Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Grades.

1(A) US HIST 1898 Schmidt, G. CHS C
82 0 0
2(A) AP ENG 11 Jundt, B. CHS A
95 0 0
3(A) JOURN N Winter, S. CHS D
65 0 0
4(A) GEOMETRY Kosse, K. CHS B
87.3 0 0
5(A) COMP PROG I Sauer, D. CHS A
92 0 0
6(A) PE 11 Murdock, M. CHS
0 0 0
7(A) LATIN I Brandt, L. CHS A+
102 0 0


That test in History hurt me...I'm sure I should be able to get back up. Otherwise I'm doing great. The reason I have D in Newspaper is because a lot of things just haven't gone in the gradebook, and stuff. It should go up a lot I hope.

102 in Latin lol. Yay.
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Here is ANOTHER version of my column. I will end up cutting most of this stuff out, but I personally like this version the most of them all.

The breath of something new was in my face. I looked into the mirror, looked at my face and thought it to also look new.

I changed from my Pink Floyd T-shirt into the red, now so familiar, KFC shirt. I placed the cap on my head, placing my hands on the bill and curving it. And then I looked in the bathroom mirror again. Something new, again, breathed me in the face.

I was here. Had obtained what I'd sought the entire Summer like a maggot needing dead tissue to evolve any further. I had found that dead, decaying tissue I needed to evolve any further.

I stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, fully paved and sent into the service of KFC as a trainee Colonel. Walking over to Cindy, my shift superviser, I played with the bill of my hat like some shy girl twisting her hair, flipping it around and over in a sly motion.

Cindy introduced me to Hailey, a fellow co-worker. I again fumbled around with my hat a few times as I introduced myself to her. After accosting our greetings, we were sent out to sit in the dining room area since it was not yet time for our shift.

We sat at the table, the sun hitting our eyes, our hands and legs propped here and there on the table in helter-skelter fashion. Hailey then asked me a few questions. None of which was of too much importance, and none which I cared for. Yet I still kept kindness enough to answer.

She asked me questions such as what school I went to, how old I was, and other merely inquisitive nudges. Not that I thought she would ask anything too personal.

After enough time had passed, we were taken to working. I had no idea what yet was my purpose, so I was of course taken to a trainer. And my first task was to learn how to prepare the chicken, I soon found. Cindy sent me in the back, and there I was met with another new person, Matt.

Matt was rather tall, perhaps lanky. He stood out to me, buried under his hat, just like me, and pointed to get a plastic apron on. He said it all in his kind matter.

From then on the day flew on. I became sheltered yet still frostbitten with my surroundings. The numb feel of the dead, chopped pieces of bloody chicken in my hands became just another thing. The feel of the flour as it swished and painted the chicken to its breaded whole become just another twitch.

Entirely the place had this dirty feel to it. Breaded chicken flakes crunched the floor. The heavy aroma of oil and chicken entwined into a heating gloop. Flour stained my clothes to a ghastly white, like I'd become some lost and ambling spirit. People rushed to and back, gaining on about their jobs, servicing as fast as humanly they could.

That first day I paid intent attention to Matt. I listened with the ears of some deceptive, acceptive dog. I asked and prodded and obtained with the wonderful crushing of a hand.

When the day was done, I went home, tired, drained. A maggot too nauseous of its eating.

From then on five weeks elapsed like a wide-eyed, howling moon. During these weeks I learned more of the same, and some other new tasks. I met other fellow workers, and was further along trained as an aspiring Colonel.

Tim was the main one I now remember. He was almost like me in many ways. He liked music, he wore glasses, and was very satirical and sarcastic. We got right along in the jaded concessions of the KFC, often talking of nothing much.

Tim often told of how the other night he had gotten, or was going to get "shit faced," as he so put. He was not alone as the only one that drank alcohol that worked there.

There was Robin, a fat, bellyached man that appeared to be in his forties. He rode his bike to work, and worked another job along with this one. Looking at him it was easy to see that alcohol was in some part of the equation with him. Not to mention I'd often wonder if what I smelled on his breath was alcohol, or if when he sweated if it was beer he was outpouring by the gallons.

