Aw.

I appear to have lost my only follower, unless blogspot is glitching out like it does sometimes.

EDIT: Yup. Glitching.

Hoorah, my ego lives.

Some Practice -- The Date

Just an attempt at writing people as realistically as I can. This'll be done in two parts.

    Phil sat in the restaraunt with a great deal of anxiety hanging over his shoulders. He hadn't been on a date since he was twenty-four, and that was averaging out at about a decade ago. It wasn't that he didn't have time. Instead, it was a matter of nerve. He had always had trouble with women, what they did to his senses, and the fact that his mind raced too fast about things. One moment he was looking at her, the next he was thinking about kids, and all of it goes to hell from there. But he decided to try again, when he met Molly Ivanchuk.
    She was a gorgeous woman, about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. He never had the courage to ask her actual age. He didn't want to screw things up. She was a writer, and a smart one at that. Really liked sci-fi. But she smoked, which was why he was in the smoking section now... it was a habit he would be willing to put up with, for her. She was good enough to ignore little issues like that. She was smart, and funny, and a little grumpy at times but he just thought that made her all the cuter. She wasn't bashful, either.   
    There she is, he thought as she entered the restaurant, rubbing the back of her neck, a clear sign of nervousness. It made him feel better, to know she was nervous too. He hated the feeling that he was the only one who felt like he was bad at this game. Well, not a game. But something close. A dance, a puzzle, something.   
    He took a moment to look her over, and by god, she seemed to be even prettier. Instead of the brown, loose turtleneck and washed out jeans he had seen her in earlier, she was standing their in a deep blue dress, like midnight without any city lights, her pale skin accentuated by the darkness of the fabric as it showed off every curve it covered. Her orange hair was tied up in a bun like last time, but it seemed glammed up, somehow, as if the colour had been intensified, and it framed the most gorgeous face, with soft grey eyes, thin eyebrows, lips ruby red with lipstick...
    "Like what you see," she said with a cheeky grin --her Ukrainian accent still thick-- knocking Phil out of his little daze and into a blush of embarassment "hm?"
    Phil stuttered a little at first, but gathered himself.
    Don't fuck this up, damnit.
    "Heh, yeah..." He looked her up and down again. "Honestly, Mol, you look great." He said with sincerity.   
    She chuckled softly. Not a giggle, thank God, but a chuckle. Deep, but pleasant.
    "I'm glad you think so," she said with the slightest blush on her cheeks "it's not often I dress up."
    She took her seat and smiled at him for a few moments, not saying anything, before, after what seemed like a couple hundred eternities:
    "You look really good yourself, Phil. I really like that shade of grey on you."
    Phil was wearing a full suit, because it was that kind of restaurant, with a green tie and pearl white shirt underneath. He didn't necessarily like suits, because they made him feel like he was still at work in the firm, but this was one that had a special place in his heart, being a gift from his brother before he went off to fight in the Gulf.
    "Thanks, Mol. It was a gift. Did you find the place okay?" He asked, already resorting to cliches.
    Molly nodded, and smiled at him again, her perfect white teeth bared. "You know, Phil, we've gone on a few dates, but, um... We really don't know each other much, you know that?"
    Phil looked down at the table, giving a brief nod in agreement. Somehow, the words made him feel like he had failed, somehow. But what could he tell her? He was an accountant who hadn't had a date in ten years and the most interesting thing that happened to him recently was someone accidentally melting their computer by removing their fan at the office.
    "Well, uh... I guess we should start getting to know each other better, then," he said, mustering up some confidence and hoping it didn't sound as much like an innuendo as he feared it did.
    Molly laughed. That was a good sign. She kept smiling at him, too. That was really good. It made him feel great, even.
    "Alright, well, let's talk about... I don't know, childhoods? Jobs? I mean, you know what I do but I really don't know what you do."
    Phil flushed a little. "Well, um... I'm an accountant."
    Molly just smiled, and nodded. "I thought about doing something like that, since I'm good with numbers and I know business, but... I don't know, I just can't stand the office thing." She slowly drew her finger over to Phil's chin, and tipped it up gently. "But that's what happens when your brother moves around with you a lot."
    "Brother?" Phil asked, wondering if, just perhaps, he should be worried.
    Giving a quick "mmhmm!" of confirmation, a look of joyful nostalgia crossed her face, like someone returning home for the first time in a long while.
    "Yes, my brother," she started "Kostyantin. Loved me dearly, and very protective. Father and mother died early on, but Kostyantin always looked out for me. We jumped from place to place and he homeschooled me... He was never very smart himself, but he was good at communicating ideas and he got help from friends. We only ever really settled down here, in Charlotte, when I needed to go to college, which was aboooouuut... nine years ago, I think. You lose track of time, sometimes."
    Phil raised an eyebrow. "Why did you have to keep moving around?"
    Molly's face took on an air of sadness, subtle but obvious to Phil.
    "Our parents angered the wrong people, back in the USSR, and... Well, the vendetta passed onto us. The problem is dealt with, but it stuck with us for a long time."
    Phil put his hand on Molly's, looking at her with genuine concern. "Listen, I'm sorry I asked. I didn't know you had it tha--"
    Molly put a finger on his lips, her smile returned, much to Phil's relief. "Shh, Phil. It's okay, it's over. Besides, we're getting to know each other, aren't we?"

We're Not Getting Dumber, Damnit.

I hate the movie Idiocracy.

With a passion.

This isn't because of artistic merit or actual quality of the film. It is because it has become an excuse for every smarmy cockhole on the planet to say "oh, the plebeians are taking over (and yes, some people have actually used the word plebeian. Well, they tried, until I forced them to eat their own eyes)  and this is what humanity is going to look like." We're not. The uneducated, the unintelligent, have always outnumbered the genuinely smart and they're definitely still here. In fact, there's a lot more, now. But this movie is like masturbation to the people with superiority complexes. The people who say the world is getting dumber almost never include themselves, as if they're some paragon of intelligence and wisdom. They're not. They're a paragon of cocks. The creme de la creme of anal hemmhoraging.


It's tantamount to auto-fellatio. Of course we're not getting dumber. Why the Hell would we be? I know a hell of a lot more than the average medieval peasant and so does everyone else. I know more than my great-great grandparents did at the turn of the century. I can tell you a little bit about string theory, I understand prose, I can tell you everything about the Burgundians and the Franks during the Dark Ages.


So no, we're not getting dumber. It's just people who need a reason to feel superior now have an outlet.

Sleep.

I sleep a lot. That's the short version of this post. If you don't want to read about my problems, don't read this post.

It's not that I want to, though I do enjoy sleeping, but constantly feel the need to. Even now, when I'm going to bed at a time one might even call respectable (which is, again, against my will) I'm still tired the next day at eightish. I really don't know what's causing it. I've been fully grown for a long time, but back when I was younger, say around sixteen, I had a similar problem for a while when I was growing/going to bed at the time even a vampire would cringe at.  But now it's just happening. I guess it's my body trying to tell me I'm doing something wrong but I'll be damned if I know what it is. My friend, who shall from now on be known as Jester, thought perhaps it was either too much stress or none at all. I'm not sure I agree, but I will admit a lot of things can stress me out.

In any case, it's pissing me off. I think I'm just going to go stock up on red bull and espressos and blitz the tiredness out of existence, then let it laugh as the crash comes. That seems to be the plan.

ADDENDUM: Another great thought by the Jester -- I am actually attempting hibernation through the winter.


I fucking hate winter.