I thought I had met the most misbehaved slurry the other day. Today I realized that it really does have the worst manners imaginable.
A dark, claustrophobic coffee shop was crowded. A line filled the place. It was a line of innocent people waiting for their caffeine. Upon seeing the extensive amount of people filling the place, my Hippie Aunt and I headed for the other side of the stores lining the road. It was a perfectly normal day, and the following story goes to show that a normal day can turn disastrous in a moment.
As I strolled down the sidewalk, bouncing a fist-sized ball and passing absent-mindlessly the millions of shop windows and advertisements, I heard a noise. It wasn't just a noise, it was a crashing. Something was falling. Instinctively, I turned to see. All the while, thoughts rushed through my head, "What did I break? Do we have to take Aunt Jill to the hospital?". I turned just in time to see a sheet of ice plummeting from an awning onto my unsuspecting Aunt. The sheet shattered over her red hair like glass. It wasn't over yet. The ice was followed up .06 seconds later by a smattering of snow. Again, the slush was totally not socially acceptable. It could have thought "Oh, you look cold already, I'll just land a bit to the right." or "It will be most beneficial to the shoppers for me to land just seconds later.".
I saw my Aunt double over, but she stood back up with her glasses in hand, laughing. Fortunately, minimal damage was done.
Yes, people were staring. I even saw one shopper's jaw drop. We successfully escaped that incident, and the shoppers returned to their shopping, exchanging murmurs and whispers among themselves. Though she did lose a hairpin.... as I said, minimal damage.
Now, for those of you who don't know my Aunt, she always elaborated that she wanted to die in a "freak accident". That's my aunt. All aversions to normality. She came up here from Alabama, expecting some nice white snow. Instead she almost experienced death by ice sheet.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
I have never met a slurry with worse manners.
I braved the elements today, with all the mentality of avoiding procrastination. "Today," I told myself "I'll shovel the driveway without even taking time to double-layer socks. Then I'm sure to avoid procrastination." Only a minute later I was dressed and shoveling the thick clumps of the indignant, icy stuff off the pavement. I silently congratulated myself for not procrastinating on this arduous task. About fifteen minutes into the job, I was bent over my shovel, hauling the maximum amount of snow possible, back straining, eyes tearing from the blistering wind, mind focused, when everything changed.
I heard a low rumbling, and looked up to see my soaking demise. Red, flashing, and screaming in a fury best described as "huge", a snow plow came around the corner. I was happier when my view of it was obstructed by the hill in the yard. Just in the split second that I looked up to see the brutal machine, I saw flying towards me a monumental pile of ice, slush and other unidentified gray matter from the road. In a splendid trajectory towards me, this pile had no plans of stopping or saying "I'll be considerate and land just to your right.". I have never met a slurry with worse manners. So I was to be found, continuing my task of snow removal from the driveway covered (from the fur-lined top of my hunter green parka to the tips of my black boots) in the previously described pile of snow, ice, and gray matter.
Upon speculating the evidence of my task completed, a clear driveway, I dropped the shovel by the door. I strode into the gloomy garage undefeated. So you see, even though I was indignant towards that particularly rude spray of snow, the snow plow itself was no match for me.
I heard a low rumbling, and looked up to see my soaking demise. Red, flashing, and screaming in a fury best described as "huge", a snow plow came around the corner. I was happier when my view of it was obstructed by the hill in the yard. Just in the split second that I looked up to see the brutal machine, I saw flying towards me a monumental pile of ice, slush and other unidentified gray matter from the road. In a splendid trajectory towards me, this pile had no plans of stopping or saying "I'll be considerate and land just to your right.". I have never met a slurry with worse manners. So I was to be found, continuing my task of snow removal from the driveway covered (from the fur-lined top of my hunter green parka to the tips of my black boots) in the previously described pile of snow, ice, and gray matter.
Upon speculating the evidence of my task completed, a clear driveway, I dropped the shovel by the door. I strode into the gloomy garage undefeated. So you see, even though I was indignant towards that particularly rude spray of snow, the snow plow itself was no match for me.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Date a Girl Who Reads
There is story that I nearly fell in love with. Though I see that the world tends to bring dating and relationships into everything. If the story wasn't about "dating", I'd like it a lot more. Never the less; read on.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Stack o' Literature
Just a picture of books that I own and have to read.
I'm making my New Year's resolution right now.
"Read through this list of books"
Books on my e-reader that I don't have pictured here are:
Green Tea, Joseph Sheridan
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving
The Blithedale Romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne
Emma, Jane Austin
Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austin
Story of My Life, Helen Keller
Thoughts on these titles?
"Read through this list of books"
Books on my e-reader that I don't have pictured here are:
Green Tea, Joseph Sheridan
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving
The Blithedale Romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne
Emma, Jane Austin
Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austin
Story of My Life, Helen Keller
Thoughts on these titles?
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Have a Very Geeky Christmas.....
( I hope Hank sees this xD )
Saturday, December 1, 2012
How Not to Comfort Someone
It hurts to see how inept the human race is at comforting a fellow human. We're the same species, after all. So, read this, and get an idea as to how not to comfort someone. Pay much attention to the "NOT" part of this. If you try to comfort someone in these ways, it's worse than just leaving them be.
Number 1: Try to change the subject while they're telling you about a traumatic/painful situation. When they're disclosing, it's their turn to talk about what they NEED to talk about, not what you WANT to talk about. It doesn't seem as though this needs said, but it does. Changing the subject will not create an easier situation for anyone.
"I just miss her so much, I -"
"So, did you see that Bears game?"
Number 2: Tell them to move on. Seriously. A person doesn't simply "recover" from a traumatic/painful situation. If it is a terrible thing, especially loss, they likely will think about it every day of their life. They will not move on because someone alluded to the fact that they should. They need to COPE with the grief, not move on.
"I can't believe it's been a year since [thusandsuch] happened."
"Only that long? Time to move on."
Number 3: Upon hearing of the event, message them on Facebook, email, etc. Use your phone to CALL them, if you must, but for the sake of sanity, no Facebook. These messages are impersonal and seemingly not thoughtful. Unless you have no vocal cords to utter the words, CALL them. Or, in select cases, visit them. Unless it is a death in the family, and the family wants to be alone to grieve together. Oh, and when you make this phone call, be prepared to... are you ready for this? *LISTEN* TO THEM! They might need to unload some thoughts, and hey, you have EARS with which to listen! It is amazing how consoling an open ear can be. Which brings me to my next point.
[instant message from ---]
"hey man. heard wut happned. srry. need anything u can lemme know dude."
Number 4: Well, you'll have to say something, right? WRONG. You can just let them talk and unload their thoughts, without saying a word! If you're honestly prepared to listen, you're the most useful to that person. Avoid asking questions pertaining to the event. They'll tell you the information they want you to hear, asking questions will likely lead to sometime that will trample their feelings or make them feel as though you do not feel the gravity of the event.
Number 5: Tell them you know how they feel. You don't. It doesn't matter if you've experienced the same situation, you haven't. Every situation is unique. Nothing gives you permission to tell them how great you are comforting someone.
"My grandfather passed away. His heart failed."
"Oh yeah, mine did too. And I know exactly how you feel. This one guy tried to relate to me but he totally didn't get it."
In summary, be there for them, but don't prod them or tell them how to cope. Healing will come with God and time, but you can't control either of those.
