Time for a short, short update, to give me a break from writing English, so short that I'm actually writing it on the Blogger site update page, instead of Corel Wordperfect, as I usually do.

Warning: Inside joke impending.

Gasp! Oh my God, look! LOOK!
He's fat and dead! Both! At the same time! Simultaneously!
That's right, folks! Step right up and see the man who is both fat and dead, simultaneously, at the saaaaame tiiiiime!
Also, spy the beast who dares to call himself a man that can put a live kitten in his mouth, swallow it, and spit it out, still breathing!
See these things and more at the circus of CNU! For the low, low admission fee of $2,000 per semester!
Be there this fall!

Author's Foreword: I wrote this entry yesterday, Sunday, at approximately three or four 'o clock in the morning. In the end I speculated the defrag of my hard drives was done--That wasn't true, yet, as my third one took longer than I suspected being I had added a lot of data in the course of the week between defragmentations. The second half of this entry falls victim to a wandering, aimless journal-type feel, but the first half compensates for that, hence, no Disclaimer. I only posted this Foreword for record-keeping purposes, so, on with the entry...

Well, in the fashion of all those horrible speeches given by people lacking in originality, I believe I shall commence this entry with a funny story laced with a joke, complete with a punchline and everything. I, personally, alwyas chuckle or smile when I think of this, and I am only reminded of this instance in my past because of what's currently spinning in my discman.
One might say I don't travel much, others of the more crude variety might say I don't travel worth shit. The latter expression is probably nearest the truth, I've been out of state all of, at most, five times, and nowhere that far from the eastern seaboard. Anyway, I was on my first (and only) flight, and it was a two-part trip from my home town to Philadelphia, then from there to Indianapolis. About one hour to Philadelphia, two and a half, maybe three, to Indianapolis. Alright, enough auxiliary exposition, onto the point. My favourite mode of killing time is music, I listen to it all the time, everywhere. So, I brought along a choice selection of CDs I had, and this was when I was about fifteen, sixteen, so I didn't have a very impressive collection and it was pretty run-of-the-mill. Anyway, that's beside the point which I've deviated away from, again. I was listening to music on the trip, and after they signalled for all electrical devices to be shut down, my dad, whom I was travelling with, turned to me and idly asked me what I was listening.
Not really being completely attentive, I thought for a split-second and replied with the name of the band.
"Gravity Kills."
Pausing momentarily, my dad looked at me and quipped, "Not very appropriate for on an airplane, don't you think?"
Blinking, I realised the irony of it and we had a good laugh, and I still get a decent laugh out of thinking about it. Anyway, I thought of that because I am, indeed, listening to Gravity Kills in my CD player. One of my habits as a night owl is that, occasionally, I collect my discman and a good album to listen to and head out to the backyard to sit and ponder with the ambiance of tunes. Mind you, we, as in my family and I, live on about an acre of land, where the house isn't that sizable and may take up one-quarter of the property, at most. We have an expansive backyard considering the fact this is an urban area, and I've always appreciated this little piece of suburbia situated in the middle of a somewhat-industrial locale. So, I sit outside with my headphones, on a bench in the very back of the yard, nonchalantly mulling over matters and the such.
The hard drives on my desktop are currently being defragmented, so I am left to bide my time outside the convenience of virtual desktop-land. Not really a problem, I have plenty of activities that I occupy myself with on a semi-regular basis that don't involve any Von Nuemann [sic] architecture. However, instead of drawing or reading as I usually would, I came out to the backyard, then decided to heft my laptop out here so I could write something to post up in my Blogspot. Ah, faithful laptop: cheap, refurbished Dell with missing latch. An overblown wordprocessor most of the time, it has served me as a source of music on numerous occasions, and I have it kept up-to-date enough with codecs and drivers to watch anime on it, albeit the CD-Rom drive is so slow I have to move everything I want to watch from the CD to HD for satisfying playback speed.
I've spent too much time already meandering on about menial matters (go, go, alliterative me), so onto what I really felt inspired to write.

