Mood: O6.O6.1O O6.O6.1O
41 seconds ago from Mobile
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Translation into English (a service, Nessa, that I will provide for free): "You know I'm right when I say your girlfriend is a poser! Because I was right with the first one and I'll be right with the next one and I'm right about this one. Ha." (Again, no payment or thanks required for the furnishing of this service that I gave you.)l
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Douglas
Douglas:
Translation into English (a service, Nessa, that I will provide for free): "You know I'm right when I say your girlfriend is a poser! Because I was right with the first one and I'll be right with the next one and I'm right about this one. Ha." (Again, no payment or thanks required for the furnishing of this service that I gave you.)
Yuuh Nah What Sucks Is When Yuuh Really Lyhked Someone Buh Then Yuuh Go To Find Out After Yuuh Dated Them That They Were A Poser.! Ima justa sayinq
Mood: O6.O6.1O O6.O6.1O
10 minutes ago from Mobile
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Nessa, you seem like a nice girl, and I hate to correct you, but this grammar and spelling, lack of punctuation and over-capitalization of all words and letters, it is just atrocious! (And sorry to patronize you, but that means "bad"!) I hope you will take steps to learn to create an understandable, readable, sensible sentence in the future. Let us please respect our great language...or else, use another.l
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I will now attempt to not only correct your atrocious sentence, but to translate it into English, verbatim: "You know what sucks is when you really liked someone but then you go to find out after you dated them that they were a poser! I'm just saying." Also, all girls do this-not the poor spelling, capitalization and grammar, but rather, the dating of morons who they only realize are and were and will forever be poseurs and morons after they've dated them. This is the scourge of our times and why great, witty, handsome, wonderful men like myself can not seem to find a girlfriend, nor even a fuckbuddy, which the vileness of contemporary relationships has forced me to seek more actively than a girlfriend.
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Douglas
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Nessa, you seem like a nice girl, and I hate to correct you, but this grammar and spelling, lack of punctuation and over-capitalization of all words and letters, it is just atrocious! (And sorry to patronize you, but that means "bad"!) I hope you will take steps to learn to create an understandable, readable, sensible sentence in the future. Let us please respect our great language...or else, use another.
Mood: O6.O6.1O O6.O6.1O
10 minutes ago from Mobile
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Add comment...
Nessa, you seem like a nice girl, and I hate to correct you, but this grammar and spelling, lack of punctuation and over-capitalization of all words and letters, it is just atrocious! (And sorry to patronize you, but that means "bad"!) I hope you will take steps to learn to create an understandable, readable, sensible sentence in the future. Let us please respect our great language...or else, use another.l
Submit
I will now attempt to not only correct your atrocious sentence, but to translate it into English, verbatim: "You know what sucks is when you really liked someone but then you go to find out after you dated them that they were a poser! I'm just saying." Also, all girls do this-not the poor spelling, capitalization and grammar, but rather, the dating of morons who they only realize are and were and will forever be poseurs and morons after they've dated them. This is the scourge of our times and why great, witty, handsome, wonderful men like myself can not seem to find a girlfriend, nor even a fuckbuddy, which the vileness of contemporary relationships has forced me to seek more actively than a girlfriend.
*
Douglas
Douglas Just Now
Nessa, you seem like a nice girl, and I hate to correct you, but this grammar and spelling, lack of punctuation and over-capitalization of all words and letters, it is just atrocious! (And sorry to patronize you, but that means "bad"!) I hope you will take steps to learn to create an understandable, readable, sensible sentence in the future. Let us please respect our great language...or else, use another.
It is my intent to write about the Sometime Time that I believe is imminent. I feel I should admonish all of the populace as to the potential detriment of the sometime time. Sometime, that time may be coming, and when that Sometime Time arrives, it will be quite sometime before anyone gets to a clock to find out what time it is (you see, I like jokes and I hate constantly filling out reports and profiles and other utter shit about myself. Yes, I am fairly great, but that does not mean that I only want to talk and write about myself within stupid established parameters all day long; perhaps if I could create the parameters within which I must stand and by which I must abide, then I might be more willing to engage in utter nonsense of this variety. However, that is not the case here, so I wrote a joke instead).
