Charles

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Transtic Nerve [/i] [B]This is the reason we have 13 year olds getting pregnant. This is why we have kids failing school and living off MY Tax paying dollars because they are too stupid to find a job or do anything useful in life. They are immature, and I hate immaturity.[/B][/QUOTE] I don't know that that is entirely true. It's perfectly normal for young people to party and experiment. The lack of parental controls is what can largely be attributed to teenage pregnancy and academic struggling. The fact that Dan's parents [i]care[/i] about what he's doing, combined with his respect for their decision and his success in school prove that he's not a loser--even if he has made some mistakes. It's now up to him to learn from those mistakes and avoid repeating them. And really, there are many young teenagers that are more mature than adults. I've met many young members here, some Dan's age, who seem to be very intelligent and mature. Granted, there are young people that are immature and make poor decisions despite proper parenting, but for the most part, they're the exception. Now, let's all try to bring it down a notch, lol. ;)

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Lady Macaiodh [/i] [B][color=darkblue]It does not make sense that Veggie was revived by the Earth's dragonballs because he specifically was revived by them back on Namek (which brought Guru back so they could wish everyone off Namek but Furiza and Goku). Am I right, people![/color] [/B][/QUOTE] Vegita and the earthlings were revived by Namek's dragonballs in the Buu saga. When Buu destroyed Earth, its dragonballs were destroyed. After the Furiza fiasco, the Nameks upgraded Purunga so that he could restore multiple lives simultaneously. During the final stages of the battle against Buu, everyone who was killed since the tournament, with the exception for the truly wicked, are wished back to life. Because Vegeta's life is restored, it is clear that he has become one of the "good guys." That should clear things up. :smirk:

I loved the Rocky films. I have the entire collection--even the lackluster fifth installment. I remember years ago when my cousin and I drove everyone insane with our Rocky marathons. We probably wore the tapes thin. I found something to love in each edition. The classic double knockout between Rocky and Apollo in the first Rocky was incredible. What a feeling. It was only surpassed when Rocky [i]barely[/i] climbed to his feet before Apollo in the second. And, who could forget his no holds barred brawl with Hulk Hogan? Awesome stuff. The fourth was heartbreaking when Apollo died. But, it added intensity to Rocky's ultimate showdown with Ivan Drago(sp?). After seeing the outstanding choreography of that fight, I was able to look past the cheesiness of Rocky's post match speech. I'm afraid that I'm not too eager to see Rocky VI, though. It's rumored that Harrison Ford will be Sly's rival. The idea of two old men fighting doesn't sound very exciting.

Hmm, although I'm not James, I feel that I shoul step in and at least try to clear this up. No one said that the deterioration of the thread was your fault, Mitch. The fact of the matter is, we've had a string of threads dedicated to almost [i]exactly[/i] the same subject matter in one form or another. On top of that, these issues seem to creep up in the context of other discussions. Very few of us make life altering decisions, such as completely changing our belief system, in the period of a couple weeks or months. When topics dealing with political or religious issues are rehashed one after another, the answers are rehashed. It's that simple. The members that replied to similar threads in past weeks haven't grown enough intellectually, ethically, or spiritually to hold drastically different viewpoints since the last time they dealt with the same issues. I replied to the thread and didn't close it because bickering wasn't encouraged under the way you structured it. It was obvious though, that by the time the thread was closed, that it was moving towards the direction of useless debate. What is the point in hosting endless bickering that will neither progress nor provoke understanding? This might just be my viewpoint, but I feel that the problem would have become bigger than just putting up with a few members that ignore your initial post and begin a debate. It would have built up. I don't feel that anyone is being punished here. We've had many opportunities to express our beliefs. As James said, one may perform a simple search and find a wealth of material similar to that of this thread.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Sushi [/i] [B]A friend of mine got into my account and changed my password. Not much I can do about it. ^_^ [/B][/QUOTE] I'm really disappointed that you ignored our policy regarding multiple user accounts. The excuse you provided doesn't fly with me. You could have simply told me and I would have fixed the problem. One of your accounts must be deleted. Be sure to let me know which one you want to keep. As for the topic at hand: The answer doesn't have to be as black and white as you're suggesting. It's possible to party and have fun [i]with moderation[/i]. You don't have to become a monk or live in solitude. Just be responsible. I know that the words "teenager" and "responsible" should never be mentioned in the same breath unless the word "aren't" is in-between them, but it's possible to act intelligently in certain situations. I can only reiterate what has already been said. There are ways in which you can enjoy yourself with others that don't involve using drugs or doing things that can prove harmful to you. When I was your age, playing sports was a big thing, for instance. And, you can still party, go to dances, have fun with girls, act silly and experiment with alcohol or whatever. It's all a part of growing up. But, you should know your limits and refrain from smoking weed or going [i]too[/i] far sexually. Being a thirteen year old father wouldn't be too fun. Living a wild life is always enjoyable until you have to suffer the consequences.