Insert A Title With Pretentious Vocabulary Excerpted Randomly From the Nearest Lexicon Here

As I gaze up into the clouded, blue, night sky, I am reminded of my humbleness, of my humility as a human being. Absorbed into the superficial world of instantaneous gratification and sensory satiation half the time, it is very easy to slip into a superiority complex–Humanity, after all, does reign over the Earth rather engulfingly and undeniably. It is one of the reasons I ponder here under a tree: a reminder of our origins, of our connection to nature and to the greater, higher world.
Watching as the Moon is steadily enveloped by the cumulus blanket that is wrapped around the ceiling of the world, I feel much smaller in the scheme of things. It is a notification of my insignificance, in a way. When I am gone, when my people and my culture are gone, the Moon will still remains–the tide shall continue to rise and fall, the wind will not cease rustling the trees and dragging leaves across the ground. The human race is a temporary installment in the chapters of the tome of time, it can not be forgotten nor disproven. As all entities are born, they die; with life, comes death.
With our scientific and technological conquests, society moves higher and higher up the metaphorical horse, mounting the Earth and whipping it into submissive dominance. Many people erase it from their memories where we originated from, what the basis by which we have built our civilisation upon. Below the death, war, and sacrifice, underneath the layers of greed, betrayal, conniving, and back-stabbing, and lower than the rubble of human and animal skeletons lies the root of our world–Nature and all of its replenishing cycles. The photosynthesis of plants that replaces our respiratory system's by-product, carbon dioxide, with breathable, fresh oxygen to fuel our lungs and allocate it the power to produce more carbon dioxide. The scrapping scythe of Autumn that drains away the hot blood of Summer, which makes way for the blizzard of Winter's chill cleansing, where Spring nourishes and sprouts forth new life that is scorched away by the inferno of Summer. From the very smallest scale to the most gargantuan scale, the persistence of our existence is caused by and supported by Nature. It is also an exemplification of the omnipresence of life and death in our fragile world.
Beyond the branches of the tree I am canopied by, and across the neighbour's yard, over the city limits and sewage ditch, there's the pitiful remnants of what was once a successful and bustling mall. Newmarket Fair, or, in the past, Newmarker North. Now it is mostly empty–Sears still remains, the shipyard has some offices in there, Verizon runs its information, 411 service from within its walls. As a child, I walked over to the mall with friends to waste away coins in the arcade, or my mom drove me over to pick up the latest Garfield collection from Waldenbooks. Now? Now, I traipse to the doors of Newmarket Fair only to peddle myself to employers for the hopes of an entry-level, part-time job, or to see if any decent video games are on display in the electronics section of Sears to play for free, perhaps my friend is working there as a salesmen, as he has for two or three years now, and we can chat... Hardly one-half, not even one-fifth, the outlet it used to be for entertainment and social purposes. The lamps of the parking light burn brightly, quite visible and glaring from my stance, helping millions of other lights to blot out the stars; however, with the cloud coverage, this is moot, anyway. One may be able to stare upward and experience the feeling that what he or she sees then, somebody else saw hundreds of years ago.