(Note: The following is an addition to my previous note and could just as well be entitled: "A Description of The Potential Stranding: A Premonitory Reverie" Well, enjoy, for here it is: )
Black, rubbery shreds, lying castoff on the roadside, among the mica and the myriads of glinting, argent quartz that speckled and pebbled the asphalt. Maybe one or two of the shards would become airborne, flying high, wide and crazy and land with a hollow but potent thud deep among the weedy lot that housed an octagonal sumac thicket of tremendous size. Perhaps the arc they would describe as they went aloft would be a wild, wide circle of some sort. Perhaps it would seem that the sumac thicket had been pelted by the blackish shreds. The wind might blow among them, turning them, twisting them, moving them, pushing them along so that they seemed like a tumbleweed, and the area near them like a desert, like that wide, longitudinal lot some miles to the southeast, closer to the edge and the coast of the town, that once contained a local convenience store of great renown and the mountainous midden of accumulated greyish dirt and gravel that lay at the extreme end of that dusty, dirty, scruffy weedy lot. A lot fringed with hirsute tufts of verdant grass, clinging to the edges and growing profusely without check. Dancing chaotically, seductively in the seaborne breezes that buffeted that littoral area. That might be his fate, to be stranded, lost and alone, ignored and among the vacant lots and tiny copses, all scruffy with weeds, that dotted that escarpment-rife, oddly terraced and descending to the orbicular hub of the town: The Kittery Traffic Circle; an area whose center was open and free, but whose sides and fringes were havens of swamps, wooded hills, gravelly ridges and weedy, empty, dusty lots. It was not a pleasant thought. He hoped fervently that it was not a premonitory in anyway. Just a farfetched, paranoid thought-nothing more. He would not end up in weedy lot, bordered by structural eyesores like that nearby crumbling, faded, ancient, peeling filling station and the lines and blobs of sumac trees, some faint and dreamy in the bluish haze created by the sense of distance, others rearing up like some tropical, nemoral beast, ready to immolate him or any intruder. This thought, with the exception of the portion that compared close sumac thickets to a behemoth that would devour him, was much more realistic, reassuring and comforting, sans any and all of the pathetic, cringing moribundity of the previous one. Maybe the nearby lots that lingered on the sides of the sloping, convex hill had a stark, morbid, terrible poetic beauty, but that did not mean that he wanted to be lingering forever or even ephemerally among them.
Posted by Dcool27 at 9:57 AM
Black, rubbery shreds, lying castoff on the roadside, among the mica and the myriads of glinting, argent quartz that speckled and pebbled the asphalt. Maybe one or two of the shards would become airborne, flying high, wide and crazy and land with a hollow but potent thud deep among the weedy lot that housed an octagonal sumac thicket of tremendous size. Perhaps the arc they would describe as they went aloft would be a wild, wide circle of some sort. Perhaps it would seem that the sumac thicket had been pelted by the blackish shreds. The wind might blow among them, turning them, twisting them, moving them, pushing them along so that they seemed like a tumbleweed, and the area near them like a desert, like that wide, longitudinal lot some miles to the southeast, closer to the edge and the coast of the town, that once contained a local convenience store of great renown and the mountainous midden of accumulated greyish dirt and gravel that lay at the extreme end of that dusty, dirty, scruffy weedy lot. A lot fringed with hirsute tufts of verdant grass, clinging to the edges and growing profusely without check. Dancing chaotically, seductively in the seaborne breezes that buffeted that littoral area. That might be his fate, to be stranded, lost and alone, ignored and among the vacant lots and tiny copses, all scruffy with weeds, that dotted that escarpment-rife, oddly terraced and descending to the orbicular hub of the town: The Kittery Traffic Circle; an area whose center was open and free, but whose sides and fringes were havens of swamps, wooded hills, gravelly ridges and weedy, empty, dusty lots. It was not a pleasant thought. He hoped fervently that it was not a premonitory in anyway. Just a farfetched, paranoid thought-nothing more. He would not end up in weedy lot, bordered by structural eyesores like that nearby crumbling, faded, ancient, peeling filling station and the lines and blobs of sumac trees, some faint and dreamy in the bluish haze created by the sense of distance, others rearing up like some tropical, nemoral beast, ready to immolate him or any intruder. This thought, with the exception of the portion that compared close sumac thickets to a behemoth that would devour him, was much more realistic, reassuring and comforting, sans any and all of the pathetic, cringing moribundity of the previous one. Maybe the nearby lots that lingered on the sides of the sloping, convex hill had a stark, morbid, terrible poetic beauty, but that did not mean that he wanted to be lingering forever or even ephemerally among them.
