[Edit 2/2/09: I am alive!]

Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure!
I'm not sure if you're sure.
Well, that's to be expected.
And WHY is that?
Because YOU'RE not sure.
What does that have to do with it?
If you're not sure, then you assume I'm not sure.
I don't believe you.
You should.
I don't.
Start.
No.
Now.
I don't want to.
You should want to.
You're repeating what I say.
On the contrary, you are.
No, I am most certainly not.
Yes, you most certainly are.
See! Just there, you did it again.
Excuse me? I see no place like that.
Feigning ignorance are we? How lame.
Lame? What kind of a response is that?
What's wrong with 'lame'?
It's not a good word.
Yes it is.
No, it's not.
YES, it is.
NO, it's not.
I suppose we just disagree, then.
I'll agree with that.
Don't try to be smart here.
I'm not.
Yes you are.
I can't.
You can't?
No, I'm over there.
You're not funny.
Yes I am.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Who's there?
Who is entering this conversation?
It is I!
Who are you?
The person you have been waiting for.
We've been waiting for you?
We have?
Yes! Hello, my friends!
Who ARE you?
Yes, who?
Why, I am everyone and no one. A walking paradox. A representation of our fondest ideologies.
You don't make much sense.
No, you really don't. Go away, please.
I shall not leave! Not until I receive my answer!
Your answer?
What are you talking about?
I request an answer to a question.
I don't want to hear it.
I'll hear it.
Why do you want to hear his question?
Why not?
Ok, fine. What's the question?
I'm glad you asked! Your question shall yield a question.
Go on.
Yes, go on already!
The question is, what does it mean to exist?
That's it?
That's the question?
Yes, my friends! That is the question.
You mean, "To be or not to be"? Wasn't THAT the question?
No, little one! My question does not ask whether existence is important, but rather what creates it!
I don't like the question.
Me neither.
Can you give us a different question?
One that is more simple?
Don't be silly! My question shall not change. Now, answer it!
Well, I suppose...
Hey, don't answer him!
Why not?
Because, his question is lame.
There's that word again.
But it is! I don't want to answer.
Are you prepared to answer my question yet?
No, not yet, sir!
Not yet!
Take your time! Exist, so that you may realize what existence is.
This guy is lame, see? Him AND his question.
I see what you mean. So, what do we do?
Let's say something random.
Random?
Yes, something random. He'll accept it anyway.
And then he'll go away!
Yes, exactly!
What a smart idea, brother. What are you going to say?
Just wait and see.
Certainly.
Excuse me sir, but we are now prepared to answer your question!
Ah, excellent! Existence is but the fleeting passage of time after all.
Right...
So, what are you prepared to say? How will you answer my question, 'what does it mean to exist?'
Simple. To exist is to have physical property. There, I am finished.
That is your full answer?
Yes.
And his as well?
Oh, yes, it is mine as well. We answered together.
We are brothers, after all.
How sweet, this brotherly love. Since you have given an answer, I will now evaluate it!
Hey, wait a minute!
You're supposed to leave! We have no more time for you.
But what is time? How can you measure it? How can you even prove time exists?
What are you talking about? Of course there is time.
Time runs our society! Everything is based on time.
But, my friends, time is not physical! Time can not be felt in your hand. How, then, does it exist according to your very definition?
Brother, what do we say? I'm not interested in him or his babbling.
I know, I know--I'll think of something.
Good, please hurry.
Sir, you're going to have to leave. I do not want to resort to violence.
Violence? Does violence exist? Violence is merely a general term! It is not physical; it doesn't exist!
You're annoying.
Very annoying.
Stupendously annoying.
Please, stop being so annoying.
Annoying? But how can I be annoying? What is 'annoying'? How can annoying exist? How--
Is he gone, brother?
Yes, he's gone.
You got rid of him?
Yes.
Good.
I know.
He was rather annoying.
Yes, he was rather annoying.
I don't like thinking.
No one likes thinking.
No one?
Yes.
But he did.
No, he was nothing but a charlatan.
And he's gone?
He's gone.
Let us be sure.
I am sure.
It is good to be sure.
It is indeed.
I do not want to be unsure, brother.
Do not worry. I am sure.

