[Salutation] [Name],
I just wanted to fill you in on the [Name] thing. The reason for the [noun] being [verb, past] [adjective] was indeterminate so I [verb, past] [company] to find out why they didn’t [verb] [noun]. I assume they [verb] the [noun] because the [place] [noun, pl.] say, “[boring business sentence]” from last [day of the week]. I’m also assuming they [verb, past] those [noun, pl.] either because the [noun, pl.] of [noun] were outside the [noun] or, as you suggested, there was some [adjective] [noun] or [adjective] [noun] or something that resulted in [noun, pl.]. For now I’m just leaving the [noun] [adjective] and not [verb, present progressive] the [noun]. The [company] [noun, collective] are used to waiting on [noun, pl.] so I don’t [verb] it should [verb]. I’ll let you know when I hear back from [name].
[Valediction],
[Name]
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
List of fears, part II
- Boating accident
- Botulism
- Building collapse
- Shooting, accidental
- Shooting, targeted
- Gangrene
- Lice, head
- Lice, body
- Electrocution
- Constipation
- Car accident, nonfatal
- Car accident, fatal
- Overdose, anesthesia
- Prison
- Homelessness
- Thousands of rats simultaneously licking me
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
List of fears, part I (in the order in which they occurred to me)
- Heart attack
- Serious infection resulting in death
- Amputation, leg
- Amputation, arm
- Amputation, hand
- Amputation, thumb
- Incontinence
- Cancer, lung
- Cancer, throat
- Cancer, jaw
- Cancer, colon
- Cancer, stomach
- Cancer, brain
- Cancer, blood
- Cancer, bone
- Cancer, testicles
- Accidental castration
- Purposeful castration
- Public speaking
- Disfiguring car accident
- Severe burns
- Death by fire
- Impotency
- Rotten teeth
- Rabies
- Assault, public bathroom
- Assault, dark alleyway
- Tentacled monster living behind my mother's garage
- Attacked by pack of dogs
- Blindness, sudden
- Blindness, gradual
- Parasites
- Being alone
- Being wrong
- Being perceived as stupid
- Loss of brain function
- Dementia
- Biting off my own tongue
- Disembowelment
- Various viruses (more research necessary)
- Human interaction
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Bl.Bl. - Chapter I
This is the first section of my bachelor's thesis (slightly modified):
Years before I was born, my father had met a man, one Morris Moore, on a train from Philadelphia to Boston. He had boarded the train early, as he customarily did, and taken his seat. Moments before the train departed the station, Mr. Moore entered their shared cabin in a rumpled suit and removed the sagging derby from his head, nodding politely to my father as he did so. My father, impeccably dressed (as always), briefly looked up from his newspaper and acknowledged the greeting in kind. He returned to his paper, loathe to engage this dowdy man in conversation. Mr. Moore, however, after placing his briefcase and overcoat on the seat next to his own, sat across from my father, sighed deeply, and asked my father if he was headed home.
Once more, my father looked up from the paper, surprised, and explained that he was merely conducting some business overnight.
Mr. Moore mentioned that he too had hoped to attend to some business, though that had not gone well. He pulled an engraved pewter and brass flask from his suit jacket and offered my father a sip, mentioning that he wasn't normally much of a drinker, but that sometimes circumstances left few other choices. Shocked by the man's forthrightness and evident lack of class, he shook his head no and stared at him, wide-eyed. It was off-putting to my father, this stranger exposing himself to someone so private and guarded. As my father contemplated how to ignore the man most politely, Mr. Moore said that he had created something ingenious. Unfortunately, no one in Philadelphia would meet with him to discuss it.
Though my father was unwilling to pry, as it was completely contrary to his nature, he was, certainly, intrigued by the man's claim. Unsure of the proper response, and unnerved by Mr. Moore's continued drinking, he mumbled that the situation was unfortunate.
Fortified by spirits, Mr. Moore opened up further, drawing attention to the ink spots on his shirt pocket: an embarrassing and common complaint, he said.
Indeed it was, and my father had indeed fallen victim to the destructiveness of the leaky fountain pen. He found it quite annoying (as did most) and he nodded his head in affirmation.