Posted by Dcool27 at 9:57 AM
He drove along the road, sunlight shining down onto the hardtop, green leaves gilded auriferous by the sun. In looking at his oblong, rectangular rearview mirror, he could not only see those things he and his car had left behind, like the long, wide stretch of road behind him, but also his face, on which were placed his sunglasses and he could see more reflections through them, too. The road was on a manmade ridge that extended for at least two miles and that passed through an area thick with either trees or plains and open spaces. He had gained access to the road from a ramp a few miles back, one that led from his old neighborhood. Along certain sides of the road, there were a few stands and thickets of those tropical-looking, razor-bladed, top-flowering sumac trees. He drove straight for the road was linear itself and he played the music on his component vehicular cd player very obstreperously. The song was anthemic, the great "I Just Want To Celebrate" by Rare Earth, that had been recorded and released long ago, in 1970. Of course, this was forty years later. And the music coming out of most people's stereos was contemporary and it was then either rap or country and that was about it. It seemed like no one listened to good, listenable, real and pleasant music anymore-just crap. So much metaphorical excrement poured forth from contemporaneous stereo speakers. But not his. He hummed along with the music, and tapped his long, gaunt fingers on the rim of the circular blue-vinyl steering wheel. Soon, the song changed. It was replaced by "I Know I'm Losing You" also by Rare Earth-for he was listening to a seven-track Rare Earth compilation-but which had originally been done by The Temptations, yet obviously the two versions were vastly different; and besides, he didn't that he had ever heard the Temptations's version, anyway. It seemed the definitive and most incendiary and visceral rendition of the lyric was that performed by Rare Earth. There was a primal quality, a stark, stunning urgency to the music and it pounded and pulsated, like a great, rhythmic heart. It was the quintessential summer day: glorious, gilded and bright with aureate sunlight. Chiarscuro seemed omnipresent. Branches waved delicately but noticeably in the balmy sea-toned breezes. He had just dropped his bratty brother off at his seaside-appointed place of employment; not a culinary paradise, even though it was a restaurant; and had gone on an almost intentional tour of his past, as he skirted through fair Kittery, land and harbor, home and nation supreme of his youth. Part of that tour, that now, though he was still in Kittery, seemed almost concluded as he sped along the linear conduit to Eliot, Route One Bypass, in other words, yet part of that tour of memory lane had included a brief drive past his childhood neighborhood. Things had changed severely in that environ, and as he drove by at better than thirty, he briefly contemplated stopping and going up the hilly driveway and knocking on the door of his once-home, asking to look inside, saying he used to live there as a child, that he grew up there, and he thought all this as he stared up at the tan-yellowish facade of the apartment building in which he grew up. That however, had been more than five minutes ago, and a whole other song had been blaring stentorian from the speakers or "I Just Want To Celebrate"-the ultimate anthem of summertime and youth and happiness-had just begun to blaze and scream and pound, emitting, emanating from his oblong, posterior-located speakers. Often they created a pulsing wall of stentorian sound, something that was almost deafening and unbearable for the rear passengers; when there were rear passengers, that is. Thankfully, that was not often, so he could blare his music (good music, music that deserved to be, that should have been blared and broadcasted all around; unlike the other crap squirming around, squeezing out of tainted speakers nowadays) as much and as loud as he wanted to, and if the windows were down, then the obstreperousness of it had virtually no detrimental effect on him. The intrusive, reverie-disturbing noisy whir and roll of the rear tires came wafting in, and irritated him, bringing him out of his little reverie. Even turning up the volume would not help to drown out that awful sound, that faintly ominous sound. It was a noise that could only conjure up images of stalls and stops and crashes by the roadside. Horrible visions of being stranded alone and helpless even beneath the flawlessly, cloudless blue sky and the balmy, auriferous sun, with the dulcet chirping of treed birds all around him, and no help and one or both of his posterior rubbery radials fragmented and splintered. Paranoid yet not entirely unwarranted images like these flooded his mind, disrupting it, addling it, ruining his happiness, drowning out and concealing the demulcent strains of his music. Yet, he shook it off somehow. Perhaps by supplanting a memory or two from his childhood-the very memories that came flooding back so much, so often now, so hard and crushing, even the best and happiest of them. They were unbidden, involuntary and staggering in their