The World Vs Richard Young

I've pushed back a few academic priorities in favor of personal priorities that I currently find more...maybe important is not the word I search for but it at least gives you an idea of where my head is at. or perhaps where my head is hat. whichever, whenever, whoever, and whatever one you prefer just leave this reading with the knowledge of priorities in my life. Through the program "Processing" which almost advertises itself as 'computer programming for people who like shiny things' I have rediscovered my love for programming and really look forward to making some extremely shiny things in it that have a finished look without putting any effort into the 'finishing' portion of programming, which usually is the most difficult part, although not the most time-consuming.

This leaves me at a state of mind where i find it difficult to decide which path would be the most happy route for me to now follow. I could continue pushing school projects back to paint and wind up an androgynous homeless artist (androgyny is so hot right now) who gets by by pretending he has fourteen works on the go back at the studio located under the tenth street bridge. Or i could learn how to tie a tie and head downtown on a train of my other fallen comrades, each one thinking to themselves how unlike all these other suiters they gave up a life of art to look good on paper and make their parents not proud but appeased. Well fuck it, if these are the only two routes to pursue from this point I'm going to take the third branch. You know the one that hasn't been taken for a few years? I'm gonna grab a bowler's cap, grab my crotch and dance my way into the 'indie rock' scene as the next michael jackson. No no no i wont be doing any singing or anything musical whatsoever, but instead  simply spinning around in circles and making people scratch their heads. I imagine I can get enough people to not think that its cool...but think its new and exciting...at least enough to try it themselves, and then i can teach them my ways, make them give me all their money and follow me to san francisco, where i'll teach them how to take advantage of life insurance policies, make tons of money, send them off to kill some studio exec's wife  as i escape to Morocco where I can live like a king for approximately thirty two years before being convicted and returned to my own country, where my only hope will be to swim to Venezuela where i will for sure live peacefully until the end of my days. Great idea? ok readyyyy break!

Richard.

Typing the tedious numbers into the computer, you accidently add an extra zero to the current year, and just like that not only has time changed forever and you are ten thousand years older, but every person you knew during your lifetime is dead, and have since disintegrated into the ground, and no, they wont become the grass, and no, the gazelles will not eat the grass, and no, the circle of life is not happening. its 10000 years in the future and every living thing on the earth has died through some freak toilet malfunction. no you arent going to save the world, the world is done.

Email: worldvsrichard@gmail.com
Facebook: Richard Young (writer)
Twitter: GimpyMatey
Skype: Richard.worldvs

Also responds to people yelling "Richard" within earshot.

Richard is a still-yet-to-accomplish-anything writer, currently working on a novel by the title of "Where's Sly Part II".
He was born in the normal fashion, not hatched out of any egg in a nest atop a mountain, on August 5th 1988. The planet he lives on is that labeled by his own people as 'earth', being the third planet from a dying star which it orbits. you see,
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
This planet has—or rather had—a problem, which was this: most of the people on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches.
Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans.
And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small café in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever.
This is not her story.
This is the story of Richard Young, who's life is generally constructed of these mean people seeking to destroy his ridiculous idea of being 'happy' along with a lot of other things too. As a result to these surroundings all he has achieved was creating a half-decent website, and now carries a little red towel in his trusty backpack everywhere he goes.

-Hitchiker's guide to the galaxy (the greatest book in existence)

Welcome my friends, to six a.m.

As I sit in a fold out camping chair on my front porch with a fresh ziggy and the seemingly sweet soothing sounds of Oscar Peterson's piano pushing my fingertips into the keyboard in a sort of misunderstood jazz percussion form of their own and ponder both the ins and outs of my -to press the overuse of it- "humble abode" (and my, does it seem extra humble this morning) and the ins and outs of the musical timbre chosen for this specific piece a peculiarly loud dark burgundy SUV rolls by and threatens to ruin the mood, but as with a very nice bar of music is gone in only a second. A roommate arrived but moments ago, and there lies only another few of those very same moments before another will arise and begin his everyday preparations for yet another long so-called 'grueling' day at work with the knowledge that the weekend is only once again, moments away. The weekend that for me at least, still seems much more than mere moments from being here.

