Mitch

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Inuyashagurl_15 [/i] [B]I like both your poem and song [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] I also like your seven-word sentence without a period. It should be obvious that creatures such as your quote above are against the rules and considered spam. And Phantom, double posting as well as bypassing the censor when it isn't required is against the rules. Bypassing of the censor should only happen in posts where it is a part of the story/poem/whatever. You should know this well and written, you've been here long enough. And if you don't straighten out soon enough, you shall have to consider the consequences.[/size]

[size=1] For there to be consciousness, there need be a mind. For there to be a developed mind, there need be physical impressions. For there to be a mind functioning there need be a body, which shall and will be subjected to physicalities. To think that the mind is the ultimate freedom is to go too far. It most certainly is the highest freedom that can be obtained [i]humanly[/i]. But it isn't freedom. Let me ask, just because a man has some estrogen in his body, does this make him female? No. If something isn't the complete and explicit definition and epitome of something--then it isn't that something. And the definition of freedom by the dictionary does not agree that freedom is what it is in the mind. In your mind you still have to have physicalities. The very memories we have, the information we have gained, the actual keys and understanding of freedom are found from the physical learnings. Mental is as much physical as it is mental. To say otherwise is to be obtuse. To say that one can completely escape to their mental insides is to be obtuse. And to say that it is explicitly freedom is to be obtuse. To actually see something, one must look at it logically. Abstraction has [i]logic[/i] in it. Logically, one has to live physically [i]as well as[/i] mentally. Logically one cannot just exist as a mentally incarnated being. It's not what it is to be human. To say that one can completely escape into their mind is to be a zealot and a dreamer. It isn't the reality of the situation, and therefore it isn't the actual truth. [i]Logically[/i], to be human is not to live in one's mind. Logically, to be human is to be enslaved by the vessel that is your body and its interactions on the outside as well as the inside. I can understand how freedom inside one's mind [i]to an extent[/i] is freedom. But I wouldn't label it as such. It's being obtuse. It's being illogical. It's not taking all the factors that are given and taking them for what they are. It's not being a realist--it's not seeing the reality of the situation. The mind is powerful. But physicalities are what foster it. And physicalities are what keep it alive--things that are needed, such as eating.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Baron Samedi [/i] [B]Re: Mitch and PoisonTongue Unless you believe in religion, in which case you go to heaven, Blah-de-blah-blah, then you need to eat. Physical compulsions will drive you for necessity. If there is no form of higher plane, then the death of your physical body would mean the death of your mental self as well. Yes? Achieving "total mental potential" still requires the use of your body to sustain the object that is powering this consciousness. yes? You only have a conscious form because of your brain. Without a working brain, [i]you don't have a consciousness[/i]. Yes? Or no? [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] Exactly. I also think it's hypocritical that you're sitting here telling me I think things should be a certain way...when you're doing the same thing. You're also being hypocritical by saying I'm not thinking outside the box. Neither are you. You'd at least give me what is my opinion. And it'd also be nice if you could actually be respectable and not bring up issues, such as those with my teacher--they have no ******* bearing here. It's just making me angry at you. You're doing it more as a low blow than anything. My opinion on this topic stands.[/size]