Robin, too, was not even alone. John, another worker there, also drank beer, and often proclaimed it loudly enough that most knew of it. One time I had even seen him carrying a whole cooler cased with it, and filling it with ice from the ice box.

It seems alcohol was a thing brought and somehow linked and beaten into my workplace. I even remember one day while I was absentmindedly mopping the dining room that a man had staggered in like a groaning zombie. His eyes were glazed in a stupefied haze. He walked to the front and Cindy started taking his order.

The man said something near to, "Ah'd like sum chikun." It came out all slurred, visceral. Like the way raw, red, bleeding hamburger looks.

Cindy asked how many pieces. After a long time of drunken deliberation, he continued stuporing around as if in some backdrop of his mind he was processing the human genome, and the rest of his brain cells were locked in their chains and behind their bars. Then with some childish yet childless drivel he finally ordered how many pieces. Even then he continued to stand there doing nothing as Cindy read out his total.

He stood like this for what was the longest time. Then finally, digging into his pockets as if he was digging for the root of some deep weed, he came out with a few scattered one dollar bills. Cindy asked him if he had more. He dug again, this time bringing even more out, this time enough. Cindy then gave him back his change, told him kindly his order would be out soon, and was off on her way to pack it.

The man, upon receiving his order, sat down and just ripped the package holding the chicken to hell. He ate like some starved waif, groveling and chewing harshly and so loud you could hear the smacking of his teeth. It sounded like some loud cow chewing on long prairie grass that was prematurely born as a pig, it was so loud and boisterous.

Having just mopped the area where this guy had made his mess, I was forced to do it all over again. I did so, having to sweep up demeated legs, thighs, and wings that looked like some bone collector's lost fortune. Not to mention all the little scraps and pieces of ripped and gutted paper that looked something like clattered pieces of obtuse glass.

That done, it was then time to clean the bathrooms. This I was really not inclined to be forced to do. Cindy said she might have seen the guy go in there.

Eventually Tim got enough guts to go in. He didn't even seem too shaken from it at all, and I guess grafting myself to his mind, I wouldn't either. It probably was something relatively commonplace to him. The guy luckily wasn't in there.

I certainly wouldn't have gone in there. I had had this horrible picture of what it would look like inside: all this barf and phlegm showering the walls, the guy lying there on the ground like some life-sized blow up doll that's too lifelike to be one in the first place.

It did kind of seem like alcohol just had its own face there. And seeing this, I began to gather some thoughts about my long-term time working there.

I began thinking I had been doing a good job. I thought that probably I was more adept than anyone else. I certainly didn't say anything like that, or say I was better. Nor did I think it, but I knew if people like this could work there, then there must be some room for me.

Yet it is funny how as certain something can be, how uncertain it can become.

It was a few days after I had worked nearly ten hours on The Fourth of July that it happened. That day I was assigned as a cook. It was easy enough.

I remember clearly John saying that I was the most messy person that had ever worked there. I had looked at him, brushed at the usual thick dust of flour all over my hands and apron, thinking why he'd even said it. I simply came to the thought that at least I wasn't afraid to get down and dirty and into my job.

Also I remember Tim being there, and him asking me what was wrong. It is strange remembering this now, it sort of feels like he knew something. Maybe he already had known what was to happen that day?

Near the end of my shift I had been cleaning out the vents all about the kitchen. When we were finally finished with this, Diane, the owner of the KFC, beckoned me into her office like some anonymous felon.

Diane, while I had been working at KFC for my five weeks, had been on vacation time, living it up on some beach of sand, sun, and fun. Walking into her office I knew just what was going to happen. It was all over her face like some casual mess trying to not crumble all over a cleansed floor.

She sat me down next to her, staring at me. She began by explaining that she had gotten some "complaints" from my gracious fellow co-workers. One had complained that I had a bad habit of always putting my hands in my pockets, she said. Another had claimed I didn't know how to pack chicken good enough.

And then it was like a boxing match, her fat girth suddenly transformed into lean, muscular being. She hit me with the last and finally degrading punch.