Heh, I've preordered the game at two stores: Gamestop and EB. Gamestop ran out of bonus discs, but is more consistent with releasing games on time. EB on the other hand, had bonus discs, but had so few left that I had to preorder to get one. Now I can just keep the preorder for whatever store gets it first. I'm set. The combination of the demo I've played and the really cool movie on the bonus disc with the rearranged Zelda theme have left me pretty darn eager to play. Hopefully I'll actually finish Zelda. I have a habit of getting new games and not finishing them, now. I'm still only two hours into Dark Cloud 2 and I've had it for a couple weeks. Heh. Anyway, I'm not too surprised the game is rivaling GTA in sales. Someone at Gamestop told me that every third customer reserves Zelda. I guess people have seen the positive side of the new look, after all. I'm excited about the secondary characters, myself.

I don't really care about the change. It's not like it's widespread. The public wouldn't collectively change its vocabulary. I mean, come on, heh. Politicians aren't exactly the most mature people in the world, so this doesn't surprise me. Look at the juvenile mudslinging surrounding elections and the constant bickering between parties. Whenever times of war are upon us, there's always silly propaganda and such that surafces along with it. Look at government posters during the World War II period, for instance. ;) So, I doubt that the new name will last very long--even in the cafeterias of government buildings. French fries are a part of Americana.

I believe in evolution. I mean, evolution is clearly apparent. Humanity has evolved from a small, ape-like creature (Australa Pithecus) to a creature that lived in huts and invented fire (Homo Erectus) to a higher evolution that made clothing, believed in afterlife, and warfare (Neanderthal man). Sheesh, I hope I've spelled those correctly. It's been a while since I had the course. Our current form of Homosapien has really evolved. The proof of evolution is so apparent. This is really obvious stuff here. We began as a hunter/gathering society, moved to herding, followed by our evolution into an agricultural society (big step there) and ultimately, industrialization. I don't think a God has anything to do with our advancements as a society. The new and old testaments are very similar to works like Gilgamesh. They share similar myths, such as the great flood. And...heck, the Garden of Eden is based on an area in Sumaria. So, I don't believe in God as others do. Perhaps a higher being does exist as an energy that surrounds us. I can't say. But, it's a very humanistic view. If a God does exist, I doubt it's human in appearance--just like how the Earth isn't the center of the universe. Religion was just put in place as a government to control the masses--and it's always been a business.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Desbreko [/i] [B][color=indigo]Um...where exactly are you getting that from? Why would Holy and the Lifestream [i]stopping[/i] Meteor destroy the entire human population? I mean, it does show Red XIII later, standing on a cliff above the ruined Midgar with his cubs. Sure, he's not human, but he was with Cloud and the rest of the team when Meteor was stopped, so I'd think that if something killed them, it would've gotten Red XIII, too.[/color] [/B][/QUOTE] Well, as mentioned in the game, Holy wouldn't solely attack Meteor. Its purpose was to attack whatever proved to be a threat to the planet. Humanity was a threat. Think about it. Humanity was siphoning Mako from the planet with reactors, slowly killing it. Red XIII's race was not guilty of committing such devastating crimes against the planet. Thus, it was spared. So, in a sense Sephiroth did destroy one world, making room for another to begin at the same time.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Desbreko [/i] [B][color=indigo]Oh, and about Sephiroth summoning Meteor, which would have killed everyone... Sure, Sephiroth would have killed everyone, but Kefka took over the whole world, and made everyone fear for their lives every day, in addition to killing tons of people. I think that's worse than just straight up killing everyone. (That, and Sephiroth was stopped; Kefka actually pulled it off, and [i]then[/i] was stopped after a whole year of ruling the world).[/color] [/B][/QUOTE] [b][quote]Kefka totally rearranged the planet's surface with his actions, and in the process killed who knows how many people. He wins.[/quote][/b] And humanity didn't fear for their lives while having a gigantic meteor suspended above their heads? Or when seing it regenerate after Cid's space rocket obliterated it? lol What people are failing to realize here is that Sephiroth [i]did[/i] manage to summon Meteor. Because of that, Aeris summoned Holy to counteract it. The combination of the two destroyed the Earth's [b]entire[/b] human population. It doesn't really matter who people prefer between the two baddies. I'm not arguing that Sephiroth is better per say (although Kefka never impaled a giant serpant on a stake or brought a global corporation to its knees), but I'd hardly say that KefKa's actions led to the [i]complete[/i] destruction of humanity. ;)