Go comfort someone.
Number 1: Try to change the subject while they're telling you about a traumatic/painful situation. When they're disclosing, it's their turn to talk about what they NEED to talk about, not what you WANT to talk about. It doesn't seem as though this needs said, but it does. Changing the subject will not create an easier situation for anyone.
"I just miss her so much, I -"
"So, did you see that Bears game?"
Number 2: Tell them to move on. Seriously. A person doesn't simply "recover" from a traumatic/painful situation. If it is a terrible thing, especially loss, they likely will think about it every day of their life. They will not move on because someone alluded to the fact that they should. They need to COPE with the grief, not move on.
"I can't believe it's been a year since [thusandsuch] happened."
"Only that long? Time to move on."
Number 3: Upon hearing of the event, message them on Facebook, email, etc. Use your phone to CALL them, if you must, but for the sake of sanity, no Facebook. These messages are impersonal and seemingly not thoughtful. Unless you have no vocal cords to utter the words, CALL them. Or, in select cases, visit them. Unless it is a death in the family, and the family wants to be alone to grieve together. Oh, and when you make this phone call, be prepared to... are you ready for this? *LISTEN* TO THEM! They might need to unload some thoughts, and hey, you have EARS with which to listen! It is amazing how consoling an open ear can be. Which brings me to my next point.
[instant message from ---]
"hey man. heard wut happned. srry. need anything u can lemme know dude."
Number 4: Well, you'll have to say something, right? WRONG. You can just let them talk and unload their thoughts, without saying a word! If you're honestly prepared to listen, you're the most useful to that person. Avoid asking questions pertaining to the event. They'll tell you the information they want you to hear, asking questions will likely lead to sometime that will trample their feelings or make them feel as though you do not feel the gravity of the event.
Number 5: Tell them you know how they feel. You don't. It doesn't matter if you've experienced the same situation, you haven't. Every situation is unique. Nothing gives you permission to tell them how great you are comforting someone.
"My grandfather passed away. His heart failed."
"Oh yeah, mine did too. And I know exactly how you feel. This one guy tried to relate to me but he totally didn't get it."
In summary, be there for them, but don't prod them or tell them how to cope. Healing will come with God and time, but you can't control either of those.
Go comfort someone.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Dragon's breath and tears
You may have heard of dragons,
compared to legends of old;
they are not fictional jargons
as many have been told
Indeed, they are actual!
Not as they have been perceived,
For the safety of a damsel
Dreamers this thought conceived.
They exist in each of us,
In their own separate form
Some are true and zealous,
Others, dark like a rainstorm.
Sometimes, we meet with our dragon
Their hot breath pours over us,
It's acidic and blazon,
More beautiful than the lotus;
because it was meant to be.
When it has consumed all,
It begins the work on thee.
The eyes are the last brawl.
Slowly but surely they burn,
And tears closely ensue
It is not a concern
For just then comes rescue
As water tends to do.
To soothe the burn, a tear, my dear.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
The "Daddy?" story
A story composed by a friend of mine..... read on, ye yet uneducated.
Once upon a time, many moons ago, back in a time where people were good, the women were fast, and the chrome was thick, people would go to a ski resort to enjoy themselves. I worked at this ski resort, as a lane attendant for the snow tubing lanes. Sometimes I'd waste hours walking on a treadmill, other times I'd sit on a snow tube & watch the sky, other times I did hundreds of pullups off the c
Once upon a time, many moons ago, back in a time where people were good, the women were fast, and the chrome was thick, people would go to a ski resort to enjoy themselves. I worked at this ski resort, as a lane attendant for the snow tubing lanes. Sometimes I'd waste hours walking on a treadmill, other times I'd sit on a snow tube & watch the sky, other times I did hundreds of pullups off the c
eiling to keep myself occupied. On special occasions I'd have the luxury of throwing fat bodies who melt onto their tube 30ft from the edge down a mountain to their occasional demise. Such times were truly what kept me going, and I scarce have better experiences.
One night I had the rather unfortunate yet interesting role of sitting at the bottom of the mountain and watching people plummet to their eventual stop, whether it be violent or uneventful. Me and the other guys working that position were telling old war stories of our various close encounters with the guests of this tubing mountain. People like angry guests, naked tubers, drunken customers, Unidentified flying fat abominations (UFFAs), and the like. One friend recounted his near death experience, another how a 400lb man got stuck in a net, another how he had his knee caps sheared off several times trying to stop collisions. We were bragging about who was better at their job, when some radio chatter buzzed into our ears... "Breakaway, Breakaway!" we heard. The one guy, with his stunna shades and slicked back suave hair and new shiny ski pants threw his head back over his shoulder and said, "Gentlemen, please. I got this. Watch and learn." Naturally, due to my skeptical and analytic personality, I figured I'd back him up, just in case he acted a fool. Surely a guy so eloquent in speech and smooth in style could handle himself, the others thought. I looked up the hill to see a big daddy separate from his child. They had been holding onto each other's tube, but the rigors of simply holding onto his daughters tube had proved too much, and he let go of her... They had a considerable velocity before the inevitable descent, so once they hit it the daughter made a quick shoot down. She came to a soft and gentle stop, where she attempted to sort of hip thrust to try and get out from the enveloping tube. Eventually she defied gravity and rolled to the side, and made an attempt to grab the lanyard which distracted her from seeing her imminent demise. Like a grand symphony, a series of events were happening all at once in majestic ridiculousness.
The father's weight was substantial. He was in or around a plump 300+ pounds, with varying reports of upwards of 600 lbs. Guys like him have a very gradual descent, at least initially, but once their potential energy converts to inertia, a weapon on par with the MOAB is spawned. So much weight was on the tube, that the ice beneath it was being compressed to the point of subliminating to gas, which errupted from behind his descent of death like a white volcano of ice, water vapor, and perhaps plasma. This subsequent vortex merely added to his aerodynamics, and exponentially his speed multiplied about 16.7x the speed of a fat guy falling down a hill, squared. A low slick rumble proceeded from him. Reports were that it was his face contorting due to the rigors of supersonic flight, or that the gravity of falling down the hill at such speeds compressed his lungs and super-heated the gas in his lungs, producing the supernatural sound, or it could have been the mechanical energy produced form the sheer weight and speed of his fat vibrating and hitting the resonance frequency of the snow tube. Either way, he was moving, and smiles quickly turned to looks of horror and fear.
I Looked at the Big boned baby basher plummeting towards his daughter, looked at the innocent, pink clad young girl no older than 4, looked back at the fat body, looked back at the snow bunny angel, and looked at the 17 year old fonz schlepping towards his death. At that very moment, I was forced to make a choice. I could back up the "bro" and attempt to stop the monstrosity that was beginning to shake the ground I stood on... Or I could run and snatch his daughter up like a bed intruder. I had to weigh the options, as I always do. I considered the young boy who would surely have his face melted from the super-heated gasses, at the very least, or perhaps he would contribute to the primordial soup which would coat 50 square feet. Or... I could resign him to his own fate, since he did brag that he "gots this" as any respectable human being would. Faster than a sow returns to her mire, or a dog to its vomit, thoughts turned to action.