O taco birds, wherefore did thou come, come like a hawk all torn and rags. and grab me to Taco Bell. muchos tacos and muchos beef. tasty little tastes and pig feet. O taco birds take me home. the hippie home. the nest where i know. the place where i know where to come home to. and all that you eat and all that you hate and all that you make and all that you destroy and all that you deal and all that you buy beg borrow or still is still not as great as the eagle so take your taco and run. O taco birds, thou hath not feathers and no teathers and no reasons. but what thou hast. get a life. get a farm. become a man. the cows, i can hardly express my thoughts of beef on my breast. [b]dead poets[/b] dead poets talked of their nights over the crackle of a fire's lips as it danced on their faces in slow motion and blur; balet too absurd to be a real form of motion. dead poets talked of their poems over the crackle of other men's voices as they stood in a jungle land where civilization had not a touch in hand. and the houses were built on papers and the kisses and whore's lips were smooched on papers. and the sunrise and the sunset was lighted and blown out on paper. they were gods. they were men. dead poets talked of their nights over the crackle of a fire's lips as it danced on their faces in slow motion and blur; a balet too absurd to be a real form of motion. dead poets talked of their poems over the crackle of other men's voices as they stood in a jungle land where civilization had not a touch in hand. and the houses were built on papers and the kisses and whore's lips were smooched on papers. and the sunrise and the sunset was lighted and blown out on paper. but they could not control the fire that danced all over them; for it was that which was the very source of all the papers and all the creation and all the destruction that had been made. they wrote their words but didn't know them they wrote their hearts but did not beat with them. they wrote their brains but did not think with them. they wrote with their hands but did not feel with them. they wrote with their souls but did not feel anything in them. still alone even in haven. the dead poets wrote. zombies with flesh on their minds wandering round the spinnin wheel of time. grasping hold of death's wishbone. even in haven the dead poets wrote still alone. they moved stars with their hands masters of the stars. they swooned ladies with their words masters of persuasion. they gashed wounds in hearts masters of pain. they were dead poets dying from their deprave. they were dead poets talking of their poems and writing them all down without a reason or a name. and they are dying from what they could not control; they are dancing in an absurd balet with their very navels and what burns. the fire licks them and tastes of them. they taste sweaty and lovely. dead but sweet. and if you have built castles in the sky they will crumble down on your eyes and make you bleed more than hell. the bases need be built to finish the ell. and to inch the hell. the dreams; the dead poets. eternal burning soul; wicker wood, trees and stones, and crutches on bones. and things that matter to burning souls. build your castles to the sky; be the transcender of your own. but in the end you die alone.

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by PoisonTongue [/i] [B]Mitch, NO. If one is truly able to live within one's mind, then they are MOST DEFINITELY of "the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action." Unlocked mental potential is the ultimate form of freedom. Think about it. When one is able to live within one's mind, they are free. They have escaped EVERY necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action. In essence, it's a transcendence of physical rules...a pure consciousness...the kind of consciousness that's capable of traveling the universe, much like Star-Child. In a sense, it's very similar to Neo, too. Neo becomes...Neo achieves full potential and thus is not limited by any rules or constraints. Also, "freedom" is NOT nothingness, for the very fact that freedom in one's mind is not nothingness. "The absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action" is not nothingness, far from it, in fact. It is purity of life. The core essence of what life is or should be. And you are saying that the core of life is nothingness? You are depressed. I suggest you seek counseling. [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] If someone lives in their mind, they are still bound by the rules inside of their mind. This is not freedom. They are still bound the chemical interactions of the brain. They are still bound by something. "The absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action." Okay. Breaking this down piece-by-piece. Is there an abscence of necessity in the mind? No. Your brain will feed you the hunger of food and varying things. Scratch that. Coercion? That's not scratched. In your mind you're your own boss. Constraint? If one is inside their mind, they are constraining. They are living away from the full implications of life. They are living in a dream world. I'd call this "constraining." I'd call this holding back. But then there's this "in choice and action" part. It still isn't relevant..if you are constraining something, you are holding back some choice or action. You aren't living the way you should. Life isn't meant to be lived internally. It's meant to be lived both inward and outward. So scratch that as well. It doesn't make sense. You're still bound to your humanness inside your brain. This isn't freedom. You're still enslaved by some implication, some interdiction; that of your own consciousness. Nothingness. Non-existence. These are the only things that are true freedom. These are the only things having "the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action." And I also suggest that you seek the help of a psychologist. You're too happy. You're a zealot whereas I'm a pragmatist.[/size]