"I don't know what to do. I've wasted all the hours training you already. You should know how to at least work the till by now." I just stared at her, everything seeping in like blood seeping back into an open wound.

I should know how to work the till by now? Well just look here now. You're the one that sets the pace at which I learn my job, you are the ones that train me. So you're telling me it's my fault I haven't learned the till? If you wanted me to learn it, then you should've done so.


I didn't say a thing. I only sat there thinking that, telling myself that I was sure that part of it was me probably. But lookie here, lookie here. Ms. Queen of the Chicken was on vacation. I'm supposed to pick up the slack of your absence and learn as fast as I am supposed to?

Then it was time for another punch even though I was done and gone and out. "You haven't even learned how to pack chicken yet. You should have that nearly mastered by now." I just glared at her, not saying a word. "Do you even know how to pack?"

"Somewhat," I said. I could've said that I did. I could've told her that I actually mostly did. But what was I? I was a little colonel, I was a yodeling cajoling little Barney the Dinosaur. I didn't know jack. And it was pointless to tell her the truth, I could see it in her pig eyes that I wasn't going to get out of this. So I kept shut.

"Somewhat. So you see, you should have it all down by now. So I'm going to let you go. You could've been a cook, but Arnold already has that."

So then it was all over, and I left. I drove off and drove home like a maniac. I was pissed. Yet I didn't know what to feel. Defeat? Anger? Hate? What was I to feel?

I had loved working at KFC. I had met friends in my coworkers. And just like that, bang, I was gone.

A few weeks later I remember getting a little something in the mail from KFC. It was a champion card, the ones used to award those that had done some special work. They were used to claim a worker of the month, who got to park at a special spot at KFC, and got paid some higher wages.

The card was filled out by Tim. On it it read, "For doing a good job to help close." Then his signature. I was surprised when I got it, also somewhat sad that I had never gotten to really be anything with Tim. But I suppose it wouldn't have been any real friendship, other than at KFC. Still, it is kind interesting to try and see what it would have been like if I hadn't gotten fired.

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Tuesday, September 16, 2003

Speak to me--Breathe

Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don't be afraid to care.
Leave but don't leave me.
Look around and choose your own ground.

Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be.

Run, rabbit run.
Dig that hole, forget the sun,
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down it's time to dig another one.

For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave.
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Insanely insane so insanely sanityless.

I have way too much crap to do tonight, seriously.

I have to watch my brother all day since my Dad is out golfing and my Mom working. I have to take my brother to soccer practice at 6:30.

I have to write an entire story about DDR freaks from basically nothing. I have to edit my too-long column.

Those two things above will take nearly four hours I'd say, since I will force myself to do them as best as I can.

And as for the DDR freaks story...I at least got one more interview done today, and it was at least decent. But I'm just going to have to bullshit most of the story..otherwise there won't be a story.

Editting my column will take a really long time I'd say. I have to polish it, make better word choices, do whatever I can. And I'm sick to death with rewriting it...this is like the third time already. I just want it to be over and done with already, erg.

I guess I'm complaining, but what more can I do? I bet you, the one who is reading this, is wondering why I am sitting her typing all this up and why the hell I don't just go and do it. And you should know well why.

I'm lazy. Simple as that..

And I especially like to have a long down time when I get home from school: go for walks, just time to myself. But lately, Newspaper has been shoving so much stuff on us every day since we have to make our paper as fast as possible to meet the October 2nd deadline.

On top of all this Newspaper stuff, I also have to write an English paper which is due Friday. It's about the Amistad, that movie by Spielberg. Very great movie, and I have no clue as to what to write it about..

Plus I have to write this blurb of whatever using 7 words from this vocab sheet for English. Plus Math, which will also take me some time. Plus Latin, which I enjoy the most of any class I suppose. Plus I have to go and take my brother to get something to eat.

Why am I even posting this I do not know. I better get to work I suppose...it will be so nice to have this stupid story mostly done and this stupid column mostly done and it all out of the way so I can finally just relax.
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Monday, September 15, 2003

Kooooooolaid. Or something to that extentual high.