I abandoned that kid and ran for the little girl, with the single hope that she could withstand the 6 G's fo force I was about to thrust upon her. I stepped off, snow and ice turning to water from the force of my feet exerting supernatural pressures. Time slowed down... my coworkers were stunned- unable to move, or even yell "look out!" Their faces grimaced and contorted as they realized their man cards were spontaneously combusting before their eyes. Paralyzed from fear, the best the did to help was turn sheepishly to witness the spectacle unfold. Legend has it that one of them let out a squeak indistinguishable from a mouse having it's head stomped on. As I forced my body to mindlessly run towards a little pink baby, which went against about every instinct I have, I observed my co-worker bro-hannah montannah squat down to catch the father and save the day. He got into a position like he was a mime sitting upon a horse. Low to the ground, ready to help and earn his money. He looked up and finally had the realization that he was a fool, and had bit off more than he could chew. He looked down into the depths of the fathers stomach, because his face skin was being forced back from the wind. I remember seeing for but a second a small mushroom cloud erupt just upon impact as the noob was impacted by big daddy. A shock wave came from them, like Goku going supersaian or Neo punching the ground, and I turned away just in time to save my eye sight. In that very second, I was sure I saw a flash of light and a smile upon that fathers face as it rammed through the noobs chest. I pushed with every muscle in my body, veins bulging in ways even body builders dream of. Seconds became minutes, and I jumped appx 19 feet off a birm, landing but a few steps from the girl.
In that moment, from the shock-wave, the smell of burnt flesh, or perhaps human instinct, she slowly looked over her shoulder. Her face wasn't that of a young child having fun, but of a naive, innocent, and curious girl merely looking to share her joys with her dad. In that moment I saw true beauty and obliviousness. As she turned, she looked up and layed eyes on what lay behind her... An suave, aspiring young man turning into chili, the tubing mountain looking like mount doom, me, mid air, racing towards her, and her father, bathed in blood, flying at her. In that moment, with so much happening for that young girl, the most she could do, all she could say, was...
...Daddy?
I snatched up that girl so fast I felt her arms dislocate from her sockets, and my foot was caught by a passing doom train of a dad in disaster as they blew by. I landed and placed the little girl down, and looked over at the travesty which just occured. I saw a red streak where my co-worker got pwned, a snow tube that had melted into the net and was steaming, and the father had easily hit 70mph and was wishing he'd had a Delorian instead of a snow tube.
The end. ish.
This story has been ingrained into my mind for the duration of my life, but now it needs to be burned into your retinas, so you can say that you've truly lived and seen it all.
Feel free to offer corrections to how the story happened, since the very fabric of space-time was fractured that day, it's hard to say what really happened.
One night I had the rather unfortunate yet interesting role of sitting at the bottom of the mountain and watching people plummet to their eventual stop, whether it be violent or uneventful. Me and the other guys working that position were telling old war stories of our various close encounters with the guests of this tubing mountain. People like angry guests, naked tubers, drunken customers, Unidentified flying fat abominations (UFFAs), and the like. One friend recounted his near death experience, another how a 400lb man got stuck in a net, another how he had his knee caps sheared off several times trying to stop collisions. We were bragging about who was better at their job, when some radio chatter buzzed into our ears... "Breakaway, Breakaway!" we heard. The one guy, with his stunna shades and slicked back suave hair and new shiny ski pants threw his head back over his shoulder and said, "Gentlemen, please. I got this. Watch and learn." Naturally, due to my skeptical and analytic personality, I figured I'd back him up, just in case he acted a fool. Surely a guy so eloquent in speech and smooth in style could handle himself, the others thought. I looked up the hill to see a big daddy separate from his child. They had been holding onto each other's tube, but the rigors of simply holding onto his daughters tube had proved too much, and he let go of her... They had a considerable velocity before the inevitable descent, so once they hit it the daughter made a quick shoot down. She came to a soft and gentle stop, where she attempted to sort of hip thrust to try and get out from the enveloping tube. Eventually she defied gravity and rolled to the side, and made an attempt to grab the lanyard which distracted her from seeing her imminent demise. Like a grand symphony, a series of events were happening all at once in majestic ridiculousness.
The father's weight was substantial. He was in or around a plump 300+ pounds, with varying reports of upwards of 600 lbs. Guys like him have a very gradual descent, at least initially, but once their potential energy converts to inertia, a weapon on par with the MOAB is spawned. So much weight was on the tube, that the ice beneath it was being compressed to the point of subliminating to gas, which errupted from behind his descent of death like a white volcano of ice, water vapor, and perhaps plasma. This subsequent vortex merely added to his aerodynamics, and exponentially his speed multiplied about 16.7x the speed of a fat guy falling down a hill, squared. A low slick rumble proceeded from him. Reports were that it was his face contorting due to the rigors of supersonic flight, or that the gravity of falling down the hill at such speeds compressed his lungs and super-heated the gas in his lungs, producing the supernatural sound, or it could have been the mechanical energy produced form the sheer weight and speed of his fat vibrating and hitting the resonance frequency of the snow tube. Either way, he was moving, and smiles quickly turned to looks of horror and fear.
I Looked at the Big boned baby basher plummeting towards his daughter, looked at the innocent, pink clad young girl no older than 4, looked back at the fat body, looked back at the snow bunny angel, and looked at the 17 year old fonz schlepping towards his death. At that very moment, I was forced to make a choice. I could back up the "bro" and attempt to stop the monstrosity that was beginning to shake the ground I stood on... Or I could run and snatch his daughter up like a bed intruder. I had to weigh the options, as I always do. I considered the young boy who would surely have his face melted from the super-heated gasses, at the very least, or perhaps he would contribute to the primordial soup which would coat 50 square feet. Or... I could resign him to his own fate, since he did brag that he "gots this" as any respectable human being would. Faster than a sow returns to her mire, or a dog to its vomit, thoughts turned to action.
I abandoned that kid and ran for the little girl, with the single hope that she could withstand the 6 G's fo force I was about to thrust upon her. I stepped off, snow and ice turning to water from the force of my feet exerting supernatural pressures. Time slowed down... my coworkers were stunned- unable to move, or even yell "look out!" Their faces grimaced and contorted as they realized their man cards were spontaneously combusting before their eyes. Paralyzed from fear, the best the did to help was turn sheepishly to witness the spectacle unfold. Legend has it that one of them let out a squeak indistinguishable from a mouse having it's head stomped on. As I forced my body to mindlessly run towards a little pink baby, which went against about every instinct I have, I observed my co-worker bro-hannah montannah squat down to catch the father and save the day. He got into a position like he was a mime sitting upon a horse. Low to the ground, ready to help and earn his money. He looked up and finally had the realization that he was a fool, and had bit off more than he could chew. He looked down into the depths of the fathers stomach, because his face skin was being forced back from the wind. I remember seeing for but a second a small mushroom cloud erupt just upon impact as the noob was impacted by big daddy. A shock wave came from them, like Goku going supersaian or Neo punching the ground, and I turned away just in time to save my eye sight. In that very second, I was sure I saw a flash of light and a smile upon that fathers face as it rammed through the noobs chest. I pushed with every muscle in my body, veins bulging in ways even body builders dream of. Seconds became minutes, and I jumped appx 19 feet off a birm, landing but a few steps from the girl.