[size=1] I can tell that I must have inspired this in some form. :p It has everything I love. Started off a bit bumpy...but eventually got me in near the last leg. It's good, of course. I do feel that it's a little too descriptive at parts...but in others the imagery works so well. I thought it worked.[/size]

notting round a big old hill. and i can only guess. notting hill. cold wind. it's fear that gives men wings. not angels. not wings. not hands. not love. same old hill notting. been dead so long been blowing through the curtains in your room. i'm and idiot babe. every time i move my teeth. it's a wonder i still got wings. i moved the stars and they were as bright as blood. i move them for nothing. move them for a notting hill. same old hill. notting. all my ragin glory all my blue bruise. kiss goodbye this howlin beast and give him love. a noose a hand a man a car a plane. they all have wings. give them time. give them time. it's fear that gives men wings. and machines that sputter incoherently. i'm notted to knots. my mind's filled with big ideas and small dirt. bury it all. bury it all on my notting hill. i'm an idiot babe.

[size=1] Just look at PT's sig. Tell me something doesn't need to be done and I'll slap you full of slaps and clap my name all over your halo. Or something.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Dagger IX1 [/i] [B]Isn't the phrase "harmless vice" something of an oxymoron? I always thought that a vice was, by its very nature, harmful to someone or something. I understand where you're coming from, but drinking [i]in moderation[/i] doesn't really qualify as a vice. Someone who only imbibes alcohol during the occasional social situation or who likes to enjoy a glass of red wine during dinner will not automatically turn into an alcoholic. I won't deny the possibility--after all, if he or she is genetically predisposed towards alcoholism, it's quite likely that the occasional glass could in fact lead to a dangerous addiction. I wouldn't say that drinking is a vice in and of itself (although drinking excessively--to the point of alcoholism--is). In appropriate quantities, alcohol can actually be beneficial to your health; studies show that red wine is good for your heart. It's when you go overboard that you suffer liver damage, brain damage, etc. So alcohol [i]can[/i] turn into a huge problem, but only when it's misused. Smoking, however, is a vice from the very beginning. Not only does it slowly destroy your body, it also affects those around you (through second-hand smoke). In answer to your question, I suppose that certain drugs, such as habit-forming painkillers, could initially be construed as harmless. ~Dagger~ [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] As I said, what's bad is good and what's good is bad. It's all how you see it, really. Society feeds your mouth full of what's right and wrong and good and bad. Your parents feed your mouth full of what's right and wrong and good and bad. Religion feeds your mouth full of what's good and bad and right and wrong. Bad and good and right and wrong are only words. Vice is only a word. They only mean what they mean by emotional attachements and nudges. An alchoholic might think drinking is good, whereas someone else might see it as wrong. A murderer might think murdering is right and good and great, whereas someone else might see it as wrong. A pedophile might think what they are doing is right and good and great and feels good, whereas someone else might see it as wrong. It's all opinion. It's all how you see it. Nothing more nothing less. It comes down to emotions and what you think. Not what other's have fed you. Not what words feed you.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by KarmaOfChaos [/i] [color=deeppink] I agree with you partially. From the definition, it would seem freedom would be a state of absolute nothingness. But I don't think it's unattainable. When you're inside your own mind, simply laying there without worrying about anything else, just wandering some sort of endless path, that's freedom. True, you're constrained but the limits of your own mind. But you have to take into account that there are some limits that cannot be escaped. Freedom is simply not being held back by any outside force, not being told what to do or think. The ultimate escapism. Of course...if freedom is an escape, is it too an act of cowardice? Fear of control. Or maybe I'm totally out on a limb there. Heh. [/color][/quote] [size=1] Living inside your mind is still not nothingness. It is still not ""the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action." Only non-existence, in my thinking, can be that. [quote] [color=deeppink] Rhyming in itself isn't bad. It's just when the rhymes are there simply for the sake of rhyming, and don't really mean anything. Which, granted, is what most country music does. But then, I wasn't arguing in the name of country music, now was I? [/color][/quote] Yup, that's what I meant. He overuses it PURPOSELY, heh. [quote][color=deeppink] You spelled red-neck wrong. ^-~ -Karma [/color] [/QUOTE] Error fixed, my queen. :)[/size]