First of all, this is in the incorrect forum. We have a Square Enix forum located further down on the main page under the Otaku Series category for the sole purpose of dealing with, you guessed it, games from Square Enix. Secondly, this news seems like baseless rumors to me. Rumors of Final Fantasy remakes have been floating around forever. To the best of my knowledge, no concrete information to confirm these rumors has surfaced. So, I'll close this and move it to the aforementioned Square Enix board. If the moderators there know something I don't, they're free to open this back up. But--I doubt that will be the case.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Semjaza Azazel [/i] [B]I've also found that people who never got very far in FF6 think Kefka's a clown and can't compare.[/quote][/b] I have a feeling that comment stems from one of the conversations we've had. Then again, it's probably just my guilty conscience since I know it pertains to my feelings. I never owned a Super Nintendo, so my experiences with Final Fantasy began on the PSX. I'm sure the same can be said of many others. So, it's understandable that Sephiroth should be widely regarded as the favorite villain in the Final Fantasy series. The antagonists in the Final Fantasy games following VII haven't be particularly memorable or captivating. Especially FFVIII's boss. And--actually by summoning meteor Sephiroth was the catalyst that caused the entire planet's human population to be wiped out. How do you like those apples? ;) Lastly, Sin can be identified with [spoiler]Jecht. Tidus hates his father. It's appropriate that his outer appearance should become that of a monster.[/spoiler] Boom shaka laka.

This is a tough decision for me. It's a close call between Sin from FFX and Sephiroth from FFVII. In the end, I find myself leaning more towards Sephiroth. Sin appealed to me because it's an unstoppable monster that's neither predictable nor reasonable. It just [i]lives[/i] for destruction. Furthermore, [spoiler]it was a nice twist having Jecht become a part of Sin. The conflict in the plot it created was magnificent. I'll never forget Tidus' classic showdown with his father. It was very touching.[/spoiler] That being said, Sephiroth possessed a certain cunning and cruelty that Sin did not. I mean, you can't fault a monster for being destructive. [i]It's what a monster does.[/i] I'll never forget the image of Sephiroth walking through the flames in Cloud's hometown--or when he [spoiler]killed Aeris[/spoiler]. The expression on his face, the sinister smile, gave the character an edge that Sin couldn't have. My answer to the fate question is a little unique. Instead of outright changing Sephiroth's fate, I would rather have SQUARE do a better job translating the game and developing his persona better. I was very confused as to whether I was fighting the real Sephiroth or a Jenova clone at time. Plus, his reasoning for becoming insane wasn't as clear or emotional as it could have been. I understand why he went down the path he chose, but I didn't feel it as much as I could have.

I dig the edges. They give the image a stylish look, like the small banner you had in your signature. It's a nice style that I don't see much. Admittedly, the second version loses something in the increase in speed, but it isn't [i]that[/i] bad of a compromise. I'm sure that Spikey will adore it. lol

Ultimately, you have to make whatever decision will benefit you down the road. Excellent opportunities don't present themselves all the time, and you only get so many. Attending a school you normally wouldn't have the opportunity to attend sounds like a blessing, to me. It could really open up some great paths for you down the road. Your friends will come to considerable crossroads in their lives. Most inner circles rarely attend the same college. As people grow older, they grow apart professionally. Judging by your post, you'll still be able to visit. It won't be good-bye. If they're your true friends, they'll understand that you aren't distancing yourself from them for personal reasons. You're just doing what's best for you.