In that moment, from the shock-wave, the smell of burnt flesh, or perhaps human instinct, she slowly looked over her shoulder. Her face wasn't that of a young child having fun, but of a naive, innocent, and curious girl merely looking to share her joys with her dad. In that moment I saw true beauty and obliviousness. As she turned, she looked up and layed eyes on what lay behind her... An suave, aspiring young man turning into chili, the tubing mountain looking like mount doom, me, mid air, racing towards her, and her father, bathed in blood, flying at her. In that moment, with so much happening for that young girl, the most she could do, all she could say, was...
...Daddy?
I snatched up that girl so fast I felt her arms dislocate from her sockets, and my foot was caught by a passing doom train of a dad in disaster as they blew by. I landed and placed the little girl down, and looked over at the travesty which just occured. I saw a red streak where my co-worker got pwned, a snow tube that had melted into the net and was steaming, and the father had easily hit 70mph and was wishing he'd had a Delorian instead of a snow tube.
The end. ish.
This story has been ingrained into my mind for the duration of my life, but now it needs to be burned into your retinas, so you can say that you've truly lived and seen it all.
Feel free to offer corrections to how the story happened, since the very fabric of space-time was fractured that day, it's hard to say what really happened.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
President-worthy Slogans!
“More stories and less textbooks!” was the cause for which educator Charlotte Mason rallied. She claimed that stories and fun sayings kept things in your head better than reading the dull facts off of a page. She was right. Even a child can pick up a funny phrase or a slogan, and repeat it back on demand. Ask a child today what the McDonald’s slogan is, and I’ll bet he can sing the catchy “Badadada, I’m lovin’ it!” jingle at any moment. This basic philosophy was also used by the Presidential candidates throughout the years! Starting with the Van Buren vs. Harrison elections, most Presidents have had slogans.
Sometimes, the slogan professes something that is not fulfilled (“Barry Goldwater - In your heart you know he’s right”). Sometimes, it states an incredibly brief version of what that president stands for (“McKinley - A full dinner pail for all!”). Though very often, the slogan is senseless (“Stay Cool with Coolidge”). So what is the point of this jingle? What is it about those few words that nearly all of the presidents since 1840 just had to have them? There are three primary reasons.
Have you ever had just a few words of a really annoying song stuck in your head? Those songs are often called cognitive parasites. It’s not that they are actually parasites, but they do fill in the brain’s need for rhythm or pattern. The same philosophy applies to slogans. If you repeat something often enough, you begin to sort of like it. Imagine hearing Dwight Eisenhower’s “I like Ike” slogan being chanted at a rally or something of the sort. It would get lodged in your mind, where it would begin to grow. There is also the never-diminished fact that these slogans give candidates something to put on t-shirts and bumper stickers.
Did you ever notice that young children love to repeat a word that sounds cool, or plays funnily on their tongues? I myself was obsessed with the word “popsicle” for a week a while ago. I repeated it often and loudly, regardless of others in the room. I didn’t even know what it meant. So my family put up with a week of sporadic repetitions of the word, imagine if it was something like “I like ike” that I was repeating. My parents would have heard it constantly, and conversation might have formed around it.
In the end, political slogans are beneficial to the political candidate because it is, in a way, a form of subconscious mind control. It could even make or break a campaign. Slogans are a tradition dating back to William Harrison, the cries of “Forward” and “Believe in America” echo in every part of the United States!
Here’s my slogan for this post:
“Slogans: an unbroken tradition since 1840.”
Sometimes, the slogan professes something that is not fulfilled (“Barry Goldwater - In your heart you know he’s right”). Sometimes, it states an incredibly brief version of what that president stands for (“McKinley - A full dinner pail for all!”). Though very often, the slogan is senseless (“Stay Cool with Coolidge”). So what is the point of this jingle? What is it about those few words that nearly all of the presidents since 1840 just had to have them? There are three primary reasons.
Have you ever had just a few words of a really annoying song stuck in your head? Those songs are often called cognitive parasites. It’s not that they are actually parasites, but they do fill in the brain’s need for rhythm or pattern. The same philosophy applies to slogans. If you repeat something often enough, you begin to sort of like it. Imagine hearing Dwight Eisenhower’s “I like Ike” slogan being chanted at a rally or something of the sort. It would get lodged in your mind, where it would begin to grow. There is also the never-diminished fact that these slogans give candidates something to put on t-shirts and bumper stickers.
Did you ever notice that young children love to repeat a word that sounds cool, or plays funnily on their tongues? I myself was obsessed with the word “popsicle” for a week a while ago. I repeated it often and loudly, regardless of others in the room. I didn’t even know what it meant. So my family put up with a week of sporadic repetitions of the word, imagine if it was something like “I like ike” that I was repeating. My parents would have heard it constantly, and conversation might have formed around it.
In the end, political slogans are beneficial to the political candidate because it is, in a way, a form of subconscious mind control. It could even make or break a campaign. Slogans are a tradition dating back to William Harrison, the cries of “Forward” and “Believe in America” echo in every part of the United States!
Here’s my slogan for this post:
“Slogans: an unbroken tradition since 1840.”
I used three articles for this research:
http://www.history.com/news/10-winning-presidential-campaign-slogans was my primary one.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Why I Do This.
Would everyone like to know why I blog? There's no money in it. I don't do it for the readers; sorry. I blog when the weather or my state of health doesn't agree with my going on a very long run. It's serious stress relief. A lot of times I need to get my thoughts out. I don't even care if people read it, to be honest. I think the only real reason people read it is because they experience the same feelings that I put into words. Else, I'm an interesting writer, which I doubt. Else, they want to learn about me.
I think I'll make a poll.
I think I'll make a poll.
Not Reasonable, for a Reasonable Blog.
One of the greatest joys I find in life is doing something that no one says I can. As a matter of fact, the most exhilarating moments of my life come when I hear someone say "You couldn't handle that." or "That's just not practical.". Because I can do it. I can do what I set my mind to. I don't need any more motivation than proving someone wrong. Obviously, things that are immoral or biblical are out.
The fight always come inside my own head. I often lose practicality when challenged to something. It doesn't matter if it's something as unrewarding as an arm wrestling match, I have a hard time turning it down.
Now, sometimes that's a bad thing.
The fight always come inside my own head. I often lose practicality when challenged to something. It doesn't matter if it's something as unrewarding as an arm wrestling match, I have a hard time turning it down.
Now, sometimes that's a bad thing.
"I'll bet you can't walk on that roof."
"I'll prove you wrong."
A broken bone and an ER visit later, nothing has been proven.
To a point, it's a good thing. 2 Timothy 1:7 says that "God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline."
Power, to me, is a fighting emotion. It's not something that just comes to you. We don't always want it, and sometimes it's humiliating. I'll say that I've never felt more powerful than when I'm riding a horse, but I've never been more humiliated than when I fell off a horse. When I go out running, I feel awesome. When I listen to a song and the rhythmetic part of my brain is soothed, I feel at peace. I'm full of emotions, but power is the common denominator betwixt them all. I embrace challenges because they're real. I can feel power behind accusations of "You can't!" and I want to kill that power before it gets to my own mind.
"That voice inside your head, the one that whispers 'you can't do it', is a liar."
Power, to me, is a fighting emotion. It's not something that just comes to you. We don't always want it, and sometimes it's humiliating. I'll say that I've never felt more powerful than when I'm riding a horse, but I've never been more humiliated than when I fell off a horse. When I go out running, I feel awesome. When I listen to a song and the rhythmetic part of my brain is soothed, I feel at peace. I'm full of emotions, but power is the common denominator betwixt them all. I embrace challenges because they're real. I can feel power behind accusations of "You can't!" and I want to kill that power before it gets to my own mind.
