I need a title for this idea. Suggestions?
Thanks for the comments on the last blog, they were helpful and insightful. Case in point: new ideas for apartments. Point in case: I think I might post things on www.suckstobeu.com that other people besides me make. Not sure what yet. Maybe I’ll do things like photoshop contests, or, best caption, things like that.
For some reason I’ve always been able to remember my dreams pretty well, and that’s cool because a lot of them have given me great ideas or have just been pretty cool. Well, maybe not cool, but weird enough to stick with me for a few days. I’ve had two dreams recently…
…the first one is about Sophia and wasn’t cool and was a little disturbing. She had just come back from the groomer, and I said, “oh, they forgot to do her ears.” So I get a pair of scissors and cut her ears off. Not “dock” them like a normal Schnauzer, no, I cut them off all together. She had two holes in her head for ears. I was under the impression they’d grow back.
…the second one was like a mix between Lost and Battlestar Galactica. Don’t judge me. I’ll elaborate: Basically I was kind of like “Jack,” and for some reason the world had ended and so me and a group of people had met up and decided to stick together. I don’t recall how the world ended, whether it was an asteroid or nuclear bomb or something, but I think it was man’s own fault. Most of the people were dead, most buildings were destroyed, and people were NUTS. I met up with a few friends and we roamed the country, trying to keep safe from other NUTTY PEOPLE, trying to locate family members and loved ones. We’d meet up with people along the way–some of which we knew, others we just trusted and wanted to have in our group.
At one point, we found someone who knew how to fly so we got a small cargo airplane that we traveled around in. Later, I discovered that we were being hunted; not by animals or creatures or aliens but by a group of other people. Nobody believed me until we were attacked one night and had to escape on the plane. We lost lots of people and had to leave a lot of our stuff behind, but everybody agreed not to doubt me again.
From that point on we would settle in different cities (which had become overgrown with plants and wildlife) until “the Hunters” would track us down and we’d have to move again. We had no idea why they were after us, and at one point we met this beautiful girl who became part of our group, but later ended up being one of the Hunters who infiltrated us. I killed her by dropping a knife into her head from a second story balcony as she was about to kill somebody in our group. Then we got into the plane and moved on again.
Later, we ended up at an airport. Somehow we knew that Australia had survived and life was proceeding mostly as normal over there. The problem was, our plane was too small to make it. So we gutted a 757 (or whatever the biggest plane is), so that we could load it up with barells of jet fuel (scary) so we’d have enough fuel to make the trip. The pilot we had only flew small planes so I made him take off, manuever, and land the 757 by himself before we all got on. He did fine, and we decided to sleep on the 757 that night before leaving in the morning. The problem was, the Hunters had followed us again.
We thought they might, so the night before we had bolted the doors to the airplane and everything. The problem was, when we woke up, we woke up to the sound of a welder cutting into the plane. Sparks were flying, so I got my shotgun ready and told someone to open the hatch (hatch?) to the plane. I shot the motherfucker as the pilot started up the engines. His buddy was scrambling to fight back so I grabbed him and pulled him into the plane. I told somebody to tie him up in the cargo bay on the bottom level while I took care of the Hunters. I got a rocket launcher as we took off and shot at their trucks which exploded beneath us.
Then I went down to the cargo bay (I’m not sure if planes actually have these but if you’ve seen Air Force One, the following kind of plays just like that). Basically I interrogated him and found out why they were after us the whole time (I won’t tell you because I might make this into something, you see). I chained him up and let him dangle out of the plane as it flew over the Atlantic. Half way through I had our pilot slow the plane and fly real low. I unhooked the chain and he hit the water… I know in real life hitting the water at that speed would be like hitting concrete, except for some reason that didn’t happen and so the sharks got him.
Anyway, we ended up in Austrailia after having to figure out a way to refuel the plane in mid-air with the fuel barrells we had brought with us. Then we arrived in Austrailia and lived happily ever after (question mark???)
*****
You know what? I miss Lost. And I’m mad that, once it comes back on in January, it’ll only be on for 16 weeks. That’s not a lot. Then we’ll be waiting all over again. As much as I like this new trend in television, why can’t it be like the old days? It sucked at the time, but I’d almost rather have it be like it was in season two, where they’d show a new episode, then two repeats, then a few new ones, then some more repeats. Or, have it premiere in September for 2 months, go on hiatus, have Act 2 in January/February, go on hiatus for 2 months, then finish up in May.
Basically, I’m just going through withdrawals. Withdraws? I’m taking money I don’t have out of the ATM called “Lost.”
I have more to say but this is too long. Later, hoes. Thanks for reading.
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Exile
Once, when I was little (I’m not sure how old, maybe third grade?), I had notebooks of lined paper. I didn’t like the elementary style notebooks so I always insisted on buying the college ruled ones. I can’t remember how many I had, but on my desk it seemed like there was always a few.
I didn’t have access to a computer or typewriter at that point so back in those days I’d hand write everything. Most of the stories revolved around things I was reading, usually aliens or other mysterious things, like RL Stile or Bruce Coville. Their books had illustrations so I decided that mine should, too.
I remember one particular notebook pretty well. I filled up half the notebook, and I had decided the story was halfway complete. I filled the margins with illustrations. I remember spending hours writing the story and working on the illustrations, mostly on the weekends at my dad’s house because there was little else to do.
My dad would always read them—it was something I really looked forward to, working on a story and then having him sit and read it out loud so that my brother could hear it, too. Sometimes I would write things just to hear him say it out loud later on. Back then we’d all get up before the sunrise (it was a farm, after all), and after breakfast we’d sit around the wood burning stove as he read. They’d listen. They’d laugh at the parts that were funny and they’d express surprise as the story developed.
I’d often share them with my grandpa and grandma, too, after they came over, usually on Saturday nights for dinner. One time my grandpa said “this should be published.” That meant a lot to me because I knew he appreciated a good story. We used to watch The Animated Adventures of Batman together, and he’d defend it when people would poke-fun at the fact we were watching a cartoon. He’d say it had a great story.
Most of the time my uncle and aunt came over, too. One day, I remember handing that particular half-filled, illustrated notebook to my uncle. He opened it up, and I decided to give him some time to read it.
He was talking to my grandma and grandpa, just the kind of casual conversation adults had back then. I didn’t mind, my story could wait. About a half hour later, I went up to him and said “did you read any of it?” expecting him to say “no, I’ll have to get to it when I have time,” or “not yet.” I wouldn’t have been upset, I mostly just wanted it back because I had an idea to continue the story.
But instead, he closed the notebook and gave it back to me. “Yes, very good, Adam, it’s really good,” he said, without even looking at me.
It was the first time I knew someone lied to me, because I had been watching him from across the room the entire time.
For some reason the notebook lost it’s value after that, and I don’t know what happened to it. It might have ended up in the wood burning stove. Either way, that was the last time I remember being so passionate about writing.
Every now and then I’ll get on a writing kick and really start to enjoy it again, and then I’ll start to hear this little voice in the back of my head telling me that people have better things to do than sit and read my weird stories.
I try my hardest not to focus on that. Instead, I try to hear my dad’s voice reading the words on a Saturday morning, the warmth from the wood burning stove on my back, knowing how much fun it was to have somebody listen.
So to those who listen, thank you. You mean the world to me.