-------------------
9/27
-------------------

Bob is an average man. No, he is the average man. He's 48, balding, has a dead end job at some kind of faceless technology-based corporation, and lives with his wife and two children in a small cramped apartment on the other side of town. Does bob have any dreams and ambitions? Sure he does. He wants a raise, first and foremost, and he wants to move into a nice white picket fence house before he retires. He wants to live out the cliché called the "American dream."

"Bob," I said, "Tell me about yourself. Why do you want a raise? What makes you so deserving?"
"You know, I've been working as a computer programmer here for the last 23 years. I think I deserve a little kick back. Every day I come in at 8:52. Every day! Every day I see people move up, get raises, and become managers and directors! Why can't I get a piece of the action?" Bob replied, fidgeting in his chair.
"You tell me, Bob. Do you have low self-esteem? How was your childhood? Are you bad with office politics?"
"Oh, don't get me started on those office politics. I can't stand it. It's all rumors and chatter, and people stealing ideas left and right. I try to be honest around everyone, but then it all backfires! My parents raised me to be an upstanding person. I follow my Christian values; I go to church every Sunday. My kids go to church every Sunday and get a good Christian education. And yet, what does it amount to? I feel like I'm falling apart here!"
"Good, good. This is good. Tell me more. I want to get into your head Bob. I want all the details you can tell me."
"You're sick, you know that? Just like Charlie Woodworth. The damn weasel. He slaps me on the back like he's my friend. I know his type. He's some young atheist slicker who does everything for himself. I bet he gets promoted before me. I just see it happening."
"Alright, Bob. Let's get back to you. What makes you special? What makes you unique? I'm hearing a whole lot about how you've got a cliché life with cliché problems that everyone else runs into. Why should I care?"
"Why should you care? Listen, my story might not SOUND too special, but that's just the point. I'm not some adventure hero out in the jungle; I'm just somebody trying to make ends meat! My wife doesn't have a job so I need to provide for my family. How am I not important? How am I not interesting?"
"Don't get mad, Bob. I'm only here to understand. So, what part of your life do you want me to tell? I can't say everything, only the things that are important. What kinds of problems do you think you're going to run into that I could talk about? Or, what do you think should happen to you, Bob?"
"I think I need that raise. That Woodworth kid doesn't deserve it; I do! My family needs it. He just got out of college; what does he know? Nothing, that's what."
"That's too easy, Bob. I can't just give you a raise like that. There needs to be some drama. Something good, something juicy.
"How about one of my kids becomes tangled up with the wrong group? Like he becomes an atheist? Or how about there be a girl at the office I fall in love with, and I start to neglect my wife? God forbid, of course! Or, if you're so bent on my destruction, you push that Woodworth fellow up the ladder, and I crack, denounce the immoral themes of society and work, and so on?"
"You've got some ideas, Bob, but they're nothing I haven't thought of. In fact, I thought of all of them. Think, Bob. You've got a nice head on your shoulders. You were the first of your family to graduate from college. So, think!"
"You're a hard sell, you know that? How about this: a story about a story. I've got my life, my office politics, my moral family--the works. But then you, the author of my life, is stuck. You're all out of ideas. You come to talk to me and we brainstorm ideas on what could happen, and maybe a few could play out. It could be a comedy, not a drama. Theater of the absurd, so to speak.
"That's better, Bob. But I'm still not an easy sell. This sounds awfully like that movie I saw. What was it, Stranger than fiction?"
"But it's different, different I'm telling you! That movie was about love, about whether a character dying at the end was always the best choice! This is about clichés, about life, and about the different choices we can take during our life and seeing how they end up in an absurdist and experimental way!"
"Not too bad, Bob. No, not too bad at all! In fact, I'm starting to like it. Maybe you won't end up on my garbage pile just yet."
"That's the spirit! Just give one scene or two, and you'll be hooked!"
"But wait, Bob. Where is this plot going? Where's the climax? Where's the story?"
"That's easy."
"Oh? That was a quick response."
"Oh but it is. You give me a few choices, and I eventually cheat and lie my way to the top. But now everything I believed in is reversed. You keep telling me we should go through another scenario, but I start to refuse. Eventually you leave, and I no longer have your guidance. The narrator is my "good god", and I'm the bad one. I fall at the end of the story, but at the last chance you come in once again. My life goes back to 'normal' at the end, but I've got a better outlook on life.
"Sounds kinda corny to me, Bob."
"No, not at all! The path that's taken is completely different and more interesting. And at the end, perhaps the moral themes could be made less obvious. I dunno, you tell me!
"I'll think about it Bob. Nice talking to you today."

