mouth safely shut and with the book in the other hand I smashed the tiny chicken flat.
“Damn things, I thought the cats got all of them.” I muttered. Jasmine was wide awake now and happily scraped the tiny chicken off the bedspread, murmuring something about specimen jars.
“It didn’t get you did it?” She asked, concerned.
“I don’t think so…” I carefully felt my nose, ears, and mouth searching for some evidence that a tiny chicken had been there.
But then I felt it. That telltale popping that can mean only one thing; a tiny chicken has laid its eggs in your head.
“Uuuuggghhhh…” I groaned, leaning forward onto the bed. Jasmine patted me sympathetically on the back, setting a box of Kleenex down beside me as the eggs popping in my head dripped their mucus down through my nasal passages and out through my nose.
Several days later I was curled in a blanket on the couch with a bowl of mint ice cream for my throat. The egg-mucus had worked its magic and I felt miserable from the neck-up.
“You know, milk and sugar only make the tiny chickens stronger.” Jasmine told me as she plopped down next to me. I glared at her and licked another glorious spoonful down. I didn’t care if my tiny chickens came out green and minty fresh, the ice cream felt wonderful on my ravaged throat. Jasmine had started carrying around various smashing tools and sleeping with a sealed helmet. All was in preparation for the eventual emersion of my fully grown tiny chickens. Personally, I was hoping that they were all eaten by our cats, I didn’t quite trust her smashing skills; but Jasmine wanted to be prepared. I felt a sneeze building from a long way off and grabbed a tissue. When I finally sneezed it was such a huge relief I almost didn’t feel the thing that flew out of my left nostril. My own home-grown tiny chicken landed with a little splat on the coffee table and fluffed out its wings. Jasmine and I just stared at it in shock, but the cats were not so frozen. When the tiny feathered thing hopped off the table it was a mad dash to see which cat could devour the thing first.
“Okay.” Jasmine handed me a pickle jar, “sneeze out another one.”
“I don’t need to sneeze.”
“Then just hang onto that until you do. They’re supposed to come out at about the same time, right?”
“Yes, but—“ And then I sneezed, my eyes crossing with the force of it. With all the concentration and precision of a person catching her girlfriend’s tiny chickens in a pickle jar (which is quite a lot), she caught what launched from my face and slammed the lid down.
“Oooohhh…” I groaned, sliding down on the couch.
“Ohh! Twins!” Jasmine held the jar up to the light, “Congratulations mama.”
“Shut…up…”
She laughed at me and went to make me tea.
I dragged myself up and looked into the jar. The little chickens were pecking and scratching around aimlessly, trying to get up the sloping glass sides, “What do you want them for anyway?”
“Oh…things.” Jasmine set a steaming mug down in front of me
“Things?” I asked archly.
“Just some people I want to…you know…I doubt I’ll ever use them.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Shhh.” She clicked on the TV and the theme from Buffy the vampire Slayer echoed in the house. “You’re sick; we’ll talk about it when you’re better.”
“Actually I’m feeling a lot better now that the tiny chickens are gone—“
“Shhh…”She smoothed my hair back from my face, “Poor, sick Meghan.”
I resisted the urge to punch her in the kidneys and settled in to watch many vampires turn to dust. The episode was briefly interrupted when I sneezed and another tiny chicken burst from my nose to be chased by cats and Jasmine waving a jar. I almost felt sorry for the poor thing.
Just another normal day.





-M

Doug: This Blog

This blog is fucking awesome.

This blog is everything Jasmine wants it to be.

This blog is everything I want it to be.

This blog is witty, cynical, insightful, whimsical, senseless, wise, mediocre, irreverent, bitter, cheerful, inspiring, and everything else it should be.

This blog is the moon landing. This blog is a genocide in some foreign country no one who reads this has ever heard of or will give a shit about for more than the next fifteen seconds.

This blog is important.

This blog is irrelevant.

This blog makes a statement and says nothing.

This blog means I miss you, all of you, even the ones who won't/don't speak to me. It also means I want to fucking strangle the lot of you.

This blog is going nowhere. Fast. Like a bullet train from the deserts of Nevada to the jungles in Congo. Nothing worth anything at either end.

This blog is angry, and sad. This blog is hungry, not for food or drink but words and feelings and sensations like sunlight dripping over your skin like a shower of light.

This blog wants to resonate inside you and make you so angry at your loss that you want to do everything, anything to get back those bonds you lost.

This blog wants nothing more than your complete, absolute, and full attention. Because whatever you are doing right now is not as important as this blog. Nothing, not homework, not real work, not boyfriends not girlfriends, not food, not taking a shit, not camping trips, not parents visiting, not the mundane, boring life that we've pounded ourselves into, none of it, is as important as this blog is right now.

This blog has your full attention.

This blog will now state its demands.

This blog wants more.

This blog wants you to pick up the phone and call it.

This blog wants to go on a camping trip together.

This blog wants to be what it once was. Whole, complete, better than itself.

This blog once heard a story about apple pie. All the ingredients of apple pie are good on their own. The apples, the pastry, the butter, the cinnamon, the sugar; they're all good. But with a little bit of effort, all those pieces come together to become more than the sum of their parts. The apples, the pastry, the butter, the cinnamon, the sugar all combine to make something that is greater than the sum of it's parts. Something more than just it's component pieces.

This blog wants to be an apple pie.

This blog is sick of your bullshit. And yours. Yours too. And especially YOURS.

This blog is sick of it's own bullshit, and is feeling pretentious.

This blog doesn't give a fuck.

This blog wants to talk about Bin Laden, or Libya, or North Korea, or camping trips, or fantasy worlds, or star ships, or biochemistry, or vampires, or werewolves, or nonsensical dreams or angry rants. This blog wants to BE. To EXIST.