[size=1] Bob Dylan...rock legend.[/size]

[size=1] I hate country music. That said, on I go. I don't believe there is a thing such as freedom. Taking freedom for its definition: [quote]Main Entry: free·dom Pronunciation: 'frE-d&m Function: noun Date: before 12th century 1 : the quality or state of being free: as a : the absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action b : liberation from slavery or restraint or from the power of another : INDEPENDENCE[/quote] "The absence of necessity, coercion, or constraint in choice or action." Wouldn't one like to call this not existing in the first place? Or not having any being or thought. Who knows. Having not thought or choice in action reminds me of Toby Keith. Perhaps he is freedom? Perhaps he is the pied piper dancing merrily to his tune? If one is not marching along with one's crowd, then by gods he's just dancing to his own tune, a drummer beating his sticks and bones to his own heart and head. I don't think freedom is exactly indepence. It's something more. It's meant to be unattainable. Freedom. Absolution etc etc. What stupid words for a cold world. Being free to me is not existing--and isn't it what the definition points towards? Indeed. Freedom of speech cannot go too far. You just have to be sensitive enough to know that it's someone else's opinion, someone else's understanding, someone else's words. People often take things too personally--religion being the main. Now, Toby Keith's writing totally irks me. He rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes and rhymes. Country music in general is like this. How annoying? Yes. Was he the one that wrote that "Have You Forgotten" song? Don't even get me started on that. He basically takes what's generally happening in America and sees what general stupid red-neck Americans think and makes a stupid song about it which is then accepted broadly and as "amazing" and ooh and ahh and wow. In the end this comes to where I come to on a lot of things. I don't care. He has the right to do this. So let him. It doesn't do anything to me as ignorantly ignorant and so blissfully bladdered as it is. You know, Toby Keith reminds me of a man as yellow as piss, and as full of substance as feces.[/size]

[size=1] I'll say what I want to simply. What's bad is good and what's good is bad. What's fair is foul and what's foul is fair.[/size]

[size=1] Sorry to bring this thread back from its death...but I have to. The movie made perfect sense until the ending. The most confusing part for me is when you see his mother in the plane, and then the jet's engine flies into a portal. That didn't tie in well with what happened. Here is what I thought after first seeing it. I thought perhaps Donnie had dreamed it all--I mean, that one Mad World or whatever song plays-- "And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad That the dreams in which I'm dying Are the best I've ever had." This is what I came to at the end of the movie. He dreamed the entire thing up to the point where he woke up in his room, and he sat there laughing, laughing because he knew no one would suffer because of him. This is wrong, though. He actually walked into his room knowing he was going to die. I don't exactly understand how time just shifted back to when Donnie's room was smashed--but this is besides the point I guess. He died for a sacrifice--he died like Jesus; to end suffering--the suffering he would have caused. This is one of the main points of the movie. And frankly, many don't see it. That last temptation of christ movie has already been mentioned already. Lots of things once this movie is ended don't make sense. My grandma said this point is to say that life doesn't make sense. Even this said, I still think there's something more here. Okay, here is what I think. I think that some of Donnie's imagination as well as reality was shown in the movie. It was all mixed and thrown into one. I find this hard to elaborate on though. But just think about it--that jet engine with his mother on it as they are coming back--this was still in the time before the world ended for Donnie. Maybe it was time overlapping? Or maybe it was that it was in another dimension, and then somehow Donnie got in the other one? I don't know. It's hard to explain, really. Life doesn't make sense. This movie doesn't make perfect sense. It sort of works for me, I guess. The movie itself was amazing. I felt like I wasn't even alive and breathing when I was watching it...I felt like I was nothing, and just watching it all away from everything that is me. And I actually cared about the characters. I actually cared when his girlfriend died. Why I'm not quite sure...the movie's just done so well. The Mad World or whatever song near the end was right where it needed to be as well. What a good song for a good movie.[/size]