-------------------
9/28
-------------------

The fruit tree.

Elizabeth was always outside with her fruit tree. No matter what season it was, or how the weather was, she was always beside her tree. In the winter she would stay outside under her tree even in the cold. Elizabeth's parents worried about her, and tried to make her stay inside, but she would not have of it. She loved her tree too much to let it go; the tree was her friend, and she would not abandon him.

One day Elizabeth caught pneumonia from staying out in the cold too long. She died a painful death. The end.

"What a god awful story." The teacher said.
"I beg your pardon?" Henry said, having sat down after reading his story.
"Did you read the assignment I gave you?" The teacher adjusted her glasses, still uncomfortable after hearing the story.
"Yes." Henry replied cooly. "You said, write a story with some kind of happy ending. I did just that."
"You call that a happy ending?" The teacher said, raising her voice.
"I do." The rest of the class started to giggle. Mrs. Johnson, the teacher, had always had trouble controlling the class, and she didn't want to lose to them now.
"Settle down everyone!" Mrs. Johnson shouted. "Henry, could you tell us just what was so happy about that ending of yours before I give you a zero for not following directions?"
"Mrs. Johnson," Henry said flatly, "I thought it was a very happy ending. Elizabeth was a stubborn bitch; she had it coming." With that, the class erupted into laughter. Mrs. Johnson had lost to Henry again. Before too long, however, the bell rang, and the class quickly filed out of the room, leaving only Henry and Mrs. Johnson together.

"Now wasn't that fun?" Henry said sarcastically. He leaned back in his chair.
"I see you don't even try go to lunch anymore" Mrs. Johnson replied wearily.
"No, not at all. Lunch detention with you; I know the drill." Henry reached in his backpack and took out a brown lunch bag.
"Tell me, Henry. Do you enjoy being a class clown? Do you enjoy seeing me... seeing the reactions of the class?" Mrs. Johnson said, even weaker than before.
"Huh?" Henry replied as he stuffed a sandwich into his face. "I dunno. It's fun I guess."
"Right, of course." Mrs. Johnson looked down at her lesson plans, which hadn't even been close to being followed.
"You ok Mrs. Johnshon?" Henry said, with a hint of sincerity.
"No, I'm alright. Don't worry, they should be here soon." The door to Mrs. Johnson's room opened and in came Ian and Joey--the other detention regulars.
"Yo, Henry! You here again?" Ian said, waving.
"Yes, indeed my follies have landed me in this lowly pit of despair." Henry said poetically.
"What?" Ian said while sitting down. "Whatever, dude." Joey sat down next to Ian, saying nothing.

-------------------
9/29
-------------------

Writing for another 15 minutes. 15 minutes.

What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to write? I keep thinking about the world around me and I feel isolated. Financial crisis, presidential election, and so on and so on. I'm following the events but I'm not actually connected to them. No. I'm living in a dream world. Everything I'm thinking is completely irrelevant. Completely worthless. What am I to everyone else? To anyone else?

I opened an old notebook of mine from school. It had to be from 3rd grade because there's mostly subtraction and addition of 3 digit numbers. That's the kind of stuff I did in 3rd grade. I flip through it before going to bed, and happen to turn to the middle of the marble book. Nothing but empty pages. In fact, only the first few pages were ever used. However, something does catch my eye. Right in the middle of the notebook--perhaps a bit farther towards the end--is a single word written down.

"Tomatoes"

It's there, taking up two and a half lines, scribbled down in 3rd grader handwriting. I have no idea why the word tomatoes happens to be located in a random part of a math notebook I had in 3rd grade, but it is indeed there, starting right back up at me. Defiantly, might I add.

It's humorous at first, seeing a kind of non sequitur from days long past. Perhaps I was just trying to spell the word correctly, and pulled out a random page to practice. I can't remember writing the word down, nor can I remember the slightest reason for doing so. It's weird more than anything else. Like the rest of the world, I'm disconnected to my past as well.