The trick, Mr. Moore explained, is a threaded cap, like a screw. If the nib can be sealed off, then there will be no chance of ink leaking into the pocket. My father sat slack-jawed for a moment, considering the elegant simplicity of the idea and silently cursing himself for not first thinking of it. He quickly regained his composure and expressed surprise that no one had been willing to pursue the idea.
Mr. Moore once again said that no, no one had yet been interested. That very afternoon, in fact, Mr. Waterman had refused to see him altogether. Would a distinguished gentleman such as my father like to enter into a partnership?
The man was clearly unable or unfit to realize his vision. He was a slave to circumstance, whereas my father saw himself as a powerful catalyst - he could, through sheer force of will, determine his own fate. Mr. Moore could do no such thing, so my father took it upon himself to rescue the design from what he thought would be an otherwise ultimately dismal end. In response to the man's question, he lied, saying that it wasn't exactly his area of expertise and he had little interest in exploring new industries.
Mr. Moore, further dejected, drank from the flask intermittently while my father read the paper. Eventually, he fell asleep.
Shortly after, my father quietly reached across the cabin for Mr. Moore's battered leather briefcase and unlatched it. Careful not to disturb the sleeping man, he reached inside and removed all the papers, making sure that the innovative pen design was contained within them. Once he had found it, and after inspecting the other papers to ensure that no other evidence of the invention remained in Mr. Moore's possession, he placed it in his own briefcase. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it into Mr. Moore's valise, confident that the man would never have received any compensation otherwise. Mr. Moore still slept as the train pulled into South Station and as my father disembarked.
My father told me this when I was in my early twenties, after I had informed him of my intention to join the clergy. As he spoke I sat silently, terrified to interrupt him. He stared, unblinking, at the floor of his office, the arms of his chair gripped with chalk-white knuckles. The last thing he said, before he got up and left me in the room alone, was, "Alea iacta est."
"Deo gratias," I whispered.
Years before I was born, my father had met a man, one Morris Moore, on a train from Philadelphia to Boston. He had boarded the train early, as he customarily did, and taken his seat. Moments before the train departed the station, Mr. Moore entered their shared cabin in a rumpled suit and removed the sagging derby from his head, nodding politely to my father as he did so. My father, impeccably dressed (as always), briefly looked up from his newspaper and acknowledged the greeting in kind. He returned to his paper, loathe to engage this dowdy man in conversation. Mr. Moore, however, after placing his briefcase and overcoat on the seat next to his own, sat across from my father, sighed deeply, and asked my father if he was headed home.
Once more, my father looked up from the paper, surprised, and explained that he was merely conducting some business overnight.
Mr. Moore mentioned that he too had hoped to attend to some business, though that had not gone well. He pulled an engraved pewter and brass flask from his suit jacket and offered my father a sip, mentioning that he wasn't normally much of a drinker, but that sometimes circumstances left few other choices. Shocked by the man's forthrightness and evident lack of class, he shook his head no and stared at him, wide-eyed. It was off-putting to my father, this stranger exposing himself to someone so private and guarded. As my father contemplated how to ignore the man most politely, Mr. Moore said that he had created something ingenious. Unfortunately, no one in Philadelphia would meet with him to discuss it.
Though my father was unwilling to pry, as it was completely contrary to his nature, he was, certainly, intrigued by the man's claim. Unsure of the proper response, and unnerved by Mr. Moore's continued drinking, he mumbled that the situation was unfortunate.
Fortified by spirits, Mr. Moore opened up further, drawing attention to the ink spots on his shirt pocket: an embarrassing and common complaint, he said.
Indeed it was, and my father had indeed fallen victim to the destructiveness of the leaky fountain pen. He found it quite annoying (as did most) and he nodded his head in affirmation.
The trick, Mr. Moore explained, is a threaded cap, like a screw. If the nib can be sealed off, then there will be no chance of ink leaking into the pocket. My father sat slack-jawed for a moment, considering the elegant simplicity of the idea and silently cursing himself for not first thinking of it. He quickly regained his composure and expressed surprise that no one had been willing to pursue the idea.
Mr. Moore once again said that no, no one had yet been interested. That very afternoon, in fact, Mr. Waterman had refused to see him altogether. Would a distinguished gentleman such as my father like to enter into a partnership?