[QUOTE][i]Originally posted by Artemis [/i] [B] 1. Moral issues. It's just plain wrong. I know it sounds out-dated, but sex is for marriage only. It's not bad, just special. [/B][/QUOTE] [size=1] I'd have to disagree with this one. Sex is not for marriage only. This is just another stupid intervention created by religious zealots. I agree with most of your other responses. But as I see it, sex is not [i]that[/i] bad. It is a nature; it is what allows a race to survive. It is one of the biggest drives put into us as humans. And to ignore it is to not be what you are. It is not to be who you are. I can understand not just jumping into sex. This I agree with. One shouldn't just have sex to have sex. There has to be [i]something[/i] there--something that has been there for a long, long time. As in Raiha's relationship, I believe it wasn't a good move on both their parts. First off she did not use a condom or any type of contraceptive. That is [i]extremely[/i] foolish. The things are readily available, use them. As I said, marriage is not for everyone. Saying that sex is for marriage is like saying that God is for church. It isn't; and it just doesn't work. If were weren't civilized enough, there wouldn't [i]even[/i] be a thing such as marriage. We'd just give into our desires, and probably rape things at times. So I don't think premarital sex is wrong [i]at all[/i]. As long as the party doing the act has explicit education, uses a condom/contraceptive, and has something that is worth throwing away their virginity for, then do it. There's not a thing wrong with it if the necessary precautions happen and if there's actually a strong enough feeling that it shall last. Enough said.[/size]

