Crimes Of A Human Nature

The light was dim. A light rain fell against the window, illuminated by the street light below. The man paced nervously around his apartment. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash now at almost an inch long. He hadn't even thought of going over to the ashtray.

"They'll find out." He thought. "They'll find out and I'll be screwed. It's only a matter of time."

He found his way in the darkness and threw himself into a sitting position on the couch. Ash fell from his cigarette onto his pants leg. It took a moment for the heat to register. When he realized he'd burnt himself, he yelped and patted out the hot ash. He sat back and rubbed his thigh while collecting his thoughts.

"They'll find it. I didn't do a good job of hiding it. It's right in plain site. I should have buried it deeper. I still can." He figured.

He left his butt to smolder in the ashtray as he got up from the couch. He went back to wringing his hands, as he did before he decided to smoke. He walked to the window and stared out for ages. He felt the rainy night properly matched his feeling of desolation. No one would be on his side if they knew what he had done. There was no excuse.

"There's nothing I can do now. No going back. I need to face this." He thought.

He leaned against the wall and slid down, coming to a sudden stop when he found the floor.

"No. Nobody can know it was me. I wish the rain could just wash away all evidence. Remove all my guilt, stop me from..." Even in his thoughts, he struggled with the next words. "...enjoying it."

He held himself together long enough to stand up again, and shambled to his bedroom door. Before entering, he made sure to look around the hallway, peer back out into the living room, and check the lock. He was taking no chances. He went inside and opened the closet. Nothing there. He poked his head under the bed. Nothing but dust. He closed the curtains and locked the door. Then he turned on his computer.

As he was waiting for the computer to boot up, he sighed. "There's no stopping it. I just have to hope no one discovers it."

Once the computer was online, he opened up his hard drive and went to the WINDOWS folder. He went into a few more folders before finding one titled "3252". He took the folder and placed it even deeper, through more folders. He hid the folder. Archived it. Encrypted it. He did everything to ensure no one would find it. Then he opened it again. He played one of the video files inside. He heard the music:

"My Little Pony, My Little Pony..."

A single tear came to his eye. "What have I become?" He said out loud. He began to weep.

Working title "The Gender Barrier", EXTREMELY rough draft part 2

So he's standing there with his ruffled brown hair, his beady eyes, that middle-aged, wrinkled face, that perfectly ironed out, clean suit and complementing red tie, and he wants to come in and talk to me. He looks like a regular G-man, albeit one who's been living out of hotels for the past few months, and yet I interest him. Sure, why the hell not?

"Uh, sure. I guess." Is all I can say. He steps in and takes a look around. He's clearly not very impressed. "No posters? No naked women or buff guys with guns or movie quotes or poems or anything up on the walls? No decorations?" He gets down and looks under the bed. I'm confused. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" I say. He gets up. "You have nothing hidden under the bed. No dirty magazines. No pornographic videos. No blow-up dolls and probably the worst, no girls." Indeed, I didn't hide girls under my bed. Silly me, not making it a habit. Now, I have to stand up and say something. "What the hell are you doing criticizing my decor and poking around my room?" He looks at me. No, he doesn't look at me. He looks straight through me. He doesn't look the least bit lost, and he seems to fully comprehend, but the look on his face is only accurately described as "puzzled." He glanced around the room again and shook his head. "I don't suppose you mind if I have a smoke?" Yeah, this guy is weird. I really need to find out why he's friends with my dad.

"I guess. If you let me cop one." He grinned. "Of course." He walks over to the window and opens in, letting in a blast of cool spring air. He taps the pack against his palm and pulls out two cigarettes, stuffing the pack back into his pocket and handing me one. He pulls out a fancy, custom engraved lighter and holds it up to the cigarette, taking a few gentle pulls. He obviously does this a lot. He hands me the lighter without even looking in my direction. One thing odd I notice, though, is that the lighter seems to be, for lack of a better description, perfectly aligned. It's just just in my general direction, it's actually right below my chin. Of course, the man in the suit is very tall, and this just made me realize it, since he does seem to be really extending his arm to get it down that low. I take the lighter and start up a smoke. I've done this before, too.

There's a lull; for a few minutes, it's just us two, smoking, tapping our ashes out the window, him staring out the window, me staring at him. I decide to shatter the silence. "So...your name's Jeff, right?" He takes a drag and considers my question for a moment. "Yeah, it's Jeff." More silence. "How did you meet my father?" I have to ask. He taps his cigarette against the edge of the sill and answers as slowly as possible. Maybe he's stalling. "I used to help him with paperwork. Down at the hall, I mean." Ah, that makes sense. Dad works down at City Hall, some sort of desk jockey. Makes sense that he would need some help sometimes. Yet another period of quiet. "So you're almost 18 right? Your father told me a lot about you." I feel really embarassed. "Yeah." I say.