In a way, I think out of all seven virtues, Humility is the most dead, perhaps rivalled by Charity. There are those among this race who are so arrogant that they deny their heritage, that they defy what has stood erect for thousands of years, only out of spite and contempt. I may be a far cry from what one may consider a traditionalist, but I am, by no means, among the ranks of slobs who clamour to eliminate all instances of the past and tradition that still stand. Science has given us a comfort that replaces the spiritual solace almost everybody experience, detached even from organised religion or religious symbolism. It may be exaggerated romanticism, but I'm sure that in the past, human beings stopped and felt a unity with the world that people do not feel anymore. Televisions, cars, radios, computers, and appliances have been invented to replace the older, less efficient devices which served the same purposes; but, with the fading away of the past ways, also faded away was the past mentality. Undeserved and unearned comfort dwells in the stomachs of the children of this world, why? Because we can say we took over the world, we seized it almost in its totality from nature and have made it ours', have formed it in our image. Is humanity heading towards a God complex? I can't say, that'd be the words of an alarmist or extremist, but, while a "God complex" may be too extreme or overblown, certain symptoms are present in today's world of this syndrome.
If we keep our eyes to the ground and our heads down, the sky will go unobserved, and there will be no stirrings within the human soul of what may be missing or devoid. When I squint past the streetlights and into the sky, I feel humble, I feel slightly insignificant, but I, also, feel as though a part of everyday life has gone missing from today's society. I see trees being cut down because nobody wants to rake the yard, I see suburban neighbours uniform and bland, each house nearly touching the next, each yard tiny and, while maybe having a flower garden, without trees. I look at metropolises like New York, Chicago, and Los Angelos, and I dread that these havens to black, towering obelisks of steel and concrete are where humanity is heading, are even what is considered progress. It may be a bit obvious, but I suppose I should mention I am a bit of a transcendentalist, especially in my beliefs regarding the government and the environment. When I picture the ideal home, I am not thinking of a cramped apartment with cracked drywall and smeared windows, overlooking streets utterly jammed with smoke-spewing vehicles and a sea of people elbowing and shouldering there way past each other. My idyllic homestead is departed from any urban society, it is within a forest with, perhaps, a stream running through the property. I am not calling for a return to Nature, by no means, but I do not wish to depart from it, completely. I do not wish to give up some modern conveniences–the computer is my livelihood, and I love some products of the television. Radio is, in my opinion, a bit of an outdated technology, but I don't see it fading away anytime soon. Instead of what has been going on since the Industrial age of America, where cities grow more and more expansive, mass, public transportation becoming more and more vital, I would prefer to see the opposite effect taking places: cities growing smaller, more nuclear, with less excess and pavement. Rural villages of six-hundred is not my dream, either; it is difficult to describe how I picture a better world, those who claim to be able to speak exactly every aspect of the world and how they should be are full of themselves. I seek nothing more than my own niche in life, my own little hole to crawl into and be content; quite frankly, the rest of the world is not my business nor big concern.
Until the day I can afford to remove myself from modern society, I think I'll just be happy with sitting under a tree in my nice backyard, listening to music on my Sony discman and petting a cat.