[size=1]In Memorium, Part II. Just finished.[/size] The officer was as yellow as piss. He smiled as he stepped out of his car to go to Starbucks. It was a glorious day outside, the sun in the sky, covered by clouds, hiding up a little man too big to be seen. The officer smelled snow in the air, like a meth bust. The day was skeletal, thin as paper, and the sky breathed a coldness only cold could make; like a needle in humanity's arm, intravenously injected that shook a body to salt and pepper, black and white. It was a grey day, grey like an old man's elegy being spoken in a stonecold rain, acidic but dead. The call had buzzed the officer as he had just gotten his coffee from Starbucks, hissing in his ears as he drank his coffee. He almost burned his tongue raw as he was told what had happened. A star had fallen, he was told. A young star, one that had still been gold and pristine, just like the badge he wore. Driving off, no longer happy as piss, he felt the yellow smiles drain out of him as another toilet was flushed and purged, bringing in another mess soon to taint the now clean water that was just too clear to actually happen. Things like this were never pretty. Never. Officer Dalton tuned on his radio, putting it on the classic rock station. Soon Queen crashed in his patrol car, the ever so familiar song playing like a gun, cold as hell, like a sigh that was actually a scream. [i]Momma, life had just begun... Now I've gone and thrown it all away[/i] Suddenly officer Dalton wasn't steering his wheel as he drove to the old road. He was in his head, brooding over a shivering memory, a snowflake that had melted and was refreezing in the cooly feeling that had hit him after he'd gotten the news of the death. Wide eyes and goons groaned in his head, angels that died devils, fallen angels that had been clipped of wings. A racking mallet, banged with blood, so smushed it was curved like a pelvic bone, all thin and used, personal and covered in skin. The rag doll, sitting in his chair in his room, a lost attic all banged up and grim. Sad as a tear, and dead as a clacking clanging clock. The shadows covered the deadman like maggots covering some rat. The light ate away all the dead image, all the dead tissues and things that didn't need to be seen. He lay a shadow in his chair. His long hair wisped in knots in black, his arms hung on the chair's arms, flopped off of them, beached and whale, black as a hole. He stood one with the chair, broken with the chair. Then officer Dalton could see his hand reaching out, pushing the switch. Light flittered in on the maggoty darkness, shaming the rag doll in his full glory. His eyes were wide and goon, like some drug user tripped past a high. Tripped past death and glory. The boy was a fragment, sad and unfinished, unfurnished. Hair clotted the mallet, a decorative art of blood only a murderer's art could make. The boy's head shown a clear and beaten brain, the brain's demeated spaghetti panting and dried like a prune all over. He could see the chair's torso and the boy's form. [i]Any way the wind blows[/i] A sudden wind racked outside, and through the window by the chair and its seater it blew and blew, curtains like clothes moving and swaying like a mother's hand nurishing a wound. The doll body fell over in the sudden gust, and officer Dalton could now see his empty smashed head, a broken and brittled rib and bone. And below the cracked head, he could see wide staring eyes, accusing eyes, spheres that screamed at him. He shivered, almost ran, almost cried. "Hey hey hey, it's DJ Sam here." [i]Snap[/i] "DJ Sam here. It's gonna be a cold bit out taday fer sure. Supposed ta snow taday. Snow hard an long, ya know. " [i]DJ Sam here DJ Sam here DJ Sam here...[/i] Officer Dalton breathed deeply, finally getting rid of the boy's wide, accusing eyes. Getting rid of the mallet and the chair and the wind and it all. [i]Snap snap snap snap snap[/i] But it wouldn't go away. He could hear bones snapping, feeble white ribbons being cut and broken. He could hear the boy crying, screaming, and the mallet hollowing it all out. It wouldn't die. A fire too bright with cold, too full of weeds and heart. It wouldn't die. [i]Screech[/i] Suddenly he snapped back into reality. He was veering off the road, tires screeching, car droning not to crash. He slowed down, slow and silent like a sigh. He came to a stop on the dead side of the road, letting out a long breath of air, focusing his mind on what was now, not what was. DJ Sam jitted incessantly, finally ending as another song was put on. Led Zeppelin aired in, Dazed and Confused and as jittery as DJ Sam. Robert Plant sang like a saint, an angel in human skin. [i]The flesh of fallen angels The flesh of fallen stars, of black stars[/i] Dalton opened his glove compartment as he held one finger on his temple. Soon the nervous crack crack of Asprin could be heard, a neurotic little apostrophe to Dalton's head. Then he put the lid back on, as cautious as ever, and placed it back in his glove compartment, the metallic hing of it reverberating on his sudden headache as it closed. [i]Been dazed and confused so long it's not true[/i] Dalton did an amen to that, and shifted his car back into drive, and was off, off to the circus of horrors, the petshop of death.

[size=1] I think it'd just end up like the newbie forum did. Let me begin. Once upon a time, there lived the most procured and most beautiful little baby. His name was The Newbie Forum. In this forum, babies would crawl about, introducing themselves to fellow OB members. There were many coos, and many coons, and many swoons. Welcomes and salutations and greetings were exchanged cordially, hands were held where no hands existed. Newbies were given the rightful welcome they deserved. Then came a man named Charles. Charles back then was only a moderator for the Sony forum. He made a thread considering the wondeful cooing baby, who had held so many on his tight shoulders. He brought towards the fact that the forum was full of spam. It was lacking in projection, was packaged in an ill-concieved little wrapper, and tasted too salty and too unfilling. It was a haven for useless conversation, conversation that was only as good as it tasted. Like some babies, Newbie Forum committed suicide. He has never since been seen. His downfall was eventual, inevitable. And this is how I see this journal forum would be.[/size]

[size=1] The best word ever created is [i]Eheu[/i]. Just say it and tell me it isn't awesome. It means Alas! in Latin. But I've made it my own. Eheu.[/size]