We sit in silence for the next few minutes. The only sound I can hear is the wind from outside and the rhythmic inhaling and exhaling coming from the man and I. I feel awkward, but there's this vibe this guy gives off, like he knows exactly what he's doing, and this silence is all part of the plan. I hate him already. "So, I've got good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?" He finally speaks up. "Huh?" I say. He says, "Oh, sorry. See, I'm helping out with some stuff in town this year, and I have some news. I think you should hear." I'm a little confused. "Well, I always liked hearing the bad news first. Softens the blow when you hear the good news, right?" He stands up and walks over to the open window, tapping his ashes into the wind. He takes another drag. "Well I don't know about all that. Anyway, here's the long and the short of it: You're not going to be a Lucky One. Ever." Well fuck me. Actually, don't, because it's now technically illegal. I mean I hadn't planned my life around it, but I'd like to get laid some day. Getting out of this town is tough: To actually move, you need to be 25, and the cost of living is ridiculous anywhere these days. You're really encouraged to just stay where you are and make the best of it. Even if I were to get out, apparently there's a lot of towns adapating the sex seperation system as well, mostly in the midwest.

"Run that by me again?" He takes another drag and gives me a concerned look. "You heard. You're not going to be a so-called Lucky One. I've seen your recent pre-test scores, and believe me, you'll never be able to improve enough to make the cut. Besides, you're not very fertile. Yeah, see, I'm helping out with the selection this year." I take a deep breath and lean back in the chair. I'm pretty sure I've just passed out. "Hey, Jake, stay with me here. I've still got good news, remember?" I regain some semblance of conciousness. "Right. Ok, hit me." He tosses the cigarette butt out of the window and leans over my chair, stopping himself an inch from my face. "I'm going to teach you to get girls anyway. I'll come around Friday and Saturday night and we'll run over a few things, then when you go out on Sunday, you'll put these things into action." Maybe I did pass out. Maybe I just thought I heard that. "'Scuse me?" I mumble.

"Your dad told me what you got caught doing." He says. Oh shit. Yeah, I can see what he's saying now. As I'm trying to recover from the blow, he begins to rummage through my closet. "Hey, you don't need to..." But it's useless. He digs deeper and deeper and finally hits something on the far left side of the closet, buried way in the back, on the bottom. He lays everything out on the bed. Makeup kit. Long plaid skirt. White blouse. Sun hat. I'm not sure why I kept this stuff; it didn't work the first time. "So, if I have the story straight," he begins, "You attempted to use these materials to sneak over to the girl's side of town. Pussyside, some of you boys call it." Cringe. The game's up. "Yeah, I did. It was a bet." He's still grinning. Fucker. "See, from what I've heard, nobody would admit to making the bet with you. They all said you just wanted to do it. For laughs. Or...for other reasons, maybe. Nobody really knows." Still grinning. Ear to ear. Cheekbones high. God I hate him. "The thing is, I think you could have pulled it off. You've got such a pretty face, darling." Not amused.

He flicks his butt out the window, as do I. Tension is now buzzing through the room, almost manifesting physically. "I think it's time you left." I can't look at his stupid smiling face any more. He's pissing me off. He stops smiling, but he still looks cocky. I still hate him. "Sure kid, but I'll be back on Friday. I think I know what you want. And keep this between us, hm?" And then he leaves so very uncerimoniously.

Working title "The Gender Barrier", EXTREMELY rough draft

Sitting. Sitting. Sitting here. Right here. In the chair. Staring into space. How long have I been sitting? Here in the chair, that is. Not long. Or maybe very long. A long time indeed. The longest. No, longer. Or perhaps not. Maybe it hasn't been long. Sitting here in the chair. Not long at all. Very briefly in fact. Ten minutes. Twent minutes. Three hours. How long have I been sitting here, in the chair?

No, better: How long have I wanted to do something else? Well that would be the entire course of my life. I've never wanted to do this, never wanted to live around here. Too boring. Too uptight. Not a good place to live at all, really. But I've been here for a long time. A long time indeed. Seventeen years is a long time, I think. Nothing to do but sit and think really. Well, I could write, like all the artsy kids. Or I could play sports like the athletic types. I could access the intranet and talk to some locals. Nah, I'd rather sit here. Here in the chair. Sit here and think for hours. So what am I thinking about? How about this place where I live; this terrible little town, with it's giant fence and it's conservative notions.