Euphoria in Instrumentation

While I am on the matter of feeling something beyond and greater than just myself, I suppose I should bring up my most memorable concert experience. Back in... Wow, I can't remember the date, I believe it was April 21st or somewhere near there... I was planning on going to the University of Richmond to attend a free, Fugazi concert. Of course, I had already asked my one friend who listens to similar music to me, for a good portion of examples, and he said he would go and give me a ride, but I knew his habits and I predicted he'd cop out at the last minute and leave me hanging with no way to get there. Luckily, I was eating lunch with some friends and another friend walked up, who had been eating with another group of people he knew but I didn't. Well, he mentioned that a guy he was talking to said he was going to the Fugazi concert of that coming Friday, the one and the same as the one I was hoping to attend. Instantly interested in introducing myself, I bounded over to the table they were eating at and introduced myself to the guy. He said a friend of his was driving there, and they wouldn't mind a third. At the time, my first friend who promised me a ride hadn't, yet, bailed, so I ensured that a fourth wouldn't be too much of a burden. In accordance with my predictions, though, he bailed on me at the last minute, on the day of the concert–I was very elated to have a back up plan, this time. (I'm not going to go into what happened later, regarding a different Fugazi concert.) So, anyway, skip to the day of the concert. The ride up is pleasant, the two guys who let me come with them converse among themselves a bit about inside matters, and I'm just riding along quiet and happy to be there in the backseat. Eventually, we broke the ice and I had a lot in common with the driver along the lines of music, so all of the ackwardness of not knowing someone you're with dissipated.
Fast forward a bit more, we drive through Richmond and get lost, get directions from some seedy-looking sub restaurant, and get there late. We're walking up to this outdoor, Greek-style amphitheatre, and I hear the sounds of "Ex-Spectator" floating my way. Instantly, I start to smile and we carve our way into the crowd, eventually securing a position up front and to the right of the stage. God, I can't describe how much I loved being there. They played every song I wanted to hear, except for "Dear Justice Letter," but that was hardly on my mind. Storming through "Break," "Blueprints," "Exeunt," and all of the content of The Argument and End Hits, practically, even playing "Furniture" and "Song #3," off their newest cut, Furniture EP. Suffice it to say that there was not a song I didn't know, and I was having the time of my fucking life in the crowd, screaming along and grooving. Lord, there isn't a time I hear a Fugazi song and don't envision myself back at that concert. The pure energy of the band, of the music, it coursed through my veins and breathed life into me–I felt alive, I felt sensations I had never experienced before, I felt a newfound connection with their music that has yet to leave me. This is the kind of joy and happiness that verges on being parallel with sex, I'd imagine. In my black trenchcoat and maroon fedora, I had a stupid smile plastered on my face the entire time and for a long time afterward. I was glad I was wearing my coat, too, complete with the lining, because it was in the thirties that night. Hehe, the band was joking about the weather the entire time, Ian MacCaye branded it to the coldest Fugazi concert ever, and Guy Picciotto said he wished he could play his guitar with his hands in his pocket. Oh yeah, I didn't know Joe Lally played the Chapman Stick, either–Sweet, sweet. Man, the concert was just... Fucking great, to put it crudely.
God, after the concert, the three of us all went up to the stage and lingered around, the driver and I both acting like awestruck fanboys and being too shy to ask for autographs. Finally, we walked over to the merchandise table and asked for fliers to have them sign; there were two left, so I just pulled out the first piece of paper I had from my wallet. Guy and Brandon The-only-member-whose-last-name-escapes-me signed a receipt I had from Walmart, I believe. Eh, I think that merits schoolgirlesque squeeling on my behalf. Yes, yes it does. Eeeeeeeeee. I'm pathetic, at times.
I'm not even bothering to assign a Failure Rating to that concert, because just implying the correlation between any form of failure and Fugazi is an insult, I think, especially after the time I had at that concert. I'd do it again, and again, and again, and again. I was going to do it, again, too, the beginning of July, but... Yeah, plans didn't work out. I still get a tinge pissed thinking about the fact I missed Fugazi for no good damn reason.