[size=1] I really liked your last poem, Heavy. Heh. Especially the last line.[/size] [b]Melancholy[/b] my heart, he feel broken; a man alive to be hit; as he alone do sit, be beaten to a skull. my head, he feel dumb; a misunderstood, as all things great are, and be, is only the stuff cuffed in 'chines, man'factured in a cage of dreams. my hands, they feel dead; for God created all, they say, and all that'll be and mine hands are only gloves, only to wrap round what's been made and make all that's been made before. no, there be no point anymore. for born is he who dies; like all that writhes and kisses well. eat this food, say my body, and waste nay, there ne nothing that are or be that shall release one such as me. my eyes only see a world created by other eyes who never knew the sweet sad blue. she make my hand feel ice all numbly open mouthes in the cold; and all I make and breathe is blue and by and by sad to drear my hands slip on all I do create. aye, she do make my hand feel ice. it's the trivial permafrost of an endless freezing sea where time flows in freeze to frost, his a-fishing I now go. for I now be comfortably numb; and this passing lover, or this passing smile I make blue. stumbling, my heart has lost this race, there's blizzards in her smiles. she is cold to her touch, stopping all; and my brain, he be cold in her coon, for all is and all be blue. a-sparkle here a-sparkle there painted, I be entangled in her hair, for the coldest time of the day has the forests I do know well. where abominable snowmen knell oher ever name. her eyes are frostholes sunken to her head; glowing dull in despair, the places known so well where morning stars do dwell; she freeze as much. the blooming dye otouch. she, prisoner of hope, the one and only ohighest astute; obest feeling of them all, the dearest water fall. Melancholy, you be my heart; you be my Apathy, for she is just as you. with you my heart be not so broke; but he, in his chains, feel lament and is able to ache in his pain through icy veins pumping warm blood. Melancholy, most beautiful of all serene, you make me serene; through you, my head, he be not so dumb; but dumbstruck he feel in love of you. Melancholy, because of you my hands feel not so dead, they be able in slush and crave to feel comfortably numb and not aslaved for all I do; all I live is made blue.

[size=1] Well, this is no longer on OB's database--I did a search for it--so I'll just post it here again. It's a personal narrative, very old.[/size] [center]?Choices of Choice? By:Mitchell Smith[/center] We stopped at Albertson?s. ?Go and get some bananas,? my Grandpa said in his familiar stuttering voice. He handed me a five-dollar bill. Receiving the crisp paper, I opened the passenger door. ?All right,? I said casually as I stepped out into the sun lit pavement. I walked into the store and approached the produce section. Finding the bananas, I slowly searched for the ripest bundle I could find. After making my selection and paying for it, I walked back out into the hot summer day. As I walked out of the store, I noticed two transients sitting next to the front door. They were clad in heavy metal band shirts, and had various piercings about their misshapen faces. As I peered cautiously at them, one thought came to my mind: They looked like the dirtiest pile of trash I had ever seen. Besides this first harshly placed conception of them, I felt a slight tinge of sympathy for the life that they must lead. As I approached my Grandpa?s van, I pulled aside my feeling of sympathy, and gave no more glances in the transients? direction. Stepping into the van, I reached into the depth of my pockets and withdrew the various bills and coins I had received in payment of the bananas, handing them to my Grandpa. ?Thanks,? he said vaguely, receiving his payment. He was glaring at the transients, a look of remembrance plastered upon his face. I gave the transients another glance, now within the safety of the van. One of them was now smoking a cigarette. ?He got that out of the garbage,? my Grandpa said. As I stared at the transient smoking, the sympathy gave another uprising as I tucked it back away again in my anguish. Horrified, I turned and asked: ?Did he really get that from the garbage?? After a brief moment of silence, my Grandpa turned his head, an escaping look of remembrance leaving his face. ?Yup,? he simply said, turning his head again. After a moment more, he ignited the ignition of the van, and the engine roared to life. We then backed out of our parking spot, and drove by the transients, straying a passing look as we did. ?That could have been you, Grandpa,? I said. From what I had heard of his past, he seemed to have started life off on the wrong end. He had been a bully, and gotten into numerous fights at school, home, and almost everywhere that he went. Sometime around his teens his Dad had given him a choice. A choice, which, as I saw it, would rule out the life which he would lead. The choice was to either go to reform school, or to go to barber school. To take his life and throw it away, or to make it into something. To take the easy path, or to take the hard. And even though it seemed he hated so many things, namely life, he had still made the right choice. He had chosen barber school. This choice had changed his life for the better. He had then become a barber, working along side others. After doing that for some time, he had rented out his own barber shop, giving five-dollar haircuts and being his own boss. It was at that moment that how hard of a life my Grandpa must have lived really became a truth into my mind, something which I actually saw. I felt a very keen sense of respect for him, one that went so deep into me that it became something which I could relate to and contrast into my own daily life. It gave me a sense of inspiration, a sense of if he could make something out of nothing, then shouldn?t I be able to if I have a will and an effort? Couldn?t even those transients make something out of the nothing that they had, no matter how small? And as he turned his wrinkled, admirable face toward me, I couldn?t help but feel that sense of deep understanding, of deep inspiration, that sense of deep respect. I don?t know if he felt it, but I certainly did. And all he did was simply turn his head, and said as if it were the easiest realization he had ever known: ?That?s right, that could?ve been me.?