"That voice inside your head, the one that whispers 'you can't do it', is a liar."
I'm not a timid person. I am strong, I am outspoken, I am no quitter.
This is a post that does not agree with the title of my blog. "Amo Causam" means "I love reason", but this is not a reasonable post. I'm putting into words the irrational, human, part of my brain that loves to be challenged. It's not always reasonable, but I'll tame it, and shape it with self-discipline. Because that is the spirit that God gave me. Amo Causam.
This is a post that does not agree with the title of my blog. "Amo Causam" means "I love reason", but this is not a reasonable post. I'm putting into words the irrational, human, part of my brain that loves to be challenged. It's not always reasonable, but I'll tame it, and shape it with self-discipline. Because that is the spirit that God gave me. Amo Causam.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Villains and Heroes, but mostly Villains.
In my family, I'm often teased about liking "bad guys". The accusations hold substance, though. I do like villains. From Ursula in "The Little Mermaid" to James Moriarty in Sherlock Holmes, they're the most interesting part of the story. So what is it that draws me to them? These bringers of injustice and instituters of wrongdoing?
Well, what would "The Little Mermaid" be without Ursula?
Well, what would "The Little Mermaid" be without Ursula?
"Once upon a time, there was a fish girl who was in love with a human, but she couldn't marry him because she's part fish and that's just not socially acceptable."
If someone told me that story, words would come to my mouth such as "Well... isn't that... umm... interesting?". There's simply nothing to hold my interest. Insert Ursula and the plot becomes more deeper.
"Once upon a time there was a fishgirl. She loved a human, and she wanted to marry him, so she went to an evil octopus. The fish girl traded her voice for humanity. She married the human and they lived happily ever after."
I'm not saying that the bad guy is what makes the "happily ever after" (even though that's pretty often the case), but I am saying that they make the story a whole lot more interesting.
Often, the bad guy doesn't contribute a lot to the plot, but they complicate the current story. Let's take Sleeping Beauty for example. Aurora might have found her Prince Charming, even if she hadn't pricked her finger on a spinning wheel.
James Moriarty is perhaps my favorite villain:
"Once upon a time there was a fishgirl. She loved a human, and she wanted to marry him, so she went to an evil octopus. The fish girl traded her voice for humanity. She married the human and they lived happily ever after."
I'm not saying that the bad guy is what makes the "happily ever after" (even though that's pretty often the case), but I am saying that they make the story a whole lot more interesting.
Often, the bad guy doesn't contribute a lot to the plot, but they complicate the current story. Let's take Sleeping Beauty for example. Aurora might have found her Prince Charming, even if she hadn't pricked her finger on a spinning wheel.
James Moriarty is perhaps my favorite villain:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-9sP-8O-9Y&feature=watch-vrec
Here's a quick explanation for those of you who aren't familiar with him. He's Sherlock Holmes's rival. Not to mention, he's brilliant.
Here's a quick explanation for those of you who aren't familiar with him. He's Sherlock Holmes's rival. Not to mention, he's brilliant.
"Every fairy-tale needs a good, old fashioned villain." ~James Moriarty
[Pictures below, James Moriarty {Sherlock Holmes}, The Master {Dr. Who}, Bowser {Mario Bros}, and assorted disney villains]
[Pictures below, James Moriarty {Sherlock Holmes}, The Master {Dr. Who}, Bowser {Mario Bros}, and assorted disney villains]
Monday, October 15, 2012
Spontaneous.
I don't have a "skill".
Well, that's not totally true.
Okay, yes. I have a skill, but it doesn't count.
^ Those thoughts right there have run through my head multiple times.
Oh wait, now there's a talent show. I don't play an instrument, I can't sing or dance, and occasionally, I forget how to write my own name. Yes, I have problems.
I have two "skill" sets. One is horses, the other is Karate. Not exactly anything you can exhibit at the camp talent show. My options:
1) Bring a horse on stage.
I have two "skill" sets. One is horses, the other is Karate. Not exactly anything you can exhibit at the camp talent show. My options:
1) Bring a horse on stage.
2) Kill/disable someone on stage with my bare hands.
3) Wait out yet another talent show. Friends play Beethoven's sonata, I applaud and get over it.
Yeah, #3 is the typical talent show experience for me. I always had a hard time with that. It wasn't until recently that I decided not to.
I was walking from the barn to karate, and it was getting dark in Littlestown. The freaks were coming out. I wasn't scared though. The fact that I was a teenage girl, alone in the heart of a dark town didn't scare me. I've engaged in combat with full-grown men, and that gives me a certain reassurance when it comes down to it. I'm not saying that "nothing" scares me. I'm not sure how to describe this so that I'm not taken the wrong way. I'm not just a kid, I'm a kid adorned with street smarts and fighting skills. See? That sounds bad. It just means I'm not as flighty or "creeped out" by some things as a lot of people. I know how to handle myself if someone tried to attack me. I smile when I think of others my age. Good for them, I mean, playing Mozart is pretty legit. When I think about *not* being scared, I'm definetly not jealous of them.
That still leaves horses. Those completely useless skills I've acquired from the barn.
When you work with a horse, you learn about yourself. Each horse has taught me something new about equine psychology, and equine psychology ties in so tightly with human psychology that it's like I'm seeing some unfiltered emotions from a human. I know my Christian friends will leap on me if I don't use this disclaimer: I didn't say horses have souls, I didn't say they're going to heaven. I just didn't say. The end.
Here's what I'm trying to convey. Horses have emotions. Let's create a scenerio.
Human #1 offends Human #2.
Human #2 gets mad, but doesn't complain because that's "socially acceptable".
Then Human #1 goes on to offend other people because #1 never realized that they offended someone.
Human offends horse
Horse throws human off.
Human doesn't offend horse again in that way.
See? One is totally introspective to the other. You offend a person, you might never know. You offend a horse, you'll find out.
When I say that every horse has taught me something about myself, I mean it.
A certain mare named Jewels will ever be set apart in my mind, because she was the first horse I ever galloped. I used to say "I love horses" before I met her. She taught me the *downs* of horses. The hard parts like hitting the ground or getting nowhere in training because I'm just plain ignorant.
She didn't just teach me to gallop in a physical sense, she taught my mind to gallop. While I worked with her, she gave me something to fight for every day. I quit my obsessive lying, I quit being ridiculously dramatic over stupid things, and she taught me so much more. Yes, there were other things I can't even begin to describe.
Then there's other horses like Hannah and Taxi. Hannah taught me patience. Taxi taught me that it's not nice to be selfish (she also taught me a *LOT* about how to fall off a horse). Things I should have already known.
On a serious note, I think God was exasperated with me. I wasn't grasping key concepts that I should have learned while I was a child. He put horses into my life, and it changed. I finally understood.
So that was quite a lot to say, but I'll sum it all up.
I have two skill sets. I might not be able to play a musical instrument, I'm not even any good at school, but I'm not scared, though I am humbled by what those horses have taught me. It's a great combination if you ask me. I wouldn't have it any other way.
At school, around people (especially large crowds), or even with friends and people I trust, I'm someone different. I wish I was always like I am at the barn.
Yes. There are both pictures of me doing what I love.