Oh man, I love Final Destination. lol It's cool because the deaths all play out like elaborate jokes. They're not scary at all, in my opinion. Each death is kind of like a punch line. The dialogue is terrible and we're seeing a bunch of beautiful people get slaughtered, so it's not [i]too[/i] terribly different from most horror films. I just like Final Destination because it doesn't really pretend to be scary. The film is more of a thriller. The sequal is almost exactly like the first but with an entirely different cast (with the exception of Clear Rivers). But, the deaths are infinitely more gory. Trust me, if you couldn't stomach Final Destination, I don't suggest seeing the second.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Lady Macaiodh [/i] [B][COLOR=darkblue]Please tell me how you manage that, so I can do it, too.[/COLOR] [/B][/QUOTE] Financial Aid. I don't take loans. I receive multiple grants that cover my tuition and such. In the end, I'm granted more money than I actually use. I keep the leftover cash via a refund check I pick up at the beginning of each semester. We're not looking at a lot of money here, but if you live off campus, you can pull in about three thousand dollars a semester and never have to pay it back.

I love my mirror. It always gives me a good reflection. I'm a sexy beast. Yeah! :Rests hands on hips, bites lower lip, and rolls eyes into back of head: What else? My friends are swell. The inner circle I have is trustworthy. Son mi familia. I love my God too. He's a nice guy. I have a roof over my head, indoor plumbing, food, and I get paid to go to school! How cool is that? I'm also thankful for my internet service. Without a doubt, America Online manages to shed light on the cloudiest of days. Everyone should have AOL. ;)

Thanks for the feedback. I'm happy that some of you actually read the entire thing. I appreciate it. Do any of you have any suggestions? Is there any way I could improve the story? Don't be shy. At the very least, I'll experiment with your suggestions.

First of all, Final Fantasy related posts belong in the Square Enix forum. Secondly, instead of asking for links to web sites, I suggest using the FFX help thread to ask for advice.