That post was just messed up lol. Seriously..

Yet it has been in my mind for no reason lol.

Plus another story containing the same subject as well.

Just mind the gap.

Only tony will know what I am talking about there.
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   ±

That day it came from the sky
Flew down all fiery; so cloudless was the horizon
Yet it flew down from the sky

"It was a satellite from a home planet called Earth. Upon its side it bore their sign, a large, green planet, with oceans and tides. Many flags stuck out from it from many ways. And next to these there was one flag which appeared to be a combination of all the rest..."

The satellite that bore the rain
that was all stained and clod with strain
with rips about its stern, its front, its back
it stood a weathered, inundated beast all smoked with fire
a messanger from above the endless abyss
a crawler of freedom and history's attire it stood
and when we opened it we did not know what we would see
or what to even say

"It was said that inside the satellite there was born an upside-down cross. It faced us, as burnt as the outside of the ship. When we tampered with this cross, and turned it over to its otherside, we found a skeleton all boney, emaciated and grimed. It held in its boney hands across its chest a dusty book with many pages, so many pages that it seemed to have words even above its own. There was lettering upon the front, but we did not translate it until later."

the man inside the satellite
was nailed to an upside-down cross
crucifixed by his arms and by his legs
and his boney hands that still held some moldy skin
he held a book that glowed in the murk
and whose face was colored in the light
the book, some said, the book
the book

"When we took to translating it, we found that it said upon its front "The HOly Bible," and from then on we came to translating its many words. This took quite some time, as the book was far over thousands of pages long. When we were finished, and all set down in a translated copy, we then came to realize many things of the people of this planet called Earth.

"We learned that they had spited the man upon the cross, whose name was Jesus Christ. Jesus had been a carpenter, the scriptures read, and he had healed many; he had given life where it was dying. Yet still most hated him, most spit right upon his feet. Of the few who did not, they were his apostles. They followed in his footsteps, and spoke his good words, and bade the world a better place.

"For these things Jesus was sent upon a cross, the exact upside-down one which we had found within the satellite. They nailed his arms to the cross, and nailed his legs, and let him die there and bleed there. FOr the longest time he sat there and bled, and still then he did not even hate the people he had been sent to help. And still even then he screamed and yelled his wills, and told of salvation in death for those who worshipped his Father.

"It is read in the scriptures that even when he did die, and his good apostles buried him, that even then he did not die. He came back to his dear apostles, and bade them to spread what he had left to them. From here on out the book's pages are faded, some blank, some missing.

"The very end of the book reads in someone's thin, solid script that one day Jesus shall come again. That one day peace shall restore the land. It reads that the people of this planet called Earth had killed and massacred themselves in a war over this religion and many others.

"From there, that is all."

we here on our home
have taken Jesus from the satellite
and placed him underneath our soil
and given him the most exalted prayer
and began our worship of him at this likely time

"We here on Mars have just been born in comparison to these other beings. From what we have read of the war, it is easy to tell that our neighbor, in its existence, was highly advanced..."
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   !|


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Here is the editted version of the column. It's even longer...but that'll change.

The breath of something new was in my face. I looked into the mirror, looked at my face and thought it to also look new.

I changed from my Pink Floyd T-shirt into the red, now so familiar, KFC shirt. I placed the cap on my head, placing my hands on the bill and curving it. And then I looked in the bathroom mirror again. Something new, again, breathed me in the face.

I was here. Had obtained what I'd sought the entire Summer like a swelling mosquito needing fresh blood, or a maggot needing dead tissue to evolve any further. I had found that fresh blood, that dead, decaying tissue I needed to evolve any further.

I stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, fully paved and sent into the service of KFC as a trainee Colonel. Walking over to Cindy, my shift superviser, I played with the bill of my hat like some shy girl twisting her hair, flipping it around and over in a sly motion.

Cindy introduced me to Hailey, a fellow co-worker. I again fumbled around with my hat a few times as I introduced myself to her. After accosting our greetings, we were sent out to sit in the dining room area since it was not yet time for our shift.