I was walking from the barn to karate, and it was getting dark in Littlestown. The freaks were coming out. I wasn't scared though. The fact that I was a teenage girl, alone in the heart of a dark town didn't scare me. I've engaged in combat with full-grown men, and that gives me a certain reassurance when it comes down to it. I'm not saying that "nothing" scares me. I'm not sure how to describe this so that I'm not taken the wrong way. I'm not just a kid, I'm a kid adorned with street smarts and fighting skills. See? That sounds bad. It just means I'm not as flighty or "creeped out" by some things as a lot of people. I know how to handle myself if someone tried to attack me. I smile when I think of others my age. Good for them, I mean, playing Mozart is pretty legit. When I think about *not* being scared, I'm definetly not jealous of them.
That still leaves horses. Those completely useless skills I've acquired from the barn.
When you work with a horse, you learn about yourself. Each horse has taught me something new about equine psychology, and equine psychology ties in so tightly with human psychology that it's like I'm seeing some unfiltered emotions from a human. I know my Christian friends will leap on me if I don't use this disclaimer: I didn't say horses have souls, I didn't say they're going to heaven. I just didn't say. The end.
Here's what I'm trying to convey. Horses have emotions. Let's create a scenerio.
Human #1 offends Human #2.
Human #2 gets mad, but doesn't complain because that's "socially acceptable".
Then Human #1 goes on to offend other people because #1 never realized that they offended someone.
Human offends horse
Horse throws human off.
Human doesn't offend horse again in that way.
See? One is totally introspective to the other. You offend a person, you might never know. You offend a horse, you'll find out.
When I say that every horse has taught me something about myself, I mean it.
A certain mare named Jewels will ever be set apart in my mind, because she was the first horse I ever galloped. I used to say "I love horses" before I met her. She taught me the *downs* of horses. The hard parts like hitting the ground or getting nowhere in training because I'm just plain ignorant.
She didn't just teach me to gallop in a physical sense, she taught my mind to gallop. While I worked with her, she gave me something to fight for every day. I quit my obsessive lying, I quit being ridiculously dramatic over stupid things, and she taught me so much more. Yes, there were other things I can't even begin to describe.
Then there's other horses like Hannah and Taxi. Hannah taught me patience. Taxi taught me that it's not nice to be selfish (she also taught me a *LOT* about how to fall off a horse). Things I should have already known.
On a serious note, I think God was exasperated with me. I wasn't grasping key concepts that I should have learned while I was a child. He put horses into my life, and it changed. I finally understood.
So that was quite a lot to say, but I'll sum it all up.
I have two skill sets. I might not be able to play a musical instrument, I'm not even any good at school, but I'm not scared, though I am humbled by what those horses have taught me. It's a great combination if you ask me. I wouldn't have it any other way.
At school, around people (especially large crowds), or even with friends and people I trust, I'm someone different. I wish I was always like I am at the barn.
Yes. There are both pictures of me doing what I love.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Clouds, Cornfields and Letters
Our hotel is right next to a huge cornfield. It adds a sort of humbling mood to the grand, modern hotel. I'm in my room with a laptop, and I'm so content being able to look out at the clouds and cornfields.I've changed the sort of music I listen to. Last year was primarily rock (and of course, that has it's place in the gym), but since we've been homeless (teehee) I've shifted for "coca-cola" music. That's more relaxed, "nice" music, but still bubbly. Not flutes that put you to sleep, but a bit uppity while not obnoxious. Since I've switched purposfully the type of music I'm listening to, it's actually had an effect on my mood. #truestory.
You're probably wondering why I have this picture of a guy posted to the left. His name is Joshua Radin, his music is acoustic and lovely. Look him up.
It's so great to have time to be quiet. I've learned how emotionally healing it can be to have time when I can be fully consumed with God. My little leather bible has been such an wonderful tool.
"There was, a long long time ago, a God who's voice the prophets heard. He is the God that we should know, he speaks from his inspired word." ~Our God, He is Alive (hymn)
Now, on the topic, I'll mention how grateful I am for the encouraging letters I've received from a certain three people (you know who you are), who write bible verses on their letters. It keeps me in my bible, studying meanings and applying meaning to my life. <3 Y'all are awesome.
"Breathing the sweet ocean air makes a shy boy aware that he could be free." ~ Owl City
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Cows.
I love America. Today I thank God for raw milk, and the freedom (in PA, at least) to buy it. Processed milk is nasty. I don't trust the chemists who mess with the whole milk God gave us. I also find it ironic that I have to *defend* my views on raw milk, even from people whom I shouldn't have to! Class mates, friends, piers. They all have been exposed to the government's mutated version of what "milk" is. They think I'm the freak for drinking it the way people have been drinking it for thousands of years!
I'll also proceed to vent that these kids who get a bad taste in their mouth just thinking about raw milk will be useless if they ever care to harbor a career in the Special Ops. A certain kind of Special Ops training is called "Farm Staking". No, not farmsteading, farm staking. In this select form of training, a person learns how to steal milk and other nutrients from a farm/barn scenario. Guess what. If you want to stay alive, you drink the freaking raw milk. You *can't* process it.
This is the "Processed Cat" experiment:
Some experimental cats were fed a diet of two thirds cooked meat, one third raw milk and the cod liver oil supplement. Some cats were fed a diet of two thirds cooked milk (pasteurized, sweetened condensed or evaporated), one third raw meet and the cod liver oil supplement. Control cats were kept on similar diets with both the two thirds and one third portions being raw. While the results are too long to be documented here, they demonstrated that whichever diet the raw food cats were on, they remained healthy generation after generation. The cats on the either diet containing the two thirds cooked portion, however, suffered a variety of different conditions which could best be described as paralleling the diseases of civilization. Generation after generation, the cats on the raw food diets showed no evidence of allergies. The cats given cooked meat or milk, however, developed all kinds of allergies. Quoting from the book, “They sneeze, wheeze and scratch. They are irritable, nervous and do not purr.” The incidence of allergies increased with each generation and by the third generation the incidence was almost 100%. One kitten developed asthma.
One of the arguments from my classmates was "Processed milk" (well, he just called it "clean" milk) "has been tested by time, by generations. If there was a problem with it, we should have seen it by now." This seriously made me laugh out loud. I said "..... are you kidding?" he said he wasn't. I closed my eyes, prepared to weep for the future. (Just kidding, I wasn't about to cry) I opened them slowly and looked at the susceptible guy in front of me. "Tested by 'time' and 'generations'" I repeated his words to him and continued "People have been drinking milk for thousands of years, about 8,000, depending on how you believe. Milk wasn't processed until the 1890's. That's 120 years for processed milk vs. 8,000 years for raw milk. Now, processed milk didn't reach the general population until 1920... that's only 90 years. Then there's the cat experiment. The generations of cats that have mental deficiencies that keep them from functioning didn't occur until the 6th generation. Let's say each of your ancestors drank processed milk, starting with the first one which would have been around 1900 (generously), and each of them birthed the next generation around the age of 25. 25 x 4 = 100 years. 4 generations. 4 down, 2 to go. That means your grandchildren, assuming they drink processed milk, have a soaring chance of being mentally retarded."
The teacher called for order, and the class was silent. I had delivered my argument well, and I still wait for his response.
Now, my point wasn't to break him down. I was straightforward in my facts. My point was that there were no problems with the cats who drank raw milk. They were healthy and strong, and with no mental conditions. I don't know about you, but that's honestly enough to make me drink raw milk...... besides the fact that it tastes better.