The man was clearly unable or unfit to realize his vision. He was a slave to circumstance, whereas my father saw himself as a powerful catalyst - he could, through sheer force of will, determine his own fate. Mr. Moore could do no such thing, so my father took it upon himself to rescue the design from what he thought would be an otherwise ultimately dismal end. In response to the man's question, he lied, saying that it wasn't exactly his area of expertise and he had little interest in exploring new industries.
Mr. Moore, further dejected, drank from the flask intermittently while my father read the paper. Eventually, he fell asleep.
Shortly after, my father quietly reached across the cabin for Mr. Moore's battered leather briefcase and unlatched it. Careful not to disturb the sleeping man, he reached inside and removed all the papers, making sure that the innovative pen design was contained within them. Once he had found it, and after inspecting the other papers to ensure that no other evidence of the invention remained in Mr. Moore's possession, he placed it in his own briefcase. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it into Mr. Moore's valise, confident that the man would never have received any compensation otherwise. Mr. Moore still slept as the train pulled into South Station and as my father disembarked.
My father told me this when I was in my early twenties, after I had informed him of my intention to join the clergy. As he spoke I sat silently, terrified to interrupt him. He stared, unblinking, at the floor of his office, the arms of his chair gripped with chalk-white knuckles. The last thing he said, before he got up and left me in the room alone, was, "Alea iacta est."
"Deo gratias," I whispered.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Rondelet I
On this missile
Alone and aimless we do ride.
On this missile
Temporal – our craft, a thistle.
Not life within formaldehyde;
Impermanence, where we reside
On this missile.
Alone and aimless we do ride.
On this missile
Temporal – our craft, a thistle.
Not life within formaldehyde;
Impermanence, where we reside
On this missile.
Friday, April 1, 2011
The normality of the regular day, pt. 1
It was a day like any other. A Thursday like any other, to be precise. I awoke to the usual beeps from my alarm clock. "Good morning, little buddy," I said to my cat, Randy. He followed me from the bedroom into the kitchen, where I opened a can of food for him and dumped it into his bowl. It smelled okay but I decided not to have any breakfast, like most mornings.
While Randy ate, I went to the bathroom and took care of my morning routine. I brushed my teeth, evacuated my bowels, and took a lukewarm shower, just the way I like it. After the shower I carefully combed my hair and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. I had laid out my clothes the previous evening so I didn't have any choices to make. Just the way I like it. I put my shirt on and mussed up my perfect comb job, as usual, so I had to go back to the bathroom and fix that mistake. The morning was quickly becoming frustrating, like most mornings.
I finally got my hair back in place and put on the rest of my clothes (pants, belt, socks, shoes, tie [clip-on, for ease of use]). Randy sat on the floor and stared me down as I did so, managing to unnerve me slightly. I'm a nervous guy, and I don't like being looked at. What else can I say? Why am I defending myself to you?
In any case, I was almost ready to go to work. I shoved some Kleenex in my pockets and grabbed my keys and cell phone, even though I knew taking the phone was largely pointless because the only people I knew were my coworkers, and we weren't particularly close. They would really have no reason to call me, whether I was at the office or not. But I took the phone anyway, as a kind of insurance against whatever unforeseen unfortunate event might happen. At least 911 would answer my calls. I hoped.
I got in my car and turned the radio to a non-station (85.3), so I would hear the soothing sounds of static during my hellish commute of 15 minutes. Granted, sometimes the drive only took ten minutes, or sometimes as few as five, but it was torturous nonetheless. Other road warriors would honk and curse and shake their fists at me, speeding by and glaring. They displayed all manners of rudeness, really, and this day was no different.
I reached the parking lot at work and breathed deeply to calm myself down after I had parked. After a few minutes of hyperventilating, I was somehow ready for the rest of the morning.
"Good morning, Hortense," I said to Hortense as I walked into the building. She nodded and half-smiled in reply. I wondered if she had some kind of facial muscular disability, since I'd never seen her fully smile. Or maybe she was ashamed of her teeth for some reason, and wanted to hide them. Either way, her half-smile slightly unnerved me that day, like every other day. I scuttled past her as quickly as my too-short legs would allow and arrived at my office.
