The World Vs Richard Young

1. Companionship. Unfortunately for me I enjoy the presence of others, and therefore cannot hide in my basement tapping away at a keyboard 24/7.

2. Fear. Of many things such as my electric toothbrush and the way it mysteriously dies on my wisdom teeth only to come back into full vibration power once its out of my mouth, or the feeling of missing out on the most important episode of criminal minds ever to hit 2009 in which I have to go watch it ASAP, but mostly of rejection which is ironic because never submitting anything is in itself a submission to refusal. (did that make sense, as I always believe: no it did not.)

3. Even if I did get anything published, I seriously think there may be three thousand people worldwide who would find it interesting and the people at the pulitzer prize company are definitely excluded. (maybe Roger Ebert)

4. Finite amount of spendable cash. Although I am currently unemployed, this is sure to only last another month or so, and then I will be forced to rejoin the working world, in which I will make excuses like "I've worked all day, I can't write tonight." or "It's my day off, I deserve to sit on a couch watching the criminal minds marathon."

5. Starcraft. Fuck. Why is it's power over me more addictive than cigarettes, booze, and rock n' roll?

6. School. Although I suck at attending, and my grades reflect that, in the back of my mind it's always nagging and making me feel anxious so therefore I get nothing done and nothing accomplished.

7. I like waiting. Although I have completed my first novel, I have yet to try anything with it because I feel the perfect time to put all my time into it comes directly after I learn I have won the $40 million lottery.

8. Technology. In my opinion I would have finished and published my first novel at least two years ago, however, technological breaks in the space-time continuum along with my own inability to create backups has resulted in me re-writing the whole thing more than once.

9. Confidence. Yeah this one goes without say and is kind of a cop-out, but hey ten reasons is a lot of thinking...

10. The New York Times Crossword. Fuck you Will Shortz. You've made my life a living hell.

-Richard

I'm a mechanical man.
I'm a mechanical
I'm a mechanical
I'm a mechanical
man.

Get ready for the best blog ever.

http://www.Scornedacorns.blogspot.com

D'tale(s): /n. [v. di-teyl]

verb - (use with object)

The object is always to be a human being (be it alive or dead)
(use to replace details (see details) added with syntax "of my life" or a synonym of such)

1. To sum up exclusive items of ones life through vocal chord vibration (or speech) told in such a way to keep the object (human) present next to the speaker interested in the story of the subject's (human) recent past.

Sentence - I'll fill you in on the d'tales.

He watched the countless windows of various office buildings fly by and hated the architects who first thought up the concept for office buildings. He watched the content wandering people of the city walk by and hated them. He briefly watched a man sitting on a bench and in the two seconds the man was in his sights he recognized that not only was this man a better sandwich maker than he was, but also that this man was enjoying his sandwich much more than Fletcher ever had. He hated the man. A fairly disgusting blotchy sound interrupted his sightseeing, a large seagull had dumped its load in perfect timing to splat on the windshield of the taxi he was seated in, resulting in many curses from the driver. He hated the driver, he was not going to tip him. The driver attempted to clean the large liquidy white excrement from the windshield with his shitty window wipers, Fletcher hated the streaks being left behind. The taxi was out of window washing fluid and the smears now covered nearly all visibility for the driver. Fletcher thought about how he liked window washing fluid but hated the cab for having none. The cabbie had miscalculated how much of a turn was required to hit the right lane as they jogged left on a yellow. Fletcher hated the streetlights. The cab crashed through a very successful tie manufacturer’s store, a tie rack previously sitting perpendicular to the sidewalk outside pushed its way through the windshield and as the car came to rest atop a sales clerk pushed its way through the drivers chest and into the back seat next to Fletcher. Fletcher experienced whiplash for the first time in his life and was unimpressed with the amount of pain actually felt by it. He stared at the driver now gasping for air through deflated lungs and estimated that he only had about four gasps left before death fell upon the man. He hated the colours on this rack of ties. He exited the vehicle with nothing more than a scraped knee and hated the crushed sales clerk for getting to die before he did. He stared at the crowd of growing curious onlookers and do-gooders trying to save the two helpless men. He hated heroes.

my world of warcraft character has been lost.

close laptop.

go do real shit.





and then there was silence.
just a voice from the other world.