All right, I've labored over this fiction story. I'm really happy it's finished. I'm never satisfied, so I'll probably make revisions. But, I would [b]really[/b] appreciate it if people took the time to read it and comment. I know it's long, but I think it's worth the read. If you're offended by swearing--don't bother. It appears quite frequently throughout the story. The censors aren't bypassed, so it shouldn't be so bad. But, one can still tell what is being said for the most part. Thanks for your time. [b][center]PRIDE GOETH BEFORE DESTRUCTION AND A HAUGHTY SPIRIT BEFORE A FALL. (PROV. 16;18)[/b][/center] [i]It?s the greatest show on earth.[/i] Two men are swinging--two clumsy silhouettes finding one another through a blanket of smoke and hot wetness. Their arms are dangling at their sides like they?re either numb or asleep. When they swing, they swing slow--[i]go to the bathroom, wash your hands, take a nap, fix yourself a sandwich and you?ve still missed nothing[/i]--slow. Nonetheless, their fists are wrecking balls that give small iron kisses, so it?s exciting in a way, a testosterone-driven ballet. It?s not graceful, see. But, it does tell a story. Both fighters are wearing lumpy 10 oz. gloves--and they?re not boxers. They?ve received no formal training. There are no television cameras; no titles on the line. The ring isn?t regulation--it holds the charm of a child?s macaroni necklace; it?s a crude imitation of something much grander. The dimensions aren?t measured perfectly (it resembles a trapezoid more so than a square) and the ropes sag like a pair of old breasts. But, it serves its purpose and leaves something to the imagination--and for those reasons it?s beautiful. It would be exciting to claim that in the center of this hazy brothel of mixed chatter and hushed gambling, two gladiators? granite faces are locked on one another with utter contempt. But that?s not the case at all. There is idle chit chat--but it sounds more like one long, pitiful drone than it does enthusiastic banter. Make no mistake about it,--there is illegal gambling. Not a seedy underbelly of mafia deception, just bets being placed on the fight and scattered groupings of dockhands and roughnecks huddled in damp corners playing cards. And both fighters [i]are[/i] locked in a gaze, but their eyes speak confusion louder than they do malice. By now, their legs are trembling like it?s the first day of grade school, knees knocking louder than any opportunity ever has. It?s the ninth round, but no one is keeping count. Some rounds even exceed the two minute time limit. This isn?t a multimillion dollar spectacle, a forty-five second pay per view disappointment--it?s a forty minute long distraction in a string of distractions for a group of people who have nothing better to do. When the fighters find one another, they embrace. They come together, as if guided by some mysterious force, and push and pull and shove. Either man huffs and puffs. The one with bronze skin and demonic inkings covering his perfectly sculpted torso butts the other, bloodying his lip. The other rubs his stubble against his opponents? face, burning it. From there, they swing out, beginning a chain of misty explosions. The crowd stirs--moved by the plopping sounds. One fighter sniffs. It?s not clear who, and it doesn?t matter--both have crooked noses, bubbling and erupting with juice. The round ends in a flurry of fakes, jabs and failed attempts at fancy footwork. The combatants sleepwalk to their respective corners, dragging their feet like the undead. Hunching over, his hands and knees pressed against one another, J.D. stares at a mat, smeared brown. ?What?s da matter wit? ya? Why aren?t ya kickin? his mother****in? *** you stupid mother****er!? He feels a flurry of gloved hands sweep over his body, probing and exploring. They feel cold. They find holes he never knew he had and holes he never had until now. His brain is throbbing against the innards of his skull. His face is a battered pulp with bruises and welts rising prominently from the crimson glaze that streaks his features. His eyes, barely open, illustrate just how close to the brink of unconsciousness he really is. Taking a moment to regain his composure, he brings his left hand up from its support position to cradle his ribs, now thoroughly battered. Running his gloved hand down the creases of the bones, J.D. convinces himself that at least two of them are broken. ?You?re a mess. [i]One of ya hand me a towel[/i]. Jesus Christ, you?re a mess-? J.D. mumbles incoherently. ?-You?re a Goddamned mess-? The cold, squeezing fingers reach into his slobbering jaws and pry out his mouthpiece, slimy with pink foam. His tongue immediately begins to explore. Salty. Numb. Cotton swabs are thrust up into his nostrils and stirred. ?Sweet Jesus, look at ya. **** or get off the pot, son. Ya can?t--[i]gimme the water bottle Rand[/i]--you can?t--[i]I said gimme the mother****in? water bottle[/i]--Ya can?t go on like this. Ya--just-- can?t.? It?s true. He can?t. There isn?t much else to be said, really. It hurts. [i]They only knew me when they wanted me, only wanted me when they thought they knew me. Only one that?ll be in my will, is Harriet.[/i] Pop has three children. His youngest has no father. She hasn?t seen him in years, refuses to. Says it?s because of his Puerto Rican friends, but they?ve been gone for a long time, faded with his youth. He doesn?t party anymore and she doesn?t despise him any less. Her hatred is red, magma that burns through her eyes, he imagines. He suspects the real reason he has a broken family lies in a brown paper bag somewhere. Pop will probably never see his great grandbabies. It?s probably better that way. To them, he died a great war hero or something. [i]A name without a face[/i]--that?s what he is. He knows this and accepts it like a punch in the stomach. He doesn?t know what his son looks like anymore; an example of blood turned bad because of money. Harriet tells Pop that Fred?s back has gotten worse, that he?s lost weight and gone gray. Fred?s youngest son now hits him back. He?s working in the casinos again, but still loves the horses. When she visits, Pop complains to Harriet about the old junk Fred left behind in his basement while he and his wife were separated. Tells her that he?s going to throw it away because his house ain?t no public storage. He?s been saying this for years. Harriet, his