power and realness. They had an almost tangible quality-they were even more powerful than sense-memories; perhaps because they were not composed of merely one sense, but all of them simultaneously, inundating and overwhelming his beleaguered brain with a terrific, detrimental surplus of data. Thankfully, in the midst of this deluge, he managed to maintain paltry but necessary control of his vehicle. Otherwise, his death would have been assured. An assured and honest event. Yet he had a certain amount of luck-as last night's brush with the local law had shown almost unequivocally. But that was another story. All that remained now was to arrive home, in Eliot, and leave the sweet, pleasant, semi-humble detritus of his past, and of fairest Kittery behind. Despite the fact that among other things, other acts, he longed to walk around his old neighborhood, roving across the breadth of it (or at least of it's outskirts) via the large sidewalks that fronted almost every yard and home in that area. But he couldn't; his day would be far too busy today. Too many things-few of them really fun or healthy or beneficial-to do. Though he was rather passive usually, this overstock of errands and activity had become a diurnal process now. One that, being quotidian, was far too frequent. But at least it got him out of the house, away from the charming but deadly computer-on which he spent way too much time; but then, didn't also his whole generation? A computer generation if there ever was one. He descended the hill, the one that had previously afforded a wide and grand view of the Kittery Traffic Circle, 7-11 and Dairy Queen and the beautifully-landscaped circular greensward in the midst of it all, and the swamps, hills and forests ringing it all, the one that now showed nothing but a screen of thick trees and bushes, with large and small thickets of sumac and single stands of sumac chiefest among them, and joined the artery of Route One, in the forked junction where the two disparate thoroughfares met, and headed along it, up it's rambling ramp, to home. From what and where was once his home. His home-his only true home.
A Yearned-for Time and Locale: A Essayistic, Descriptive, Autobiographical Writing O' Mine 6/06
If there is one bookstore that I spent a lot of time at that I miss and yearn for more than any other, with the possible exception of Laureate's, it is Stroudwater's Books, which used to be located on Lafayette Road/Route One in Portsmouth, NH at and in a plaza where I often spent much time as a younger child. It was one of the first places that I saw and began to read some of the books by some of the authors (Stephen King chief among them) that would delight, terrify and greatly influence me as a writer and as a reader-a voracious, ravenous reader. It was clearly a forerunner to Barnes N' Noble-even as old as that supposedly is-in that it had a cafe of sorts towards it's rear. I went to that cafe once or twice and one memorable time, had my first cappuccino, which I hated. I remember that somewhat adjacent to the cafe section, there was a large segment of the store devoted to the selling and display of used books-some of which, many of which I got over time. I used to go to that plaza that housed it (a plaza that now sports such eclectic, outlandish places as Planet Fitness, Kinko's Copies, Londonderry Pianos, Ethan Allan or Pier One, and Philbricks Farm Fresh Market...in fact, Philbricks stands on the exact spot on which Stroudwaters once-in 1993 to 1999-stood), back in the days when I was like six or seven or so and Woolworth's was still extant. Yet, after Woolworth's closed it's doors, I did not really go to that plaza again until Stroudwater's opened. So there was like at least a two or three year gap between the last time I was at Woolworth's and the first time I was at Stroudwaters, which I went to once or twice with my diminutive Freshman gym class in 1998 when Mr. Buzzel coached it. But that is yet another story, a mere fabric that is a part of the vast tapestry of my life and the mini-arras built into it that housed my history with Stroudwaters and all the special memories I had of that place-the entire layout of which I can recall extraordinarily, photographically well. I could easily describe it right down to the tiniest detail, even though it has been about eleven years since I was last there. In fact, I can remember one of the last times I went there. It was in July or August of 1999 and I bought my first copy of the LOTR trilogy there...though of course, that was not the first book or books I ever bought there. Still, I could tell many a story about that time and that place. And that area-for not only could I describe the interior of the store, but the exterior, the surrounding environment, the roads and the parking lot, the soaring radio antenna behind it, and the radio station that sat adjacent to it, and the Margarita's Mexican Restaurant that flanked the opposite, far end of it; all that and more could I describe and will I describe...later, in another post. For now, let this suffice.
Posted by Dcool27 at 1:36 PM
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+ Information: Facts Regarding Me-My Literary Output...