I'll also proceed to vent that these kids who get a bad taste in their mouth just thinking about raw milk will be useless if they ever care to harbor a career in the Special Ops. A certain kind of Special Ops training is called "Farm Staking". No, not farmsteading, farm staking. In this select form of training, a person learns how to steal milk and other nutrients from a farm/barn scenario. Guess what. If you want to stay alive, you drink the freaking raw milk. You *can't* process it.
This is the "Processed Cat" experiment:
Some experimental cats were fed a diet of two thirds cooked meat, one third raw milk and the cod liver oil supplement. Some cats were fed a diet of two thirds cooked milk (pasteurized, sweetened condensed or evaporated), one third raw meet and the cod liver oil supplement. Control cats were kept on similar diets with both the two thirds and one third portions being raw. While the results are too long to be documented here, they demonstrated that whichever diet the raw food cats were on, they remained healthy generation after generation. The cats on the either diet containing the two thirds cooked portion, however, suffered a variety of different conditions which could best be described as paralleling the diseases of civilization. Generation after generation, the cats on the raw food diets showed no evidence of allergies. The cats given cooked meat or milk, however, developed all kinds of allergies. Quoting from the book, “They sneeze, wheeze and scratch. They are irritable, nervous and do not purr.” The incidence of allergies increased with each generation and by the third generation the incidence was almost 100%. One kitten developed asthma.
One of the arguments from my classmates was "Processed milk" (well, he just called it "clean" milk) "has been tested by time, by generations. If there was a problem with it, we should have seen it by now." This seriously made me laugh out loud. I said "..... are you kidding?" he said he wasn't. I closed my eyes, prepared to weep for the future. (Just kidding, I wasn't about to cry) I opened them slowly and looked at the susceptible guy in front of me. "Tested by 'time' and 'generations'" I repeated his words to him and continued "People have been drinking milk for thousands of years, about 8,000, depending on how you believe. Milk wasn't processed until the 1890's. That's 120 years for processed milk vs. 8,000 years for raw milk. Now, processed milk didn't reach the general population until 1920... that's only 90 years. Then there's the cat experiment. The generations of cats that have mental deficiencies that keep them from functioning didn't occur until the 6th generation. Let's say each of your ancestors drank processed milk, starting with the first one which would have been around 1900 (generously), and each of them birthed the next generation around the age of 25. 25 x 4 = 100 years. 4 generations. 4 down, 2 to go. That means your grandchildren, assuming they drink processed milk, have a soaring chance of being mentally retarded."
The teacher called for order, and the class was silent. I had delivered my argument well, and I still wait for his response.
Now, my point wasn't to break him down. I was straightforward in my facts. My point was that there were no problems with the cats who drank raw milk. They were healthy and strong, and with no mental conditions. I don't know about you, but that's honestly enough to make me drink raw milk...... besides the fact that it tastes better.
My Journey
This blog is about to start a new string of posts (thanks to my Auntie Jill) about my journey. They'll be tagged accordingly :)
"Every life is a pile of good and bad things. The good things don't always outweigh the bad things or make them sweet, but vice versa, the bad things shouldn't spoil the good things or make them unimportant."
~ The Doctor.
"Every life is a pile of good and bad things. The good things don't always outweigh the bad things or make them sweet, but vice versa, the bad things shouldn't spoil the good things or make them unimportant."
~ The Doctor.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Squatting
From what I'm finding, if someone hijacks your property, after 30 days they have rights too. Isn't that lovely? If someone can prove that they've been on your property (that your worked your tail off to earn, by the way), then they are legally allowed to stay because they have rights. This confuses me. It's no longer trespassing just because of how long they've been committing the crime? Should they not be charged with the time that they were trespassing there before the 30 days were up? I strongly disagree. Our legal system is confused.
Flowing
Flowing is not on my list of the simplest parts of debate. It involves writing shorthand style, with symbols and abbreviations that can't be too vague, because you're going to have to read the paper later. Some of the kids in my class said "It's a skill that I don't need to learn, I can write, right?" NO. No. no. nO. One doe not simply.... not flow during a debate. I tried both styles many times yesterday, and even though I'm new at flowing and can't say I've scratched the surface of memorizing what the difference between "and" and "+, &, ~, }", but I still found it to be easier than writing, especially when the speaker talks like a humming bird. The trick? Don't give up when you mess up. Your memory retention skills will fill in things your hands didn't. For instance, from our lecture from yesterday my notes were:
gov't + m rts 2 spprt ^ D of ben. & Prts + aid
That means:
The government does not have rights to support, deny or increase an individual's responsibilities pertaining to Duty of Beneficence and/or their protected rights to receive that aid.
gov't + m rts 2 spprt ^ D of ben. & Prts + aid
That means:
The government does not have rights to support, deny or increase an individual's responsibilities pertaining to Duty of Beneficence and/or their protected rights to receive that aid.
What a lot of new things to study. I am excite for this week (:
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Who?
"The night is over, this is morning"
A depressing book would be proud.
It was a dark morning, a figure in a black tee shirt, a tie, jeans and a shoulder bag, stepped out of the dull misty fog that had become nearly impenetrable, even worse in the dark of the morning. She looked a little too pleased with herself. Of course, there was a perfectly logical reason that she should look like that. Breakfast was powdered eggs, and she had outsmarted them.
Rhetoricing and Debating
My time at Liberty University has proved to be productive as well as impossibly stimulating. Because of my writing style, I'm going to do things the way I remember them. Today backwards.
Day 3;
It was a bleak and dreary morning, in the sort that it revived me. Everything was thick with fog. Even the bridge with it's every streaming flow of cars under it which normally makes me think of beautiful things, had a sort of muted glow to it. I was awake at 7, I woke my flatmate up at 7:15 and was out of the dorm by 7:20, I had left breakfast before 7:50 and got to the computer lab (obviously where I am now) at 8am. My first class isn't until 9, so I have plenty of time to smear my thoughts across this page (:
Day 2;
I learned what it meant to be in debate camp. It means you're surrounded by people who think analytically and critically. Watch out for stray passing comments, or the debaters will scoop them up and run with them. While this may seem insufferable, it's taught me to train and guard my tongue, because trust me, you don't want to lock horns with another intellectual over whether or not the eggs we had for breakfast were real. Another dangerous territory is the physical map of the place. Intellectuals have a thing for memorizing locations on a map and easily translating them to physical ground. Perhaps one of the worst things to do is not paying enough attention when the RAs tell you where the R.O.T. hall is. Some campers less familiar with the territory (ahem.... certainly not me.... actually yes.) got lost before their first meal and barely managed to scrounge up what the American Legion guys had left behind. Now, back to these classes. I signed up for the Homeschool Rhetoric and Debate lab (RDL), and I also sit in on Lincoln Douglas classes (LD) in my free time. I was expected within the confines of 20 minutes, research a philosopher who was previously unknown to me, take notes, and give a speech. It was so interesting!
While I'm in this camp, I've made a point to test my strengths both mental and physical. I went running with Ginger yesterday (a truly sweet person) and after that, there were surprise Olympics. We were "team Unrebuttables" which is a hard name to cheer for. Shocker.
In LD, we learned how to flow. It was challenging. I got the gist of it at the end of class. More or less, it's a fast way to write, it just takes more concentration than I'd be able to spare during a debate.