We sat at the table, the sun hitting our eyes, our hands and legs propped here and there on the table in helter-skelter fashion. Hailey then asked me a few questions; none of which was of too much importance, and none which I cared for. Yet I still kept kindness enough to answer.

She asked me questions such as what school I went to, how old I was, and other merely inquisitive nudges at nothing. Not that I thought she would ask anything too personal, anyways.

After enough time had passed, we were taken to working. I had no idea what yet was my purpose, so I was of course taken to a trainer. And my first task was to learn how to prepare the chicken, I soon found. Cindy sent me in the back, and there I was met with another new person, Matt.

Matt was a rather tall, perhaps lanky. He stood out to me, buried under his hat, just like me, and pointed to me to get a plastic apron on. He said it all in his kind matter.

From then on the day flew on. I became more familiar with my surroundings. The familiar feel of the dead, chopped pieces of bloody chicken in my hands became just another thing. The feel of the flour as it swished and painted the chicken to its breaded whole become just another twitch.

Entirely the place had this grummy, slimy feel to it. Breaded chicken flakes crunched the floor; the heavy aroma of oil and chicken entwined into a heating gloop; flour stained my clothes to a ghastly white, like I'd become some lost and ambling spirit; people rushed to and back, gaining on about their jobs, servicing as fast as humanly they could.

That first day I paid intent attention to Matt. I listened with the ears of some deceptive, acceptive dog; I asked and prodded and obtained with the wonderful crushing of a hand.

When the day was done, I went home, tired, drained, a mosquito too rich with the pilfers of its blood. A maggot too nauseous of its eating.

From then on five weeks elapsed like a wide-eyed, howling moon. During these weeks I learned more of the same, and some other new tasks. I met other fellow workers, and was further along trained as an aspiring Colonel.

Tim was the main one I now remember. He was almost like me in many ways. He liked music, he wore glasses, and was very satirical and sarcastic. We got right along in the jaded concessions of the KFC, often talking of nothing much.

Tim often told of how the other night he had gotten, or was going to get "shit faced," as he so put. He was not alone as the only one that drank alcohol there.

There was Robin, a fat, bellyached man that appeared to be in his forties. He rode his bike to work, and also worked another job among this one. Looking at him it was easy to see that alcohol was in some part of the equation with him. Not to mention I'd often wonder if what I smelled on his breath was alcohol. And not to mention I sometimes even wondered that when he sweated if it was beer he was outpouring by the gallons.

Robin, too, was not even alone. John also drank beer, and often proclaimed it loudly enough that most knew of it. One time I had even seen him carrying a whole cooler cased with it, and filling it with ice from the ice box.

From these observations I thought I had been doing good during these five or so weeks I had there. I thought that probably I was more adept than anyone else. I certainly didn't say anything like that, or say I was better; nor did I think it, but I knew if people like this could work someplace like this, then there must have been some room for me.

Yet it is funny how as certain something can be, how uncertain it can become.

It was a few days after I had worked nearly ten hours on The Fourth of July. That day I was assigned as a cook. It was easy enough.

I remember clearly John saying that I was the most messy person that had ever worked there. I had looked at him, brushed at the usual thick dust of flour all over my hands and apron, thinking what he meant. I came to conclusion that at least I wasn't afraid to get down and dirty and into my job.

Also I remember Tim being there, and him asking me what was wrong. It is strange remembering this now, it sort of feels like he knew something. Maybe he already had known what was to happen that day?

Near the end of my shift I had been cleaning out the vents all about the kitchen. When we were finally finished with this, Diane, the owner of the KFC and manager, beckoned me into her office like some anonymous felon.

Diane, while I had been working at KFC for my five weeks, had been on vacation time, living it up on some beach of sand, sun, and fun. Walking into her office I knew just what was going to happen. It was all over her face like some casual mess trying to not crumble all over a cleansed floor.

She sat me down next to her, staring at me. She began by explaining that she had gotten some "complaints" from my gracious fellow co-workers. One had complained that I had a bad habit of always putting my hands in my pockets, she said. Another had claimed I didn't know how to pack chicken good enough.