EOF

Well, this has been an extremely lengthy entry, and I think my defragmentation may be done, by now, so I'm going to head back into the house and check. If it's not done, I have English work to do, anyway.

Adios.

Currently Playing Song: Gravity Kills - Broken
Quote of the Moment: "Heh, let's just put 35 degrees here to remind you of the temperature of the coldest concert, ever." - Guy Picciotto, from the band Fugazi, while signing my receipt after the concert.

Disclaimer: This entry has been deemed unnecessary and pointless by the Author, and any further reading past this point is completely and utterly up to the educated discretion of the Reader; be forewarned that all warranties have expired, all injuries are not liable to be covered by insurance, and all guarantees previously stated void where prohibited by law and good taste. [Editor's Note: If it weren't true that the Editor and Author are the same person, this would be the part where the Editor quips something witty, but, alas, that is not to be found here.]

An Equivocal Instance of Vindication

Hmph, it's been awhile since I updated this, and I still won't have really done much once this entry is over with, either. I just felt obligated to put this up as a kind of marker that reads, "Hey, I'm not dead, but I'm not completely in commission." The past two weeks have been pretty busy for me, what with backing up almost fifty CDs worth of data (Read: 40 CDs of anime, 4 of music, and 5 of personal data, and 1 just for Chess save-games), formatting followed by restoration of all necessary files, the commencement of my maintenance program for my computer (Decided that letting it run until it dies isn't the best way to operate), English work including two papers and the ever-present Writer's Workbook, and various, extracurricular activities (Drawing, writing, listening to music while aimlessly walking around, brooding, the such). Oh, and for the past couple of days, I've been absorbed into my latest addiction called a game, Neverwinter Nights. I just wrote a rough outline of what all I need to write, or, rather, will choose to write, for this Blog, and it struck me just now to add Neverwinter Nights into the list of things to review. The best Role-Playing Game ever may be a hyperbole, but that's what I'm thinking, now, in the midst of having my head cleanly jammed up its ass, figuratively speaking.
That's what I have been doing in the recent past, and now for my list of grievances, er, excuse me, priorities to be taken care of in the near future. Firstly, I have two actual class days left for English, then a final exam if I am not exempt (I suspect I will be, but you never know for sure until the professor tells you, in person). With the end of class drawing very near, that means one day this coming weekend will be dedicating to me polishing up the Writer's Workbook, adding a bunch of bonus material like typed-up quizzes (If you knew what my handwriting looked like, you'd understand why the teacher would relish in seeing what I wrote in clean, legible type), redone essays, and, possibly, a few choice excerpts from this Blogspot and other examples of my informal writing. So, yeah, there's that, which will occupy a full day or two's worth of time. Next, the beginning of the Fall semester of college is drawing closer, and I still have to design a website and fliers for the resident Anime Club of which I am sworn in as Technical Officer (Hey, you'd think what I put in this Blogspot would be proof enough of my geekiness, does that come as a surprise to anyone?). Oh, and I've decided to create, at minimum, three works of art that hold up to my rigorous and finicky standards to submit to the gallery at Nekocon, a local anime convention in early November I am already registered to be attending. That will consume a good portion of my life. A completely optional and elective activity I may be engaging in is collecting a bunch of my old poetry, revising it, and probably writing a good amount more of, to be gathered into a short book of poetry; moreover, I may decide to flesh out older stuff, or write new stuff, to try and have published in the campus literary magazine, perhaps even an editorial or two to see about getting put in the Captain's Log, the campus newspaper, or a political cartoon or something. Just trying to start an endeavour to get my name out there (Of course, in reference to the metaphorical "there," which, in this case, is the world of name-dropping, reputations, and notoriety) early on in the game of life. Ah, yes, I can't forget that I have two webomics in the woodwork, one specifically for the anime club website and one pertaining to a friend of mine and myself. Let's see... Art, book, writing, comic, website, class... Yes, yes, almost forgot, I need to pick up a C++ reference book to refresh my memory on the basics of the language, so I'll be prepared for the programming class I'm planning to sign up for in the Spring. A job! I'm still determined to become employed in the months to come, as much as my father is convinced I've given up. If the paperwork would go through the gov't, I could go ahead and apply for the on-campus position I want, but, noooo, it's taking forever to process. Blah! As you can see, I have a bit to do, even if this does look like me purposefully bloating the tasks I have set forth to complete in a manner to excuse any scarce updating of this Blogspot. Oh yeah, I still have to work on this Blogspot, itself, and go back and edit older entries. Heh, just when I thought I was done listing my chores.
Anyway, I've written way too much on nothing, today, so I'll end this before I continue to blather on inanely about events in my life and the day-to-day happenings. Hmph, an entry with no italics, but, most likely, the compensation for is an excess of parentheses.

Adios.

Currently Playing Song: Red Hot Chili Peppers - This Velvet Glove
Quote of the Moment: "God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." [As close to the original as I can remember] - Voltaire, a quote my friend has told me a few times and I like.

‘Tis always somewhat disturbing to have the insatiable desire to amputate your feet because they're, literally, covered with bug bites. "Sit out in the backyard," thought I. "Only wearing flipflops, for an hour, listening to music," thought I. "Idiot," would be my thought right now.