Memorable quote: "I'm not suprised. Look at me, I'm going to have a heart attack because I'm not suprised."
There are some hard feelings that resonate after a debate. It's hard to make up for them. I've refused to debate a few people because I like them and I think they'd be pretty cool friends. That's all.
Day 1;
Arrival, was owned at Chess, met a whovian, learned a new card game.
Day 3;
It was a bleak and dreary morning, in the sort that it revived me. Everything was thick with fog. Even the bridge with it's every streaming flow of cars under it which normally makes me think of beautiful things, had a sort of muted glow to it. I was awake at 7, I woke my flatmate up at 7:15 and was out of the dorm by 7:20, I had left breakfast before 7:50 and got to the computer lab (obviously where I am now) at 8am. My first class isn't until 9, so I have plenty of time to smear my thoughts across this page (:
Day 2;
I learned what it meant to be in debate camp. It means you're surrounded by people who think analytically and critically. Watch out for stray passing comments, or the debaters will scoop them up and run with them. While this may seem insufferable, it's taught me to train and guard my tongue, because trust me, you don't want to lock horns with another intellectual over whether or not the eggs we had for breakfast were real. Another dangerous territory is the physical map of the place. Intellectuals have a thing for memorizing locations on a map and easily translating them to physical ground. Perhaps one of the worst things to do is not paying enough attention when the RAs tell you where the R.O.T. hall is. Some campers less familiar with the territory (ahem.... certainly not me.... actually yes.) got lost before their first meal and barely managed to scrounge up what the American Legion guys had left behind. Now, back to these classes. I signed up for the Homeschool Rhetoric and Debate lab (RDL), and I also sit in on Lincoln Douglas classes (LD) in my free time. I was expected within the confines of 20 minutes, research a philosopher who was previously unknown to me, take notes, and give a speech. It was so interesting!
While I'm in this camp, I've made a point to test my strengths both mental and physical. I went running with Ginger yesterday (a truly sweet person) and after that, there were surprise Olympics. We were "team Unrebuttables" which is a hard name to cheer for. Shocker.
In LD, we learned how to flow. It was challenging. I got the gist of it at the end of class. More or less, it's a fast way to write, it just takes more concentration than I'd be able to spare during a debate.
Memorable quote: "I'm not suprised. Look at me, I'm going to have a heart attack because I'm not suprised."
There are some hard feelings that resonate after a debate. It's hard to make up for them. I've refused to debate a few people because I like them and I think they'd be pretty cool friends. That's all.
Day 1;
Arrival, was owned at Chess, met a whovian, learned a new card game.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Far Above Rubies
.JPG "Attacking normality.")
"A wife of noble character, who can find? Her value is far above rubies."
The woman described in Proverbs 31 has held my attention this week. I've been facing thoughts pertaining to who I should be, who I want to be, who I am and who I think I am. This woman in Proverbs, was described by King Lemuel. She was the ideal, Godly wife of any time BC. I find that I can still apply those thoughts to modern day, just with a bit of thought.
"Now the defense is going to try to tell you....."
- The world will say that a 'real' woman has perfect hair, fashionable clothing, a "sweet disposition", and a lovely body. Oh, did I mention the hot boyfriend on her arm?
- They'll try to tell you that there's nothing wrong with letting your thoughts about guys roam free.
I don't wear that cute sundress you saw in Maurice's. I don't smell like shampoo. I make awful mistakes that still make me stand in awe of God's mercy. I love comfortable hoodies, and jeans, and sneakers. I make stupid jokes.
That's the real me. Supposedly, a person is only really themselves in a comfortable environment e.g. their own home, out with best friends, around siblings, sleepovers with close friends, people they can trust.
Thinking back, I have only worn jeans and tee shirts around folks that I trusted not to judge me. That is, within the last year, when I started caring. I will not state my opinion about caring at this time.
"No further musings, your honor."
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Build me a home from a cardboard box
Here's a reason why it's nice to have a sister with a camera. She's so cool :)
I realized that I lack the attention span for long blog posts. So I'll train that part of my mind.
Last Friday: We had an article to write for current events. The room seemed to contract and fill with hot, pressurized, muggy, impossible to breath air. It only took the words "We had homework" to make my chest constrict. Guess what. No one knew that
It's weird, when you think something is realyy dumb at first, thence go into it kicking and screaming. THEN you come out feeling like you can't believe
" Build me a home from a cardboard box,
with many windows; never locked.
This is how we used to play
Shorter nights and longer days.
With faith, we would not fade away"
~Joshua Radin
Look, I'm a weeping angel again!
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Compromise
The speakers broke off of my computer and I can't get them to re connect.
I'm not going to basketball tomorrow, Mom has a planning meeting.
Most of my friends that go to basketball are sick, anyways.
Taxi :)
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Taxi was a horse who needed love, Kayla was a girl who needed a horse to love. They rode, they clicked.
Then one day, they decided to ride alone, because Kayla was not in a personable mood. Taxi wasn't either, apparently. Kayla was thrown off, Taxi took off with the reins around her feet and snapped the bridle.
Kayla could barely get back to her feet having been winded by the fall. In the end, Taxi did come back to her, but it took a few minutes before either of them would touch each other.
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It took a while for Kayla to get familiar with the horse. Conflict occurred when Taxi threw Kayla off thrice in one day. It took perseverance and patience on both ends to make this relationship work.
Taxi's quirks (or, the ones that I understand)
- Mud is a shot fired. As soon as she steps in mud, you may as well have lit a bottle rocket in the ring. She hates mud while she has a person on her back.
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- Distributed weight. This is a recent discovery. I think the reason she likes western so much is the weight factor. She can balance me; as long as I'm not trying to balance myself. English throws her off because I don't sit like a sac of flour and let her figure out the weight. I'm trying to balance myself.
- Warm ups! How would you like it if someone hopped on your back and made you run? Not so much, I should think. You need a little time to figure out how to carry them in the most effective manner. Taxi does have a step up there, seeing as how she has four legs.
- Coughing. Taxi coughs a lot while we're cantering. Sometimes she needs a minute to collect her breath, just as any human would. Walking a lap or two between trotting and cantering does the trick.
Quintessence: I fell in love with this mare. She's so wonderful, and I'm loving getting to know her just as well as I'd know any person :)
Monday, January 23, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Snow!
Snow is for certain a beautiful thing God has given me! :) There's about half a foot out there right now. I think I'm going to go for a walk, just to enjoy it! 
Thursday, January 19, 2012
So true.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Friday, January 13, 2012
Music
Sorry about the loud music I had on my blog earlier :-/ I didn't realize how obnoxious it was until I had my volume all the way up, absentmindedly scrolled to my blog and BAM! The music was way too loud. So I replaced it with some softer music from WORD FM.
Seven Facts
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| Seven facts of myself you probably aren't in the know of. 1) My sister is my best friend 2) Santa Clause annoys me 3) I started a kickboxing class (no, it's not as crude and violent as it sounds, it's just a great workout) 4) Old things make me sad, the good kind of sad 5) I take a lot of pictures, however, the majority of them stay within the confines of my own computer 6) Building legos makes me happy 7) I write everything I imagine of other, often subliminal to others, in a leather notebook I often have with me. No one else has ever read the thoughts in that ink, paper and leather compilation. The previously listed facts are all true, to every extent. For I am me, conveniently.  |
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