And then it was like a boxing match, her fat girth suddenly transformed into lean, muscular being. She hit me with the last and finally degrading punch.

"I don't know what to do. I've wasted all the hours training you already. You should know how to at least work the till by now." I just stared at her, everything seeping in like blood seeping back into an open wound.

I should know how to work the till by now? Well just look here now. You're the one that sets the pace at which I learn my job, you are the ones that train me. So you're telling me it's my fault I haven't learned the till? If you wanted me to learn it, then you should've done so.


I didn't say a thing. I only sat there thinking that, telling myself that I was sure that part of it was me probably. But lookie here, lookie here. Ms. Queen of the Chicken was on vacation. I'm supposed to pick up the slack of your absence and learn as fast as I am supposed to?

Then it was time for another punch. "You haven't even learned how to pack chicken yet. You should have that nearly mastered by now." I just glared at her, not saying a word. "Do you even know how to pack?"

"Somewhat," I said. I could've said that I did. I could've told her that I actually mostly did. But what was I? I was a little colonel, I was a yodeling cajoling little Barney the Dinosaur. I didn't know jack. And it was pointless to tell her the truth, I could see it in her pig eyes that I wasn't going to get out of this. So I kept shut.

"Somewhat. So you see, you should have it all down by now. So I'm going to let you go. You could've been a cook, but Arnold already has that."

So then it was all over, and I left. I drove off and drove home like a maniac. I was pissed. Yet I didn't know what to feel. Defeat? Anger? Hate? What was I to feel?

I had loved working at KFC. I had met friends in my coworkers. And just like that, bang, I was gone.

A few weeks later I remember getting a little something in the mail from KFC. It was a champion card, the ones used to award those that had done some special work. They were used to claim a worker of the month, who got to park at a special spot at KFC, and got paid some higher wages.

The card was filled out by Tim. On it it read, "For doing a good job to help close." Then his signature. I was surprised when I got it, also somewhat sad that I had never gotten to really be anything with Tim. But I suppose it wouldn't have been any real friendship, other than at KFC. Still, it is kind interesting to try and see what it would have been like if I hadn't gotten fired.

Too bad, so sad. All I can do is go on, like a hit fly that is let down and hanging around will do. Or a lost and broken man will do. It is obvious to see that my place wasn't and isn't there.

--
I still don't like that ending lol.
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Sunday, September 14, 2003

OMG WTF LOL!!!!

I am sitting here procrastinating. Whee.

http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=30357&pagenumber=3
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Posts of Nothing hath wings.

I started reading Julius Ceasar for no reason last night. The play, of course, by Shakespeare.

Mm.

Right now I need some food badly. All I have eaten all day is a bowl of cereal...and that was about seven or so hours ago. Since then I have not eaten anything.

Hopefully after I eat something I will be able to do my homework. I've been putting it off all week...I've been trying not to think about it either. Because then that reminds me that I have this DDR story shit to worry about first thing when I get to school...I still need to find two more sources and interview them, plus I need to go and get pictures taken of someone DDRing. Plus I need to write the story.

Ack. I've just been trying not to think about it all this weekend, just relax like I usually do. But yet everytime I have tried to this only comes back and bothers me.

I worry to much I suppose.

Otherwise I have plenty of other homework crap. The rest of today is booked for that I suppose.

I have to rewrite my column I wrote about getting fired. The people that read it loved it, but they think it needs to start off when it was my first day on the job. And I want to hammer the reader with as many things as I can...smells, senses, feelings. Basically I want to do it so much that the reader will feel violated and raped from reading it. I don't mean that literally...basically figuratively.

Ah well.

Right now I feel empty. I need some food. Usually I am depressed I say when I feel like this, but I don't want to be depressed all the time anymore. So I push it away. Because you know, really, you do have control over your feelings. Some people rather unconciously make themselved depressed because they feel they need more than they have.

I see that often, especially whenever I read Sara's posts of her being depressed. But she readily admits it's selfish.

But what can I say. We are selfish beings. We are taught to care about ourselves more than anything, and to further ourselves in any matter we can.
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