+ Currently Untitled (IDK>>>WTCT,OK) 6/06
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
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Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
View my complete profile
If there is one bookstore that I spent a lot of time at that I miss and yearn for more than any other, with the possible exception of Laureate's, it is Stroudwater's Books, which used to be located on Lafayette Road/Route One in Portsmouth, NH at and in a plaza where I often spent much time as a younger child. It was one of the first places that I saw and began to read some of the books by some of the authors (Stephen King chief among them) that would delight, terrify and greatly influence me as a writer and as a reader-a voracious, ravenous reader. It was clearly a forerunner to Barnes N' Noble-even as old as that supposedly is-in that it had a cafe of sorts towards it's rear. I went to that cafe once or twice and one memorable time, had my first cappuccino, which I hated. I remember that somewhat adjacent to the cafe section, there was a large segment of the store devoted to the selling and display of used books-some of which, many of which I got over time. I used to go to that plaza that housed it (a plaza that now sports such eclectic, outlandish places as Planet Fitness, Kinko's Copies, Londonderry Pianos, Ethan Allan or Pier One, and Philbricks Farm Fresh Market...in fact, Philbricks stands on the exact spot on which Stroudwaters once-in 1993 to 1999-stood), back in the days when I was like six or seven or so and Woolworth's was still extant. Yet, after Woolworth's closed it's doors, I did not really go to that plaza again until Stroudwater's opened. So there was like at least a two or three year gap between the last time I was at Woolworth's and the first time I was at Stroudwaters, which I went to once or twice with my diminutive Freshman gym class in 1998 when Mr. Buzzel coached it. But that is yet another story, a mere fabric that is a part of the vast tapestry of my life and the mini-arras built into it that housed my history with Stroudwaters and all the special memories I had of that place-the entire layout of which I can recall extraordinarily, photographically well. I could easily describe it right down to the tiniest detail, even though it has been about eleven years since I was last there. In fact, I can remember one of the last times I went there. It was in July or August of 1999 and I bought my first copy of the LOTR trilogy there...though of course, that was not the first book or books I ever bought there. Still, I could tell many a story about that time and that place. And that area-for not only could I describe the interior of the store, but the exterior, the surrounding environment, the roads and the parking lot, the soaring radio antenna behind it, and the radio station that sat adjacent to it, and the Margarita's Mexican Restaurant that flanked the opposite, far end of it; all that and more could I describe and will I describe...later, in another post. For now, let this suffice.
Posted by Dcool27 at 1:36 PM
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* ▼ 2010 (44)
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+ A Yearned-for Time and Locale: A Essayistic, Descr...
+ Information: Facts Regarding Me-My Literary Output...
+ Currently Untitled (IDK>>>WTCT,OK) 6/06
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
My Photo
Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
View my complete profile
Prefatory/Explanatory Note:
In providing you with this secret, sensitive information, I must first forewarn you that most of my work, all of it, really, is unpublished and of all the many hundreds or thousands of writings that I have composed, perhaps as many as forty are no longer in my possession. I have lost a few over the years-some to accident, some to other things...none of which are all that important right now. All that remains, then, now that the prefatory matter is concluded, is to merely list the things I have written. Not, naturally by title, but by category and number. Here are those figures, then (and remember, they are just estimates, I have not yet obtained the true amounts):
Novels: about five...of which four are completed.
Stories and Short Stories: 239, at least...of which seventy are completed.
Songs: 749....of which most are only on tape in audio recordings, they are not, most of them written down.
Poems: 100...of which about 50 are completed.
Essays: 250...of which about 100 or more are completed.
Autobiographical episodes: 59...of which probably 29 are completed.
Sketches (both short plays and very short stories): 75....of which 12 are completed.
Jokes, comical routines, puns, etc: About 350...of which just about all (both audio only and written only) are complete.
Journalism and Diarism (that is, journal and log and diary entries): 157...of which all about ten are completed, perhaps.
And the list, of current and ancient material, stretching back to at least 1992, goes on. And on, and on. On top of all of this plenteous literary or poetic material, there is also about 1000 story and novel ideas, layouts, notes, etc. Truly, I am one of the most productive and prolific and prolix writers, ever. Yet still unknown, even on here...on sweet ol' blogspot.com. And besides all this, and not to be overly arrogant or self-inflating, but: there is also many other talents that I possess. Too many, really. And in most of them I am unfortunately rather rusty. Like my improvisational, impromptu, improvisatory talents, for instance. Yet once, they were there. And now, they are latent at best. I could of course easily trace the origins of this, but that is not the point of this. Being a list is the point and reason for being of this. On this subject there is nothing more to say. At least, not now.