A peculiarly not loud low riding clean white truck drives by and reminds me that the music has since stopped and the playlist must restart. I double-click J.S. Bach and away we go again. Two things of course come to mind, first being: why is Richard listening to such music that only those of scholarly stature would be expected to playing within their spare time, and why on earth have you not prepared a breakfast for your awakening comrade; surely it would be a nice gesture. The latter of course, has no answer, perhaps I would have and still may if I finally decide to give in to the inevitable coming of seasons weather and return to the coziness of indoors or if I feel like I have written enough. I pause to crack my knuckles in the way a pianist may do so before the performance of his life as if my own penmanship was worthy of such a crowd and pause again to consider whether or not the digital remake of buttons being pressed holds the same truth to be called 'penmanship' when being compared to either the quill or typewriter, where the physical proof of the authors ideas are immediately given a place in history, be it in great libraries or just a stuffy old attic.

With a quick click n' flick sparks fly and once again the idea is back on track. The reason behind this quick culture shock into the world of music and out of the fantasy world of dragons being slain to the sounds of a bass drum being hit with two separate kicks is an upcoming test for a class which turned out to be a lot more difficult than I could have ever imagined. The only studying I may truly achieve is doing quite precisely this: listening. Upon deciding to take a break from the assigned listening I find myself still craving more of it, and proceed to throw on Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" feeling that it is the ideal choice for the mood and setting I am currently surrounded in. Somehow the first few notes send chills up my spine and no it is not from any recognized 'beauty' in the music (I am still not that far off into my faux-enjoying-it-because-I'm-artsy) and no it is not derived from the near-freezing air of a soon to be crisp morning, but instead waves of visions from my childhood have flooded my mind. Unfortunately like all precious moments it is forced to come to an all to early close as an image appears in the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen warning me of battery life and assuring me that if the proper action is not taken within the next fifteen seconds the computer, and all penmanship with it, will no longer be. Within but another (but different type) precious moment I am whisked away to my dimly lit bedroom and cannot help but wish that I was armed with nothing but a quill and ink, and the dim Christmas-light illumination was in fact a candle with the only chance at malfunction being whisked out by my running past it. The images which still linger in my mind are still here as the song ends, the sight of my own mother playing this song on our piano back at home. This had to be one of her favorite pieces to play yet I have never asked her what she did like to play, and it seems these days the piano, like the relationship between 'penmanship' and the digital image(which I cannot seem to get out of my head), is only for sights and slightly out of tune. Another song from my childhood (this one from the world of midi sounds and video games) comes on through the youtube playlist which I was unaware I had chosen when I had clicked the "Moonlight Sonata" link.

"In the hall of the Mountain King", one of my favorites from 'back in the day' draws up memories of a good friend rather than any of my relatives (yet this friend being close enough to be one) and not only because of the composer's name which is displayed on the tab above this (Edvard Grieg) but because of an event from years ago. I remember finding a tab for this song in my early years of bass playing and being very excited about it, and when I relayed my excitement to him about it he responded with not disgusted but distaste for the song. I do not know why this has stuck with me, I was not really disappointed with the opinion -in fact I have trusted this man's opinion on most situations over my own- but for some reason I can remember almost every detail of this situation, down to which poster lay behind him in my room at that time. It is these small things which help me cope with the idea that he is overseas and shall not be physically 'here' for quite some time. It is now half past six, I have four hours of 'studying' left before the test, I have missed my chance at doing something nice for my now gone-to-work roommate, and I have now resumed my original assigned playlist.

I wonder if a famous composer ever sat back half way through a composition and decided right then and there that this would be his most masterful piece, never again will he be able to achieve such perfection, and only goes on to finish it poorly such as this.

With perhaps a little too much into the simple mind of me,
-Richard

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.

IVAN: So let me get this straight, you plan on entering the world of competitive chapstick production with 20 dollars?

a loud crack was heard as all his knots accumulated into what could only be referred to as treeacide and he fell over, more depressed and lonely than any crossroad sign ever to come before him, his fall seemed long and overly dramatic and gave him enough time to ponder the ancient saying "if a tree falls alone in the forest..."

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.

"A once much more famous than ever before type guy named Tommy Jane passed the P.I. on the street, unaware of not only the conflict of interests between the two, this Tommy also having dreams of floating his fingers in and out of files, profiles, and expertfiles, and also the conflict of having the same name, Tommy Jane passed him without even the tip of his very detective-like hat, touching it at the brim, no, he was much too concerned with a whole different kind of file, a pedophile."