Andrew was standing in a fairly strange lopsided way that only he could really stand at, having the advantage of left-to-right leg length ratios being perfectly articulated for this sort of stance, his friends all referred to this specific 'stance' if it would be called one, which it wouldnt, it personally preferred the french version much nicer, for this stance was one much more aristocratic than other regular stances such as 'the regular', 'the flamingo (right foot up, left foot down)', 'the reverse flamingo (right foot down, left foot up)', and the reverse regular, who was a little pompous but still looked silly enough to never get any respect, which was referred to by his friends as 'the andrew stance' or 'tas' for short. Andrew was currently in the process of counting the skin cells located upon his girlfriends face with his more-acute-than-the-average-eye-eyeballs. he was at something around 2153 when she sneezed. "of course. fuck." he said aloud and was preparing himself to start again, she of course, was looking deeply into his eyes for this whole time and had only paused in the staring to turn away to keep soaring strings of mucas from attaching themselves to her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriends earlobes and eyelashes. when she asked 'whats wrong?' (an appropriate response to such a rude comment on his part) he explained to her what he was doing, and she was instantly struck with an extreme sensation to pull a stance-to-move combo of her own that she had perfected, the slap'n'turn, which finalizes with her never calling this dirtbag ever again, for she was thinking the whole time previous to both the sneeze and rude comment that he was indeed staring back at her eyes and was attempting to create what some scientists have called 'the holy moment' while others called it 'falling asleep with eyes open' and even more calling it 'staring contest'. She pitched the fierce eyebrows and bit-bottom lip, struck fierce, spun around with such ferocity that her ponytail slapped Andrew just under the nose (approximately 365 strands of hair struck his face by his count, which he would agree later was perhaps a very ironic number of hair with its close encounter the the days of the year, but then dismissing it as that it was a leap year.) she walked away, and Andrew looked at the ground he stood on in what any onlookers would agree was sorrow. In truth, Andrew was simply counting the rocks in the alleyway.

31764: the number of words that currently make up Where's Sly Part 2.
5662: the number of videos on youtube i have watched. (not including doubles)
80: the number of words per minute i can type during a history class.
31: the number of days i can go without any one thing.
3: the number of strings on my bass guitar.
6: the number of essays i have before this semester ends.
38: the number of days until this semester is over.
7: the number of times my middle knuckle on my right hand has cracked today.
10: the number of rubix cubes i own.
220: the number of christmas lights in my room.
20: the number of dollars an average paperback novel costs.
20: the number of dollars you should always place on red.
3: the number of times i've been to victoria.
2: the number of the season of x files i'm on.
6: the number of relatives i have who read this blog, forcing me to censure it a little and stopping me from putting what i really want to put down in this column. (ha ha! multiple entrendre!) (ha ha! that joke also had multiple entrendre!)
211: the number of cds i own.
7: the number of times greg will be seen in my room a week.
2: the number of pink flamingos i own.
-30: the number of degrees towards the celcius we currently are sitting at.
12: the number of super nintendo games i own.
60: the number of volume ideal for watching x files.
64: the number of millions i'm sure to win in the lottery.
11: the number my amplifier does not go to.
1: the number of boxers i own sans holes.
3: the number of posters on my roof.
18: the number of dollars in my bank account.
12: the number of months i have been moved out for.
47: the number I INVENTED.
37: the number at which you are still not old.
01010010: the number in binary to make the letter R.
8: the number that looks like infinite sideways.
8: the number of numbers on my student id that must be memorized.
10: the number of numbers of digits there are in our system.
160: the number of times ive considered quitting earls.
3: the number of keys i carry around.
16: the number of pages i have hanging in my room which are untyped for my book.
7: the number of fat old men i can think of that i have laughed at.
8: the number of rogues i am about to pull.
191225: the number that you should shut up and not ask questions about.