Posted by Dcool27 at 1:06 PM
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* ▼ 2010 (43)
o ▼ June (43)
+ Information: Facts Regarding Me-My Literary Output...
+ Currently Untitled (IDK>>>WTCT,OK) 6/06
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
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Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
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In providing you with this secret, sensitive information, I must first forewarn you that most of my work, all of it, really, is unpublished and of all the many hundreds or thousands of writings that I have composed, perhaps as many as forty are no longer in my possession. I have lost a few over the years-some to accident, some to other things...none of which are all that important right now. All that remains, then, now that the prefatory matter is concluded, is to merely list the things I have written. Not, naturally by title, but by category and number. Here are those figures, then (and remember, they are just estimates, I have not yet obtained the true amounts):
Novels: about five...of which four are completed.
Stories and Short Stories: 239, at least...of which seventy are completed.
Songs: 749....of which most are only on tape in audio recordings, they are not, most of them written down.
Poems: 100...of which about 50 are completed.
Essays: 250...of which about 100 or more are completed.
Autobiographical episodes: 59...of which probably 29 are completed.
Sketches (both short plays and very short stories): 75....of which 12 are completed.
Jokes, comical routines, puns, etc: About 350...of which just about all (both audio only and written only) are complete.
Journalism and Diarism (that is, journal and log and diary entries): 157...of which all about ten are completed, perhaps.
And the list, of current and ancient material, stretching back to at least 1992, goes on. And on, and on. On top of all of this plenteous literary or poetic material, there is also about 1000 story and novel ideas, layouts, notes, etc. Truly, I am one of the most productive and prolific and prolix writers, ever. Yet still unknown, even on here...on sweet ol' blogspot.com. And besides all this, and not to be overly arrogant or self-inflating, but: there is also many other talents that I possess. Too many, really. And in most of them I am unfortunately rather rusty. Like my improvisational, impromptu, improvisatory talents, for instance. Yet once, they were there. And now, they are latent at best. I could of course easily trace the origins of this, but that is not the point of this. Being a list is the point and reason for being of this. On this subject there is nothing more to say. At least, not now.
Posted by Dcool27 at 1:06 PM
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+ Information: Facts Regarding Me-My Literary Output...
+ Currently Untitled (IDK>>>WTCT,OK) 6/06
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
My Photo
Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
View my complete profile
Often, especially when we lived in Kittery, a flurry of activity would suffuse my household. People, including my siblings, parents and me, would hustle and bustle about, especially in the morning, in our tiny apartment-one that may have been cramped but that was otherwise great. Great, at least as far as my rose-colored memories of it go. I remember the living room and assorted other zones within the parameters and perimeters of our apartment and how it was tiny and odd-shaped. How the floors were strange and how some sloped upward, whereas others sloped downward. How one floor was plain wood that had an orange tint, and another was mantled with a threadbare carpet of orange, brown and yellow; some spots of which had been worn and rubbed away to giant patches of solid black. A black that no one knew the origin of-not even me. I remember the different sofas that marched across our living room over the years, and the white-silled windows and the playroom, which was like an enclosed indigent veranda. I remember the yard, and it's immensity. I remember the different trees (including "Down-By-The-Tree") that fringed and infused our property thereon. I remember our odd, half-rural, half-urban environ. I remember the layout of everything within it and the two or three streets that allowed for the triangular, insular wooded plateau on which a portion of our property sat. I remember it and more, but just recently unbidden memories have begun to flood back to me, overwhelming me with their intensity. These are all memories that I could not formerly remember...but daily I receive new ones. Or, old ones, I should say. There is more to the story, but until someone expresses an actual interest in hearing it, what point is there in me wasting my time telling it? Telling it to a dead, deaf and lifeless audience who will not respond? No thank you. I will not do that. Not, unless if it for me-which is all that any of these notes/entries/blogs, etc have been so far. Hopefully, the tide will turn soon, and readers will irrupt, perhaps unbidden, materializing and reading and commenting. Until then, I am done. I can only take so much nothingness before I pack up and move on. Thank you, again, for ignoring me and the gilt words that come pouring forth from my pen that like so much floodwater. A floodwater that those who ignore me should be drowned under. Thank you. Have, all of you, please, what dimly passes for a nice day.