[size=1] And does it appear I care? Obviously not, since by posting that I was contradicting what is allowed. People shall do it nontheless, whatever we as Mods say. [/size]

[size=1] Just because you've posted some anatomy crap you've learned, and some [i]assumption[/i] as to how women feel when they undergo various things, you're still only using things as fickle as words. You're still using things as fickle as unknowning. You've still never ever felt what it's like to be gay, you have never been [i]actually[/i] in their skin and crawled around. Women do think differently than men. It's being quite atrocious to say, "I know everything about women. Even how they feel when they are having their period." You don't. You have never EXPERIENCED it. You have never FELT it. You have never even seen a woman and what it looks like as they go through their menstration cycle. To say you know things is to be petty and dramatic and all-in-all not seeing the point. TN's point is you don't know any more than any other guy about women. What you learn in textbooks and from words doesn't begin to show you what it's like at all. Posting quote by quote what he says and being stubborn to see this is what TN thinks is to act prissy and like you know everything. It is to be condenscending and rude. Can't you at least see what TN is saying? Can't you look at something from more than just one stupid, I-think-this angle? I guess not. If you want to sound intelligent at least quote his quotes correctly and spell correctly. Just posting a verbose amount of the same thing you already said before to TN isn't going to force your opinion on anyone. It is going to make them sick and tired of your stubbornness and ununderstanding. Not to mention this thread isn't even about what you're arguing about. [/size]

the ecstasies will smile in your face as yellow as piss as yellow as toilet water as yellow as a banana's sliced, bleeding skin. and through your ribs--your teeth--your tongue as cold as sludge, the feces of pleasure the feeling of taste. the ecstasies will smile across your face. like decaying teeth, yellow with plaque yellow with death, roots and canals built to serve the purpose of chewing and munching. some cold zombie, yellow-eyed. yellow fever, draining and grime. smile sweet one, the taste of candy is in your lungs breathing to me from your gaping smile. smile sweet one, the taste of happiness is in your head buzzing like a fly, all dead. you're as sweet as butter and as fat as the sun. as yellow as baked fire in my lungs. you're as yellow as piss swimming in a toilet. and i'm just the dog to the lick the bowl.

[size=1] Just upload it in a random post on OB, copy the link to the uploaded banner, add the [img] [ /img] tags and plop it in your sig. Problem solved. It averts having to find some host, having to worry about file formats, everything.[/size]

[size=1] To make mistakes is only to be human. If it bothers you learn to get over it. Everyone does it. Not having confidence in yourself leads to low self-esteem. Self-esteem is an easily enough obtained thing. Making mistakes shouldn't be that effacing. You'll eventually learn not to get so weak and infirm over such little matters.[/size]