This blog wants to fight for its life on the stormy seas of Cyberspace.

This blog wants to be at rest in a field of digital flowers.

This blog wants to scheme to take over the internet.

This blog wants to dream of electric sheep and other things unimaginable to lesser blogs.

This blog just wants to love, and be loved in return. Because that is what that blog holds dear.

This blog is the sum of many blogs, and yet greater than it's own self.

This blog is.

-Doug

Meghan: writing with left hand

attention and sleep sleep sleep in the cerebellum cerebellum unpure dopamine serotonin fast gets messy mood affective not so much these days depending on what are motivates you sometimes motivation is internal my motivation is that can you recognize these variables motivations is a need or desire nobody wants to kiss when theyre hungry abraham maslew's theory arousal theory your esteem everything everything begins to fit into a pattern there are lots of variations want to write with mmy other had need lotion for my legs. arousal theory do something to reduce drie (hunger/boredom) instinct of salmon to migrate upstream animal behavior is useful and interesting in itself, not useless konrad lorenz was bird mommy grooming swimming. this teacher lis babies too much the longer you live as a species the less instinctual behaviors these kinds of stimuli are based on hunger pairs.

Jasmine: All the smells of the rainbow

Putrefaction and Autolysis, sigh, just those two words send my nose all tingly and a smile across my face. Things that happen to the body after death has been the theme in my forensic anthropology class for some time now and a few days ago my teacher got down to the actual decomposition of the materials. Yay!

Autolysis, not to be confused with autothysis, is the natural breakdown of the cells in our body. When we stop breathing, essentially living, we stop being able to produce lots and lots of ATP (energy) with that oxygen. But our body, though dead, continues to produce the ATP, and by doing so ends up producing lots and lots of lactic acid. Those of you who remember glycolysis and the kreb cycle should know this. If you don’t or never knew it, lactic acid is what causes your muscles to burn when you exercise hard, this is because you are exercising so fast that the oxygen you take in can’t be used for ATP fast enough and so lactic acid is built up.

This build of lactic acid degrades the cell and actually degrades the cell to cell connections. If you were alive you would heal this before it got this far. Organs sort of liquefy, and coagulate into a thick sticky, kinda mushy chunky fluid. The brain actually liquefies to a grey soup. The skin stays intact mostly for a while and we become a bag of smelly fluid. When the cells degrade, sulfur containing amino acids methionine and homocysteine and possibly others, degrade into hydrogen sulfide which reacts with iron from the blood to create black ferrous sulfide. Blood vessels close to the surface are visible as black lines. This gives off a marbling effect. We become a marble smelly bag of fluid!

Secondly Putrefaction, it’s the better known aspect of decomposition, or at least more often mentioned. All over and all inside our bodies are bacteria. The human body actually contains more bacterial cells then human cells a lot of them are even necessary to human survival. These live primarily in our intestines. While our body is alive it keeps all of these bacteria at bay. The moment we stop living and fighting them, they eat us alive. One of the products of the bacteria eating us is methane gas. It accumulates in the body hugely bloating the body including swelling the tongue out of the mouth as the gas tries to find a way to escape. The swelling continues until the maggot mass (another lovely aspect of dying) eats through the abdominal wall releasing the gasses.

I don’t know why I felt the urge to blog this. I know I find it interesting and I will forever and ever, but many of you readers will probably be disgusted. Because this will happen to all of you unless you take precautions. I urge you, find a vampire, make friends, convince them to turn you into one of their kind. That or go the Egyptian route and mummify that body. Or cremation. Okay there are lots of routes. I prefer the vampire one but I’m not going to force my opinion on you.

Jasmine: Self Destructive Behavior

I haven’t blogged in 57 days, Abe hasn’t blogged in 64 days, Sarah hasn’t blogged in 54 days Doug hasn’t blogged in 42 days, and Meghan is winning with a grand total of 22 days since her last blog

But I don’t blame any of you, I actually can’t without casting heaps of blame onto myself which I am incapable of doing so I will wait until after this has posted and then point and glare from my high ground where the grass is green and the fruits are sweet.

Mostly I don’t blame you because I’ve been incredibly busy, and everyone I talk to also seems to be busy. This week in particular is going to be a kind of hell, but I figured if I had time to watch vlog brothers I have time to write a blog, so I’m trying.

I have an essay due this Thursday, I had to research a topic in deviance and I chose suicide in the elderly. My mind likes to wander and make interesting associations where it will, and this combined with a vlogbrothers video on power moves of the animal kingdom led me to do some random interesting research on some of the destructive behaviors the vlog brothers described as power moves

Autothysis
It’s a process where an animal suicides by exploding some part of itself! When carpenter ants battle and it seems like they’re not going to win, they contract muscles in their abdomens exploding two mandibular glands along the sides of their bodies which sprays a glue like poison in all directions. This both immobilizes their prey and kills them. Several species of termites are also capable of this minus the poison glue. They explode their bodies in tunnels to block entrances and protect a colony from invasion.

Trichobatrachus robustus
Common name the hairy frog, also known as WOLVERINE FROG! There is a bone in its foot that acts like a cat’s claws minus the keratin, and retractability and they have to break their own bones in order to push it through the skin! When threatened they indeed break bones in their back feet and claws extend.

The frog led me to another amphibian

The Spanish ribbed newt when attacked with rotate its ribcage forward and contract is body forcing the sharp spiny ends of the ribs through its skin (there are no ready made holes it cuts its skin) and into its attacker.

I thought these self destructive behaviors were pretty cool and I shared them with you. Credit where credit is due, the vlogbrothers got me started on this with a video and mentioned the carpenter ants and the hairy frog