My Sesquipedalian Perversion

Do you know what it means when I'm using a large portion of my creative writing in this Blogspot? It means I'm not putting enough effort into my Writer's Workbook for English class. So, because I, now, am, it's time for reviews, my favourite cop-out on ranting. Sure, there's the Supreme Court ruling on random student drug-testing, the Harlem Globetrotters on television, and other current events on my mind that I could, very easily, spend four to five pages writing about, but, eh, I need that energy for my English writing. There'll be a month between the end of this summer course and the commencement of the Fall semester, where I'll have more opportunity to rant in this . . . However, I may pump those creative juices into Dungeons & Dragons or anime, shrug, who knows.
Again, as a display of the fact I am not entirely fixated on the world of cinematic animation, let me speak on my take on Minority Report, Spielberg's [sic, because I don't care enough to look up how to spell it, which is sad because I looked up "sesquipedalian" for no reason] latest submission into the blockbuster box office. Hmph, Corel had the correct spelling of Spielberg's name in the dictionary database, surprising and only amusing to myself, I'm sure. Who's the big name behind the protagonist role in this flick, again? Tom Cruise, I think. Wasn't he the guy who did that contrived action film, Mission Impossible 2: the Most Impossibly Drawn Out 2 Hours of Car Chases and Explosions Ever? Yeah, sounds right . . . Anyway, it's been approximately a week and a half since I saw Minority Report, and, simply noting how much of it I retained will tell you how impressed I was. Speaking of drawn out, there were, at minimum, five times in this film where I thought to myself, "Hah! The end!" And, much to my dismay, it didn't end. The special effects were, indubitably, way past cool, to use bad, dated 80's slang. Computers with tiny, unexplained, clear data discs, holographics out the ass, virtual reality; every little device, gadget, doohickey, whatchamacallit, and technology a science-fiction geek has ever had a wet dream about, especially those virtual reality sex machines, makes a cameo appearance. The plot? Well, if you've seen the trailer, you know it's about a future where "Precrime" exists, based on psychic predictions made by metaphysically-attuned, Hey, look at what concept we pulled off the back of a cereal box precognitive babies. Yes, tiny Miss Cleos, but without the tarot cards and with tubes and a giant toilet bowl. Right, anyway . . . There's this guy, you know, and he's all like, uh, doing stuff, and crazy shit like that, yanowhadimsayin', bling bling, hot off the ice grill, muthafucka? (I have no idea why that sentence is punctuated with a question mark, but it seems like it should be.) On a side note, I didn't hate this movie, but mocking it is is oh so easy. This man who lost his son (Literally, he lost him, as in misplaced) and now works for the Department of Precrime to prevent future murders of happy children in swimming trunks, and it works, in spite of the fact it's based on silly psychic-hotline babies in a giant frickin' toilet bowl. Have I mentioned the fact that there are little kid soaking in a giant god damn toilet bowl, yet? Uh, yeah, the plot, the plot . . . Man loses son, becomes bitter and determined to save the world, works for Precrime, and here's the lemon twist on the glass of toilet bowl ice tea: he's predicted to murder a man he doesn't know next week! I tell you, regardless of the actual plot, everybody knows why this guy is framed, who wouldn't be pissed if they were bound up in a prop from a Tidy Bowl commercial while some guy in black spandex does a dance in your window? The movie, gotta keep myself on track, here . . . What Minority Report boils down is the most flashy murder mystery, supersaturated with eye candy, ever made. It's reminiscent of Demolition Man, in that it's a simple film taking place in a sweet setting that constantly has the viewer going "Oooh," "Ahhh," and "Holy shit, did you just see that fucking hologram talk to that son of a bitch?" As I mentioned before, somewhere prior to all of my pointless mockery, my main complaint is that this movie's pace is a bit . . . off. It does not terminate until everything is absolute, with no room for a sequel. (Thank God, because I get sick of movies not worth continuing the plot of having more mindless clones spat out of the Hollywood factory.) *Cough*Matrix2*Cough*Matrix3*Cough* Ahem, did I just say something? Noooo . . . In the end, Spielberg's Minority Report is a fun trip into a fantasy future riddled with sleek, futuristic stuff of all kind, with a pinch of plot thrown in. Just like with Demolition Man, you can sit there and discuss the ethics of the society presented until you're blue, but that's hardly the point of the movie. I don't think this'll ever find its way into my DVD collection, but it'd be a fun rental, preferably for those with a home theatre system. I give it a . . . Hm . . . 30% Failure Rating. Tyche and Gabe over at Penny Arcade may have dug it hard enough to make a comic slamming a critic who bashed it, but I can't say I'd blame anyone for bad-mouthing Minority Report.

EOF

I had more gusto to write reviews when I first opened my word processor, but that steam and cloud of hot air has left me for now. My intentions were to hit on A Beautiful Mind and some anime, but that's not happening, so go somewhere else to further satisfy your need for sarcastic and critical analysis of multimedia, beotch. You heard me! Shoo!

Adios.

Currently Playing Song: Modest Mouse - Beach Side Property
Quote of the Moment: "There's no chance to survive, make your time!" - Sasshi from Abenobashi Mahou Shoutengai (Abenobashi Magical Shopping District), also Cat from the infamous, mangled translation of Zero Wing. (So sick of "All Your Base" references, but it's funny to see it come up in anime, now. It's frickin' everywhere, I tell you.)