Oh, wow, past disconnected and disconnected with present as well. And let me guess, you're going to spew some crap about being disconnected with your future too. DIdn't see that little diddy coming, oh no, not at all. You're not predictable, no, not at all. Of course not.

Don't be too hard on yourself, you're just writing random thoughts anyway. NO. Be hard on yourself. You think you're so great but you're not. You're terrible. You're average. You're nobody special. For everything you like to do or think you're good at, there's somebody better. Yeah, that's right. You're nothing. Go die, or something.

Now now, let's not fall into some kind of dark emotional writing; no one wants that. You know why? Because dark emotional crap is exactly what you're trying to avoid: tripe, banal, cliché thoughts that every other person your age has had, or has thought of, and has been ridiculed for.

You can't escape your mediocrity. You have to accept that you're always going to be disconnected. That you'll never be the best at one particular thing. In fact, no one will be able to. It's an impossible goal, so give it up. Don't grow your ego; stay humble. Get a job, fall into place, and become the gear you're destined to become.

Yeah, that sounds lame again. Wow, a "gear"? That's the best you could come up with? Really? Terrible. Ugh. No, you've got to go out and do something. Become president or something. Yeah, that's it. You're gonna be president some day; keep telling yourself that. Then you'll be special, right? No, yes, maybe. Probably no. What the hell am I writing? Who's reading this? Nobody, that's who. Stop kidding yourself.

-------------------
10/4
-------------------

Page turner. Gripping. Masterpiece. Best seller.

John's work is none of those things. He's currently laboring over his newest piece, "The Forbidden Kiss." It's only a matter of time until he realizes his cliché ideas and uninspired thoughts will amount to nothing. His work consists of no more than trite circumstances and purely archetype characters. Another cigarette meets John's mouth as he re-reads his most recent lines.

"And then Laura leaned forward, her lush red lips pursed together, awaiting Jose to return the favor. He did. The two stood together in complete silence. The world was not silent but their heartbeats were; the moment was magical."

John will soon realize he could have made a lot more money writing a screenplay for a soap opera instead. Nonetheless, John leans forward again while exhaling from his cigarette, ready to get down the next sentence.

"Just then, there was a knock at the door! Jose quickly opened his eyes and spun around. It was Maria.
'Traitor' She screamed, her eyes quivering.
'No, Maria! You don't understand!' Jose reached out towards Maria but quickly pulled back.
'Jose... what's going on?' Laura said softly.
'Laura you-' Jose stopped himself mid-sentence.

Absolutely terrible. It's hard to tell if John is writing a romance piece or a comedic parody. Unfortunately, he thinks he's just reached the "good part."

"That's enough for today" John says out loud. He wheels his brown swivel chair around to face the letter-filled table opposite his computer. Terms like "Final Notice" and "Final Final Notice" are the most ubiquitous. John ignores the unopened letters and instead reaches for the small envelope stamped P&D Publishing Co.

"This is it." John says triumphantly. He slowly rips the red seal, careful not to damage the rest of the envelope. The envelope is open. John stares inside. "This is it. No more failures, this is it!" John retrieves the single sheet of paper from inside the envelope.

"Dear Mr. John Smith. Thank you for submitting your piece ME AND YOU. However, at this moment in time, we are unable to..."

John stops reading. Another failure, as expected.

"Hey, who are you to judge me, huh?" John shouts.

John starts to scream, his inner rage no longer able to be contained. After years of rejection, his true feelings have final begun to surface.

"What do you mean, surface? Why don't you stop being so negative, then?"

John is now yelling at the thin air--perhaps at his very own mind--because he feels inferior. John has had an inferiority complex since grade school. He's never been able to be the best at anything, and his half-hearted attempts at literature support this.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" John yells again. "I'm not inferior to anybody! Go to hell!" Silence, except for the passing cars on the street five stories below. John paces about his apartment, thinking to himself.

It's too bad for John, however, that pacing won't do any good. Pacing never helped anyone; it's a worthless waste of energy. John should go back and read his dog-eared copy of "How to write a novel in 21 days" if he actually wants to be productive.

"I want to know who you are." John speaks firmly, but his voice is no longer cracking. He waits, but there is no answer. He sits back on his swivel chair, exhausted. "Every time..."

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10/6
-------------------