See, my little town, out in the middle of nowhere, works a little differently than most. The entire town is seperated by sex; girls on one side, boys on the other. It would be a lot like gym class to someone in a normal town, only all the time. I don't really understand the legality of the whole thing, but a generation or two ago, there was a conservative revival, and people started going to church. Soon enough, certain people in the church became annoyed with all the "trouble" the high school kids were getting into with each other. That is to say, the boys and girls were "pairing off", which is of course to say they were fucking. They took the complaint pretty high up I guess, and whatever happened next is a bit too technical for me. All I know is, a highly guarded fence was built between the two halves of the town. Wherever there isn't a fence, there's a guard. Nobody can even get out of the town without going through a checkpoint.

Of course, getting out of the town really isn't that hard. If you're an adult, at any rate. Minors aren't allowed out without adult supervision, and just my luck, my father never wants to go anywhere. Hm, my father...

See, the only reason I exist in the first place is my father was one of the "lucky ones," as we call them. Every year, late in the spring, all the boys from the age of eighteen to thirty "enlist." They all take an aptitude test, get checked in for a physical and are then compared based on the results. The best of the best, a lucky twenty, get chosen based on their intelligence, physical fitness and fertility. They get put through a short sex ed. course, and then are teamed up with twenty women from "Pussyside." The men and the women pair off in whatever two person combination they see fit, and they become sexual partners for as long as it takes for the woman to concieve. A few romance options are available, of course; the facility they meet at is perched on a hill which overlooks the entire town. Built into the facility is a games room, a chapel, and a gorgeous restaraunt with a breathtaking window view of the entire town. Just imagine it: a candlelit dinner between the two of you, young lovers just meeting, sitting in the comfiest booth ever made, looking out at all the tiny little houses, the lights twinkling like stars built into the ground, and the actual stars up in the sky twinkling even brighter. Hearts racing, palms sweating, blood flowing to the nether regions, all that good stuff. Then comes dinner, hand-holding, a bit of petting if you're particularly bold. Anybody would be tearing the sheets apart after that. The Sex Commitee must have realized this, hence why the building was designed in the first place. Of course they built a similar (if cheaper feeling) facility down below the hill, about a half mile away from the "funk palace" as the less mature of us call it.

Every week, we all meet at that facility, male or female, and sit through a sermon, or maybe play some video games or some ping pong or something. We're always under watchful eye, so nobody's ever made more than a lazy attempt at sneaking off for a smoke or a shag or anything. The boys and the girls don't actually get along much, surprisingly. Some of the more friendly guys might wander over to the girls on occassion and try to entertain them, and sometimes they'll keep them around for a while, but when the day is over, we all go home and forget about our temporary truce. I guess the lack of sex doesn't help.

Huh? Oh yeah. I'm still sitting in this chair. I wasn't even staring off into the distance this time; I've actually closed my eyes, and was apparently drifting off to sleep. So now I'm awake. I'm looking around with sudden clarity, infinitely more aware of my surroundings before. TV hanging on the wall, tuned to the local public access station, playing some recorded sermon from a sunday long past. "Jesus' words ring truer today than they ever have before. In this time, we have abolished another form of sin: the sin of the flesh. With God's guidance w-" I grab the remote and click it off. It's interesting the first time, but this is a rerun. I've seen this exact sermon at least thirty times, a few times even spoken before a live audience. I only had to listen to a few seconds to recognize it; that's how familiar I am with it.

I swivel the chair around and around, making myself dizzy to fight the boredom and the insomnia. I see a yellow lamp in the corner, over on the end table by my still-made bed. I see my desk, a notebook propped open, yet nothing written down. My mind begins to synchronize with the motion, and the world becomes a nauseous blur to me. I see my bedroom door closed, and I see the lightswitch turned on, and I see my dresser over in the opposite corner, and I see my closet open, a small pile of clothes laying in front of the door, and I see my computer on the other end of the desktop, and I see the curtains half open, and I see a man in a black suit chilling out in my doorway. I make another revolution before I realize what I saw. Guy in a black suit and red tie by my door. Who the fuck is he?

Oh yeah. Dad has company. That's right. What was his name? "Jeff" I think. Right, it was definitely Jeff. How does dad know him? Oh, I don't think he told me. Well whatever. He's looking at me. What does he want?

"Hey kiddo. Jakob right? Let's have a chat."

Don't look at me, Jesus did it

God did absolutely nothing for you.

It's my personal belief that he gave you life, yes, at least in a broad sense. But he certainly didn't do anything for you.

You hear it all the time. "I got an A in history. Thank Jesus, my prayers were answered!" Now, most people just say it hyperbolically, but if you actually said it and meant it, you already don't deserve to have your prayers answered.

Here's why: Children are starving in Africa. War, famine and general injustice run rampant throughout the planet. (And, for all we know, beyond.) God is all-powerful, and yet does nothing about these things. (That we can see.) Yet, he "gave you" or "helped you earn" an A in history? What.