I know that it would be really great, even keen, to post some little autobiographical something (a specimen, perhaps; or an episode from my life, from my rather rose-colored and idyllic, Edenic childhood) but if no one reads it, then what is the point? As you may no doubt currently infer, I am an impatient man. Though I have been on delicious, wondrous, heavenly blogspot.com for at least two to three days now, I have no hits and no followers....yet. That deficiency of subscribers I hope to reverse and increase; yet I am not certain if this can be achieved by being overly honest or confessional. After all, in today's modern world of sublime delights and no decadence or sorrowfulness or atrocity or ignorance whatsoever, no one can brook true honesty for long. It is an affront to all people, apparently. They adore their subterfuge. Thus, if honesty and trust are the foundation of all major relationships, why, if everyone abhors it, does anyone bother having an obviously fake relationship? At least, with this blog page of mine, I can finally tell the world at large the truth that they have so conveniently overlooked for so long-especially women; they have overlooked this particular truth for too long, much to the detriment of whatever iotas remain intact of their self-worth and dignity. I might not be so wont to post such thing as this, but jealousy and a ridiculous, uncalled-for feeling of being excluded are potent sensations, sensations that create bitterness that in turn creates a foundation for scrutiny and the basis for a newfound philosophy. One that abhors stupidity and hurtfulness...especially self-hurtfulness. However, this being not the main subject of this particular entry, I will dispense with that topic for the time being. Rather I intended this to be something else. But I want readers and subscribers (most of whom are, no doubt, too fiendishly ignorant and stupid to understand the first thing that I am writing) and I must pander to them, right? So, in essence, what is it that they want? I don't know and being an intelligent man, one who can tell them what they need, not take foolish suggestions from morons, I don't care. The End.
Posted by Dcool27 at 12:24 PM
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* ▼ 2010 (41)
o ▼ June (41)
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
My Photo
Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
View my complete profile
Posted by Dcool27 at 12:24 PM
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* ▼ 2010 (41)
o ▼ June (41)
+ On The Seeming Futility of Things In General: A Je...
+ Additional Addendums, Emendations, and Amendments ...
+ Brief Addendum 6/06
+ Do Video Games Suck?
+ Are Video Games Better and More Important than Rea...
+ Are Video Games Good?
+ The Nocturnal Incursion: An Unfinished Minimalisti...
+ Christian Nighttime Basketball: A Satirical, Minim...
+ Scans of the Rentunan System: A Science Fiction St...
+ The Preposterous Tale of the SB Bench and Tree (Un...
+ A Quick Story Idea 6/05
+ Antisemitism in America; Especially in The (oft-li...
+ Recent GOM Oleaginous Spillage: Conspiratorial or ...
+ A Brief Addendum of Sorts RE: Problems in Relation...
+ A Previously Elusive Conclusion I Drew Earlier Thi...
+ Just a Few Celeritous Miscellaneous Thoughts 6/04
+ Acting Corridor and Conduit to Eliot and Portsmout...
+ The Two or More Arizonan Trees that Form the Gatew...
+ A Short Description and Vicarious History of What ...
+ 1990's=1970's?: A Brief Symposium, Expose, Essay a...
+ A Reply/Comment on Facebook Outlining a Few Distin...
+ WIthout the Store...Waiting for My Mother: A Brief...
+ The Past (My Past) and The Landmarks, Boundaries a...
+ Certain Missed, Longed-For Things, Places, People....
+ Various Observations (Not Observances, for those a...
+ Myself and My Ideal Dating or Even, Sex, Match: Us...
+ How the Mundane and Everyday Can Become Extramunda...
+ A Retraction of the Former, with New Editorial Ext...
+ A Tour of My Mindset at Various, Sundry Whiles, et...
+ Concerning Travels at Night in Kittery and Portsmo...
+ The Vault-A Tale of Terror, Horror, the Unknown an...
+ An Unfinished Story called: :"The Night, The Howl...
+ Chronicle of my life in K: 1988-1998. PT I-An Intr...
+ A Post Afire-A Tale in However Many Parts as I wan...
+ An Object Rediscovered, Unearthed; or, It Was His-...
+ A Brief Temporal Lament In Verse...no, not really....
+ A Wave Between Two-A Slight Anonymous Romance In B...
+ A Concise Note on Quotidian Writing and My Attenda...
+ On Necropolises; and My Odd, Minute Fascination wi...
+ Temporality versus Location: A Study in Brief of K...
+ A Swift, Laconic Missive Criticizing and Drawing A...
About Me
My Photo
Dcool27
I am a human being, and I exist...strangely, unprecedentedly enough!
View my complete profile
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