I'm not in the right mood to continue the tangent I cut off last entry, so I'll file that under "to do," and move onto what happens to be on my mind, currently.
Love is the single most complicated and ambiguously-defined emotion to exist within the confines of the human conundrum known as consciousness. The Greeks were kind enough to categorise three different forms of love, but I really don't remember any aside from "agape" and "platonic" off the top of my head, so that's a moot point in view of my own ignorance and lack of motivation to look it up. Still, even with what meagre assistance the Greeks provided, we, as a race, struggle constantly with love. Love is a battle between the heart and brain, logic and emotion. It is as easy to refute it as trivial and unimportant as it is to embrace it as the prime directive for life. I have, personally, been on both sides of that fence; at the apex of my cynicism, I thought of love as useless, and at the bottom of my lovesickness, I heralded it as the means to survive. I'd say, after all is said and done, I'm balancing on the fence, itself, and will not throw my hat in the ring of either notion, anymore.
The complaints of those involved in a romantic relationship have a tendency to fall on deaf ears when aimed in my direction; I have no sympathy for petty bouts of loneliness because "he/she" isn't there to hold you, or the regret from starting some insubstantial and dumb argument which resulted in currently receiving the cold shoulder from "him/her." Love without logic and reason is like a wild beast frothing at the mandibles, itching to pounce and rip the nearest warm body to shreds in a gnashing cloud of teeth and claws. Unfortunately, that beast will be rubbing affectionately against the legs of its victim before it decides to engage in a feeding frenzy. In other words, overemotional love has no middle-ground, you are either floating up on cloud nine, or sulking down in gutter ten; happy as a clam or rotting skewered on the pier like an unlucky fish.
At the same time, I have no patience for an embittered cynic lecturing me on the fruitlessness of love and how no good comes from it; you can keep your sardonic witticisms about how "Whoever said ‘it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all' was full of bollocks" to yourself. You can not apply formulae or analytical thinking to the realm of love, for it is too far lost into the oblivious void of the human spirit, a location where no man returns with knowledge, just confusion. To carefully list the advantages and disadvantages of a relationship contains about as much of a point as listing the negative and positive aspects of a belief in God; in the end, it is all subjective and it is all up to the person what to make of love (And God, but that's a different rant). That one fucked-up, traumatic relatonship you had which left you crying into your pillow for weeks doesn't qualify you as an authority on the ways of love–Everybody has been there, or will be, at one point.
No, we do not live in an ideal world where princesses and princes get wed in sparkling attire before diaper-clad cherubim and a singing choir of angels, nor do we dwell in a bleak existence of spiked cathedrals stretching towards the sky where the rejected, deformed man weeps before the Cross, crying vainly towards heaven about the injustice of it all. The world is a healthy mixture of the two extremes. Your special, love-love coupledom or your angst-ridden, devastating past drama with the opposite gender is good for you, but I don't care. (You thought I'd go all the way through an entry without iralics, didn't you?)
There is no good advice to be given in regards to love, outside of nothing more than "Let whatever happens, happen." When it all comes down to the falling action, if it was "meant to be," it will "be," and if it wasn't, pick yourself up off the ground and get over it. Love affects each individual differently, in every case, and it can make or break, harm or heal; you can't tell without allowing the resultant to blossom and grow through all of its natural cycles of development. Cry on my shoulder if your boyfriend just tore your heart out, or laugh and smile over lunch with me about how women are "evil demons" that manipulate men for ulterior purposes, but don't whine to me about how he doesn't understand that "we're perfect for each other!" and don't tell me love is a pointless enterprise and expect me to nod and agree. I swear, I'll scream and run away the next time somebody tells me there is no true love, or that true love is what makes the world go around.
(In case it wasn't obvious enough, almost every instance of love in the previous rant was in reference to "romantic love." I have no real need to speak on the love shared between family members or friends, nor do I feel like speaking on the spiritual love of a higher power.)

Adios.

Currently Playing Song: Nomeansno - Sex Mad
Quote of the Moment: "You must feel funny. You must feel flattered. I heard you were sick. He must be very worried. This is what true love is all about - hunger, get out your Valentines, get out your revolver." - Nomeansno, from "Love Thang," off of Sex Mad.