oldest, often offers to take him to lunch but he refuses go. She always tells him how handsome he used to be, says he looks like a ghost now, and asks him to fix himself up. Wants him to see a doctor. She can?t take him to cash his check today because she?s ill. He decides to go shopping with what little money he has left, wants to buy himself a bag of corn chips. Instead of going to the corner market, he takes a bus into the heart of the city. He has a pain in his chest in the store. ?The cashier didn?t say anything but she sure seen it,? he convinces himself. After buying his lunch Pop has no desire stronger than that of the one to return home. He braces himself against the winds? attack and walks down the street as fast as his legs will allow him. His calves are sore, they burn hotter than his cheeks. He has ten minutes to go before the bus arrives. It?s usually late and never early, but he isn?t taking any chances. The sun looks dim, like a solitary pale headlight suspended above the clouds. No warmth. Piles of snow huddle together, speckled with soot. They resemble large deposits of dirt, lined on a sprawling concrete bank. He is careful not to step on them. Days of rain and chill have frozen them slick. Glass towers, concrete of flesh, and steel of bone, look down upon the city and smile boarded-up smiles. Old men play checkers on foldout tables Faces hidden in pullovers and baseball caps line the street alongside flimsy jewelry displays. Radios crackle. Incense sticks burn. They smell putrid. Men offer Pop discount DVDs and cheap clothing. ?I?ve gots senior discounts an?s--? ?-Naw, no thank-? ?- I?ll have you looking? nice, man.? a salesman begins to thumb through an index of ironed-on logos with ?Made in Mexico? authors. ?Look, two for-hey where you goin man? I wasn?t done talkin? yet. How you gonna-- Yo people is rude as heeeell-? Pop fumbles around in his hungry pockets, spilling old lottery tickets, change and prayer slips onto the ash-streaked sidewalk. The bus terminal is unusually crowded. Yellow tape gift wraps the lobby. The floor has just been waxed. Deeper in, it looks like a cave infested with scavenger pigeons instead of bats. ?Pigeons,? a young boy shouts. The birds flutter underneath the wrath of his sneakers, lap the terminal, and resume their dinner on the smoky concrete, as if nothing has happened. Pop glances at his watch. The boys? mother looks tired and small under the weight of it all. She orders her son to stop hitting his sister, her voice a low, resolute growl. Pop glances at his watch. Someone asks him if this is where you catch the 303. He tells them that it is and studies his watch. Doesn?t want to make eye contact with the strangers in line. Hopes that no one cuts or begs for money. The bus arrives fifteen minutes late, appears through the tunnel with huge glowing eyes. It prowls up slowly, groans, and hisses to a stop. His chariot awaits. It has a large ad plastered on its side that reads ?DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE?? The door folds open after putting up mild resistance. Pop notices how the driver?s carefully buttoned uniform barely contains his large stomach. Reminds him of a water balloon about to explode, for some reason. The buttons struggle in an effort to not become zinging bullets. ?Rose Street,? Pop says to him. He doesn?t think he said it loud enough, so he repeats himself. This time with more pitch in his voice. ?Rose Street,? Pop says again. Pop finds a seat, the one in front of him is scrawled with marker graffiti. It isn?t legible, but an apple-shaped heart tells him that it?s some sort of juvenile proclamation of love. When they leave, the bus makes normal bus sounds, squeaking and rattling like it could fall apart at any time. He engages in brief conversation with a bald, probably thirty-something year old man whose head barely manages to stay afloat in a sea of flannel and blue jumpsuit. They talk about a myriad of things, matter-of-factly, masquerading as experts on every subject they touch upon: politics, drugs, education, women. Awkward silence often punctuates their sentences. The man makes random comments when Pop seems to lose interest with him; like how the houses they pass look like prison cells with their twisting iron bars and threatening faces lurking behind them, for instance. That comment offends Pop for some reason. ?Bail Bonds!? the man says when they stop at a red light. Pop is confused until he notices a red brick building with the words ?BAIL BONDS: 24 HOURS A DAY,? stamped on the side. It?s hard to determine whether cracks or vestige vein up the walls. ?Holy ****, would ya imagine that? Ain?t that-? ?Well, I-? ?-something? We were just talking about prison houses! I?ll be darned, that?s something.?? ?Yeah, it is.? He?s thankful when he reaches his stop, his bones are aching because of the cold weather. Snow or rain must be coming. Pop tells the man that it was nice talking with him. They never exchange names or a handshake. The bus hisses, jerks forward, and rattles off, finishing its evening stroll of the city. Laughter rings out like a million bells. Children, boys, [i]must be up to something[/i]. He follows their voices, a cacophony of mixed swearing and hollering; skulks into a clearing between two houses painted with a coat of ice. He sees them and they see him. It?s only two or three, hot-faced, pumping their fists in the air, jumping up and down. ?Aw ****!? Pop?s blood goes cold. They scatter, fling their bodies over fences, yelling back obscenities. Pop notices a storm of gray fur trembling and crying. God damned children had blinded another stray dog. He takes off his relic of a jacket, stalks forward, and wraps up the miserable creature, half expecting it to growl or snap at him. It doesn?t. The old man scoops the huddled mass of up into his arms and struggles to his home. Struggles home. They struggle together. Immediately after the fight they throw a drinking party. White doors with golden cherub knobs disrupt the flow of passion red with white hearts wallpaper that give a splash of color to the walls. The zebra print floors add a touch of ?class? to the joint. Music flows as smoothly as the liquor. Anthony is standing by himself. No one looks at him. He?s tired and lost in thought. He shuts his eyes to keep everything out. He brushes his hand on his shirt occasionally and dabs at his forehead when there?s