This argument probably sounds familiar, but it really deserves repeating. God didn't get you a raise, God didn't get you an A, God didn't do jack shit. You or someone else did those things. Your boss gave you the raise. (Or, alternatively, fired your ass.) Your teacher gave you the A, and you probably studied hard for it. (Alternatively, you put all your faith in THE LORD, or just didn't study, and the teacher flunked you. This should really come as a surprise to no one.)

The worst part is, some people place their faith ENTIRELY in God, and do absolutely nothing, convinced he's going to take care of everything. This is dangerously irresponsible, to say the least. This is like pushing all of your responsibility on one other person, only that person hasn't technically been proven to exist, and there's no guarantee he'll do anything at all. As well he shouldn't. God is many things, but he's far from being an enabler.

What I particularly dislike, and what's far more common, is people who work very, very hard at something, and accomplish something good, whether it be passing a test or changing the entire fate of mankind, and then say "Don't thank me. Thank my pal Jesus!" Wonderful, I understand your faith and devotion to God, and your love for Him. But C'MON! You did that work yourself! (Or, and again this is awful, someone else did something great and you disregarded them in favor of God.) I'm sure God wouldn't mind if you boasted a little bit.

God isn't a trophy parent. He's not out to make you win awards so he can live vicariously through you. Just take it easy and get back to your work.

I'm not a poet and I do know it

The past few days I've been starting to learn how to write poetry, and I did an exercise writing in iambic pentameter. Enjoy.

Making fun of me, that is.

----
The time it ticks along so slow for me

For youth the world are at their feet for now
Old age brings death for hopes and dreams, bold scars

Tunes playing on repeat ad nauseum

Cell phone lay dead upon the desk, shut off
The batt'ry needs a decent charge, for sure

Frost formed, caked over the bedroom window

The sun rises over the treetops high
Can't see it, bloody fucking ice (blocked view)

Pepsi is good, but not for teeth, no way

"Video killed the radio star"
Pretty decent song, I really must say

Hacky sack is beyond hard work for me

The glowing screen is lingering vision
My eyes, they're strained, may go blind on some day
----

Can you tell what my main sources of inspiration were?

A Promise I Can't Keep

Doesn't finishing a project feel like the greatest thing in the world? I love slaving away at something, whether it be for a few hours or a project spanning months, and finally crossing that finish line. Couldn't be a better feeling in the universe.

On that note, I've made a vow to update at least once a week, even if it's only something small.

Single-person Wangst Day!

As much as I'm expected to loathe it, being single and hating it, and as commercial as it is, happy Valentine's Day anyway! Let's not forget what it represents deep down, because that's the most important thing in the world.

Y U DO

So, with all the books I've been reading lately, and all the movies I've watched, and all the games I've played and just generally all the information I've taken in, my mind has been buzzing nonstop. For one, there's one thought that's been really nagging at me: how much do we take in? Do we ever stop absorbing information (short of dying, naturally), and when do we at least slow down? How varied should we be? What should we read and watch, and where do we find it? And how much do we partake in?

Obviously, we never actually stop, unless we're dead or lying on a hospital bed staring at the ceiling and thinking nothing in particular because our brains have mostly rotted away. So that's one dilemma solved right off the bat.

The next question is, how much knowledge can we really absorb? Well, the brain has it's limits, so we can absorb all we want, but we won't remember all of it. And indeed, one day, we may find ourselves completely losing our memories and never being able to recall such things anyway. But how much should we TRY to absorb? This, again, obviously, varies from person to person. Some people don't read at all, some people read hundreds of books a year. Some people go to the movies with their friends once or twice a month, other people sit at home alone and watch a movie or two every single day. And of course, different sources yield varying amounts of information. A Dan Brown novel obviously won't teach you as much about history or science as a textbook would, but at the very least it could excite your imagination. Is that as important as having the knowledge in the first place? Anyway, it could inspire you to look into it, so it can't hurt...can it?

So while I'm at it, is fiction anywhere near as important as non-fiction? Is it better to use fiction to relax or as a means to better yourself? Once again, it varies. 'Nuff said.

And now the one that really baffles me: Why do we have so much information in the world? History and most fields of science are constantly advancing, so that's a no-brainer. But what about fiction? What about all the many, many, MANY religions out there? Why do we need so much information that in the long run won't benefit most people, that may only touch a very select few number of people personally, but not even inspire them towards anything? Why would people create such things in the first place? This one, I don't know if I'll ever be able to answer.

tl;dr: I think too much, and can never reach a coherent point. And now I just contributed MORE writing to the metaphorical pile, so I'm thoroughly confused.

Bringing out the dead

So, I finally decided to start blogging again. I figure "hey, all these rich and famous authors have blogs, why shouldn't I?" and then I kept convincing myself I wasn't rich and famous. And I'm right.

The end.

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