Time for generic and aimless ranting! Woof, I'm sure everybody (Read: nobody) looks forwards to this from me.
First, because the newspaper is sitting here under my elbow, and the thought just struck me . . . Okay, there's an advertisement for laser hair removal in the bottom riht of the page of the Dave Barry column I just read. In the middle of this ad, there's printed the words "Gift Certificate Available" on white against a little black circle. How frickin' insulting would be it be to hand that prize of a gift over to whatever friend, family member, or loved one you've decided is too much of a nuisance with his or her hair in weird places like the chest and legs, somewhere every human being on the face of the planet grows it? "Here, grandma, I noticed you've been growing a healthy, unsightly moustache as you slowly creep towards the dark days of senility and being spoon-fed Jello and mushed carrots, so how about a trip to the happy-happy land of magical hair-no-more, complete with a pretty light show!" Yeah, I'm sure your girlfriend will be so pleased to receive this welcome implication that the patch of curly underarm fuzz just has to go in order for you to continue being attracted to her, despite any such instances of love or COMPASSION that would directly urge you to buy anything BUT a gift certificate for HAIR REMOVAL as a way to celebrate a six-month anniversary. Maybe, just maybe, couples who have been married for twenty-five years are comfortable enough with each other to purchase a trip to the bikini-wax-deluxe-o-matic shop as a way of saying thanks for all the blowjobs, but who else is going to buy a gift certificate to have neck hair SOLDERED off by a death ray for their significant other, a lovely little bonus to tuck into the folds of that cute, warm and fuzzy Hallmark card portraying a Scottish Terrier and the caption, "Here, see this dog? He's got LESS HAIR THAN YOU DO, bitch!" Sure, as a bearded, card-carrying member of the Testosterone-Possessing Society of Earth, or M.E.N., I appreciate the discounts I get on shaving cream and disposable, Bic razors (Not just makers of ink pens, but another keen source of hair removal that doesn't involve MELTING YOUR FACE!); however, honestly, I have never said to myself, "Gee, man, I hate shaving my neck every other day of my life so much I am going to pay money to have trained professionals aim concentrated death at the underside of my chin, and what would be even better would be my mother giving me a certified gift certificate to do so for Christmas, instead of something useful like a Playstation 2 or a newer motherboard and processor to slap in place of this Pentium II that's suffocating to death because my internet connection moves faster." Really, who is so pissed off at nature that they're going to use the latest wave in technology for the sole purpose of murdering the tiny little souls of each and every follicle of hair on your face as revenge for being called "Mr. Hairy McFuzzball, Jr." in junior high school? Is there a cult out there, somewhere, dedicated to the eradication of tiny hairs peeking over the bikini bottoms of women everywhere? Who trains a doctor to operate a multi-million dollar laser machine for the most effective shave-job a man or woman could ever receive? Who first thought up this idea, was some scientist fiddling around with a laser, and after melting a 50-foot thick slab of titanium-alloy-coated steel-laced-iron, gets the geniun brainstorm of aiming the same device at someone's pelvic area in order to delicately erase the very memory of pubic hair existing there? These are questions worthy of answers, damn it! And I want them NOW!
Alright, boys and girls, wasn't that fun? Now that I've spent way too much time in my life pondering the intricacies of laser hair removal, let's all take a deep breath. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *inhale* One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *exhale* Repeat until near-unconsciousness or hallucinations of George W. Bush dressed in spandex as Captain Democracy flash before your eyes. Everyone calm? Settled down? Relaxed? Good . . . Good . . .
JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH AND RALPH WIGGIM, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? IS IT THAT HARD TO OBEY THE PRAGMATIC AND COMMON SENSICAL LAWS OF THE WORLD? AAAAHHHHH! MY EYE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY EYE?!
There is a limitation on the speed by which we drive transportation vehicles for good reason! You're already propelling two tonnes of steel, fiberglass, plastic, and glass forward at enough of a velocity to decimate any human body upon impact at forty miles per hour, but you choose to kick it up a notch to fifty-five. Thank you, Emeril frickin' Lagasse, I was worried that if you did smack into my back bumper, you might have only left a dent; I want to be positive that a collision with your car would result in massive death and destruction. Do you know why police officers pull you over when you're driving fucking fast, to put it in the proper legislative terms. (Seriously, I'd love to see it read, printed in boldfaced lettering, across every speeding ticket ever written: TOO FUCKING FAST, JACKASS.)
There seems to be this mentality among the human race that the world owes them to ability to be able to do whatever they want, go anywhere they want, and do it as fast as they want.
To be continued, at a later date . . .

Adios, hasta luego.