no sweat to dab. What a night, what a night. Mucho dinero. Across the room, Matt talks about how he?s the epitome of a Romeo, about how many cherries he?s popped. Epitome. It annoys Anthony, instantly snaps him out of his far-off euphoria. Apparently epitome is Matt?s new favorite word and he uses it a lot. Someone is always the epitome of someone or something else. Where the hell did he pick up that word? Sometimes he didn?t even use it properly or pronounce it correctly. Tyrone and Carl don?t seem to mind; they?re more concerned with the raunchy details of Matt?s sexual escapades--even if they don?t believe him. They are second cousins, bigger than their fathers; they roll their eyes, following Matt?s exaggerated gestures. Anthony breaks in, killing the music and waving his gun. Silence. He examines each of the boys. They turn their eyes in an effort not to meet his; study generic portraits of mountains and flowers that decorate the room. Out of place. Feels like a Las Vegas dentist office. The sounds of the day are replaced by the sounds of the night. Distant fire engines and wailing police sirens put a different perspective on the party. Everyone is afraid to move, but ready to pounce. The cockfights have been good to them. That?s what Anthony calls underground boxing matches, cockfights. Two worthless cocks fighting. Tonight, though, had paid off. At last. J.D. Swinger always starts out strong, but begins to chug as the fight wears on. His shoulders and arms are muscular, but his body?s out of shape. He has a belly and breasts. Lousy endurance. The kid he fought is barely scraping nineteen. He is in better shape than J.D., but it was his first fight. He vomited before the match. That was it. That was their ticket. Most mistake vomit for a weakness. To Anthony, it?s heart. A fighter should never be too comfortable with himself. Now it?s time to play chess, they are going to ?make? the local bank, have it all planned out, would pull some Viet Cong in an urban jungle. They have a strategy and ****. Enough money to buy guns, ammunition, disguises, even a used van. ?It?s a *****, man,? Anthony says, addressing them all. He says, ?You make a nickel, you make a dime and they want a dollar.? It?s like Sunday mass. The crew bow their heads down listening to the sermon. They create mental figures of how much money they need to live normally. ?You look stoned,? Anthony says out of the blue, shoving Carl in an attempt at being playful. He is stoned. They all are. ?One beer queer!? Tyrone shouts. The small room explodes with laughter, followed by a long unsettling pause. It?s like they?re taking in what lies ahead of them for the first time; a breath of fresh air. It makes them more dangerous than they really are, if that makes sense. Crumpled bills, sexy Barettas and a Browning lie on the bed all innocent-like. Strangers spending the night, begging to be held and caressed. They?re easy and deliver instant gratification, [i]the feeling of power[/i]. Earlier Anthony told them that when a man holds a gun, he?s transformed into the hand of God. They convince themselves that they?re like angels, almost. Everything is cool. ?Two clips each?? Tyrone says. ?That?s cool,? the other three murmur at once. ?Yeah, that?s cool.? They are smooth, quiet; the vice grip of tension has loosened. The night?s an endless void that absorbs their thoughts. Matt has become especially quiet. He cups a small paper bag decorated with a golden arch in his right hand and picks at a few grease sticks. He offers a portion to the others, but they decline. ?I?m hungry for gold, but I don?t mean arches,? Carl says, slapping hands with Anthony and Tyrone. ?Now that?s what I?m talkin? ?bout.? Anthony assures him that as long as he follows orders like a good German, he?ll get paid. It?s starting to get light. To some, a city is reminiscent of the human body; each individual person represents a cell, with its own function. Some parts of the city, are more useful than others, and like the human body, it has its own set of diseases. J.D. doesn?t know what he is. After the fight, he returned home to his apartment, looked in the mirror and was disgusted at the abomination staring back at him. He puked, pissed a red piss, took a red shower and collapsed into darkness. Now he?s standing in front of a pizza joint with an Italian name he can?t pronounce. He has a job there cleaning tables, washing pans, refilling grated cheese shakers, and cleaning the restrooms. Pay is lousy. He?ll need to fight again when his body heals. His face is disfigured, eyes small and sunken behind swollen flesh, lips bulbous and split, and nose bent, whistling. Everything is sore, especially if he touches it. J.D. felt hot in his chest, ashamed. He decides to take a walk. It doesn?t matter why. He can?t explain it. J.D. shrinks away from everyone he sees, but he has to walk. It?s like he can get away from himself if he keeps walking; pulls his collar up around his neck and thrusts his hands deep into his pockets. Sirens wail. Crowds gather about a block away. Curiosity blends with anxiety. J.D. decides that no one will pay attention to him. There must be a bigger spectacle than a busted up nobody. He can blend in with the sameness of the crowd. When he gets there, he allows himself to be absorbed into the swell of humanity and pushes through. The words ?bank robbery? hang in the air. J.D. sees an old man lying on the ground smeared in blood; his gray hair streaked sticky red. He has been hit again and again with the butt of a gun, and shot once--an exclamation point in a tragedy that will begin another day of tragedies. His back is arched upwards in agony, as if he?s being exorcised. A woman, probably in her fifties, who turns out to be his daughter, is standing idly by. Her eyes are moist; she chews on her knuckles, but doesn?t look down, isn?t moved. The ugliest dog J.D. has ever seen whines deep at the man?s side, barking furiously at anyone who dares approach. Its eyes are closed, look deformed, almost like his. The old man?s hand is lost in the dog?s thick mane. He moves his lips but no words come out. Everyone is still frozen, a portrait of stares. Women shield their children?s eyes. When the man?s fingers stop moving, the dog lies by his side, getting as close to the man as it can without becoming one with him. J.D. feels weak and tired. It feels like he never left the ninth round.