I sat down at my desk and wondered what I would do today. My job title was CSOM IV, which stood for something that apparently was not necessary for me to know in order to do my job. I also wasn't exactly sure what the company I worked for did, other than some kind of consulting, whatever that means. I didn't have the desire or wherewithal to investigate further, and it never came up in conversation because I so rarely spoke to anyone outside of the office. Even within the office itself, the topic of what exactly we were all doing, what purpose we were working towards, was never broached. No matter. I knew my duties: receive forms, study them, input them into our system and pass them along to someone else. Sometimes the forms were different, but the principle remained the same whether they were CRFs, CFs, S3s, TRAICs, or whatever else. I remembered seeing a few EE7s when I first started, but they must have been phased out shortly after. I loved my job.
While Randy ate, I went to the bathroom and took care of my morning routine. I brushed my teeth, evacuated my bowels, and took a lukewarm shower, just the way I like it. After the shower I carefully combed my hair and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. I had laid out my clothes the previous evening so I didn't have any choices to make. Just the way I like it. I put my shirt on and mussed up my perfect comb job, as usual, so I had to go back to the bathroom and fix that mistake. The morning was quickly becoming frustrating, like most mornings.
I finally got my hair back in place and put on the rest of my clothes (pants, belt, socks, shoes, tie [clip-on, for ease of use]). Randy sat on the floor and stared me down as I did so, managing to unnerve me slightly. I'm a nervous guy, and I don't like being looked at. What else can I say? Why am I defending myself to you?
In any case, I was almost ready to go to work. I shoved some Kleenex in my pockets and grabbed my keys and cell phone, even though I knew taking the phone was largely pointless because the only people I knew were my coworkers, and we weren't particularly close. They would really have no reason to call me, whether I was at the office or not. But I took the phone anyway, as a kind of insurance against whatever unforeseen unfortunate event might happen. At least 911 would answer my calls. I hoped.
I got in my car and turned the radio to a non-station (85.3), so I would hear the soothing sounds of static during my hellish commute of 15 minutes. Granted, sometimes the drive only took ten minutes, or sometimes as few as five, but it was torturous nonetheless. Other road warriors would honk and curse and shake their fists at me, speeding by and glaring. They displayed all manners of rudeness, really, and this day was no different.
I reached the parking lot at work and breathed deeply to calm myself down after I had parked. After a few minutes of hyperventilating, I was somehow ready for the rest of the morning.
"Good morning, Hortense," I said to Hortense as I walked into the building. She nodded and half-smiled in reply. I wondered if she had some kind of facial muscular disability, since I'd never seen her fully smile. Or maybe she was ashamed of her teeth for some reason, and wanted to hide them. Either way, her half-smile slightly unnerved me that day, like every other day. I scuttled past her as quickly as my too-short legs would allow and arrived at my office.
I sat down at my desk and wondered what I would do today. My job title was CSOM IV, which stood for something that apparently was not necessary for me to know in order to do my job. I also wasn't exactly sure what the company I worked for did, other than some kind of consulting, whatever that means. I didn't have the desire or wherewithal to investigate further, and it never came up in conversation because I so rarely spoke to anyone outside of the office. Even within the office itself, the topic of what exactly we were all doing, what purpose we were working towards, was never broached. No matter. I knew my duties: receive forms, study them, input them into our system and pass them along to someone else. Sometimes the forms were different, but the principle remained the same whether they were CRFs, CFs, S3s, TRAICs, or whatever else. I remembered seeing a few EE7s when I first started, but they must have been phased out shortly after. I loved my job.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
More hungry than hungry
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Wait, so I have worms? Living in my stomach?"
"Yes, that's correct. Well, not entirely correct. They're not only in your stomach, but your intestines and colon as well. And possibly elsewhere."
I stared at the doctor for a moment, wondering how this could have happened to me. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. I felt like I might pass out at any time.
Then I vomited, lost consciousness, fell off the examining table and cracked my head open on the floor.
"Yes, that's correct. Well, not entirely correct. They're not only in your stomach, but your intestines and colon as well. And possibly elsewhere."
I stared at the doctor for a moment, wondering how this could have happened to me. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. I felt like I might pass out at any time.
Then I vomited, lost consciousness, fell off the examining table and cracked my head open on the floor.
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