I just want to say that I don't necessarily understand the editing of the initial post. It's best to use a bit of discretion with the advertising rule--especially when dealing with personal sites as opposed to commercial sites. I don't see how suggesting to download material is any better. Especially when that is barely legal, lol. Also, there really should be a name in that edit. That being said, members should use common sense as well. Don't post a thread saying "Here, look at this site!" If you want to post a thread discussing a band, and provide members with a link to a noncommercial website with acceptable content--there's nothing wrong with doing so. But, don't post a link just for the sake of posting one.

How many times must these inflammatory religious threads be closed before it sinks in that they are inappropriate? Why do modern Christians need to apologize for crimes they didn't commit? I have never met a Christian that runs about swinging a sword, in an effort to convert savages. Do you realize how insane this sounds? It's the same as justifying a twenty year old black man's hatred over a random fifteen year old white person. This is a different time. Your comments are as righteous as those who unjustly discriminate against the Islamic religion. This thread serves no positive purpose. It's flamebait. You've created similar threads and they've all been closed. The discussion would not progress. It would be a back-and-forth between people whose opinions aren't changing. Lady Macaiodh is completely right. We don't need magnets for pointless arguments. There is nothing thought provoking about this topic and nothing will be resolved here.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by wrist cutter [/i] [B]I don't think this thread was specifically created with the intent of finding out my sleeping times though. The creator had a much more specific question in mind, posting my sleeping times really means nothing to him. He mentioned nothing about the times he slept in his original post. It's like taking a post about how to peel oranges the best, and then have someone come out nowhere telling them that they ate oranges last Wednesday and they tasted good. [/B][/QUOTE] People were posting about sleeping patterns, which ties in with the amount of time they sleep. And that affects behavior and mood. There's no reason why the thread can't be more general. People were already touching on how many hours they slept: [quote][b]I like sleep. But I like talking to people more. So I tend to sacrifice my sleep for going online quite a bit. In the morning I feel kinda grouchy, but only until I get to school. I like it when it's late at night, because I can go to sleep, or talk to people, or just get on with whatever I have to do.[/quote][/b] Both are related in this instance, for example. He doesn't sleep much, so he feels grouchy. It is nothing like your example where the discussion was irrelevant. It's as if someone has created a thread dealing with sleep issues (not a far stretch there) and the discussion has become more general to cover more aspects of sleep (nor there). So, there's no reason why people can't post how many hours they sleep and how it affects them. I don't see how this is a big deal, lol.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by wrist cutter [/i] [B]I guess I'll just completely ignore the main focus of this topic and talk about my sleeping habits, which have basically no relevance but Charles recommended I come here. On good weeks, I can get up to 7 hours of sleep. On bad weeks when I'm all night, more around 4 1/2-5. [/B][/QUOTE] :Laughs: Topics can branch off. They aren't rigidly restricted to linear discussion. Look at the homosexuality thread that Lady M. started. It ended up delving deeply into homosexuality and discrimination regarding both females [i]and[/i] males; not just the male stance regarding lesbianism. You've been here long enough to know that topics are flexible as long as they don't stray totally off course. The hours of sleep you get can affect your mood and depression--so listing the information is by no means ignoring the main focus of the thread. It ties in with the context of the discussion. You're still talking about sleep. We don't need to have multiple sleep threads on the main page. It becomes redundant. I should have spelled it out more, but I thought it was obvious to everyone.