Camera Motifs

"You're the bestest, babe," Jen mumbled to a bombed Jill.

"Nopesies. Yer definitely the coolest soph I know. And, uh, take the rest, cutie . . . Jen I hope yer boytoy over -- I hope that man of yours, like, always tells you yer great. If he doesn't then guess what," Jill somehow managed to respond.

"What?"

"Um, I told ya I'd hook ya up with Miss Mary Jane."

"Yeah that is why you, Jillian, are the number one person of this earth -- no contest."

"Uh, school is gay."

"You're so random. Will you please hug me?"

"No -- get the fuck away from me you emo slut."

The laughter arose at once; the train tracks vibrated in approval. Everyone says ridiculous things when they're high, but Jill managed to self-consciously deliver only the funniest and wittiest conversation-twisters, at the perfect moments, during her trips. Plus her drawn-out, low-key tone added precision to her comments. It was like each of her quips was a mini-performance.

After Jill's remark subsided into legend, Jen bear hugged the senior with hyperbolic force. Nature may have wanted Jill to react mock-violently, and give another one of her sarcastic treats to the world -- but, perhaps to show Jen how strong their bond was, she accepted the offering and added her arms to the adorable arrangement.

"Oh, yeah I know her -- that's cool," Dave said to Jen -- although the words rang true in his mind, his heart called insincerity to the sentiment.

"She's the greatest! See you later!"

"Okay. See ya."

Dave landed in Human Physiology a little disillusioned. He organized his Jen situation during a lecture on the capillaries. We're still friends, we still hang out, we're still close, he thought. Something had vanished, though. There was no intimacy anymore. Not even an "I got your back" kind of relationship remained at present. His friendship with both Nick L and Sean R were comparable in merit and comfort to his with Miss Jen.

"Those three types are thus: continuous, fenestrated, and sinusoidal. Let's begin with continuous capillaries," Dave's erratic professor stated. Dave, though -- he heard other things. He was outright depressed by the end of class. He strutted to Sexual Education with a specific quotation ready to analyze.

"She's the greatest! See you later!" Jen had exclaimed fifty minutes ago. The first sentence killed him. She's the greatest. What is he, then? Just good? Sub-par? There was so much enthusiasm in her penultimate remark -- spewed out of a regularly indifferent visage! Then the second sentence. She was happy to depart his presence? He knew she couldn't be psyched about seeing her monotonous Chemistry teacher speak of polyatomic ions!

After school fell asleep and Dave awoke, the air seemed to want everyone to simply chill -- put on the latest Enya album, sip some hot cocoa, tell some ghost stories . . . the winter had arrived!

"No," Dave mouthed to Miss Katie P.

"Huh? Everyone's gonna be there!" said the party-organizer.

"Oh, sorry. Sure I'll go your Christmas thing. But right now, Jen's calling my name!"

"Um . . . no she isn't. Dave!"

The concerned remark lost its meaning before it terminated. The adrenaline-fueled rock star had begun his search for Miss Jen. He cleared every inch of the school grounds -- no luck: the predictable sigh followed. He dialed her number -- copy that. Where the hell could she be? Whatever. He let the time flow undisturbed. That night, his diary entry was considerably direct:

I'm feeling depressed. The chemistry between me and Jen is no longer here -- in any capacity. To quote Jacob Black, "Life sucks, and then you die." Meh.

A stark divergence from what Dave usually writes. Usually he pens abstract, ambitious, and alluring stuff. Take this excerpt from his November 1, 2009 entry:

Jen. Nej. Enj. Yes! Tis it! Alas! Unscramble "Jen" and lookie here! "Enj" = Enjoyable, quite frankly! Let's proceed, further. "Jne" . . . or JNE: Jesus Never Existed. She did say she subscribed to my faith! I know at least twelve brothers in Judaism who've exercised that claim! Oh, yes! What a marvelous day! Oh, yes, and "nej" -- Danish for no. Um . . . ! Well, tally ho, and let me fix this inconvenience forthwith! Life!

Dave's carefully-measured penmanship is a sight in and of itself. Wait -- that doesn't come across in a blog. Gosh darn it! We'll cry later. First, let's dish out a screamingly outstanding final paragraph.

Alas, as November was ready to accept a "6" on hole eighteen, Dave fell asleep. Hope colored his visage. Another era had just begun!

Shark Chasm

Inhale. Exhale. Reverend Hale. Oak (one last breath) A -- let's begin! Ha! I fooled you! (You mad.) How so? Oh, I said I'd be leaving you at once. But I didn't. I'm right here. Okay? Stop tearing all over my new guayabera. I'm not your therry.

I often trash contemporary music in posts. But today, reluctantly, I'll express my admiration of a few recent hits. Flo Rida (I still don't get it!) comrade Ke$ha's "TiK ToK" is pretty sweet. The lyrics are pretty shallow, and her voice may eventually squeak us to shreds, but I truly believe our songstress is on to something. Remember this? Yeah, daz whuh ah mee.

Drake cemented himself into hip-hop's sidewalk with the starfest "Forever." Unfortunately, his verse is the weakest of the joint. Lil Wayne continues to validate tracks -- the metaphor whore scores from half court in the song. Props to Chris Brown's new one, too -- "I Can Transform Ya" is damn good. So, um, back to being an eternally-critical asshole!

What's the deal with ringto -- Oh, hi Jen. How are you doing? I like boobies and I'm fat and worthless. Jennifer, delete that! Please, Missy, get off my keyboard! Stop! So, hmmm, what have you written so far? Woah, do I see an endorsement for something connected with abusive boyfriend Chris Brown? Oh yes I do. My name's Nick and I'm a pointless square faggot. Jen, I'm sorry I had to use physical violence, but I couldn't have you take control of my . . . you know what, Nick? Fuck you! Fuck off! Fuck you! Okay, guys, he's tied up. Don't ask me how. Don't ask me how. So he squeezed my arm and expected me to leave? What a fucking dick. Let's make this the most atrocious post ever.

I masturbate to animal orgies. My favorite musician is Justin Bieber. Fuck. You. Jen. Yeah, your ropes weren't tied too tightly. Cun -- ya know what: I won't say it. I'm better than that. I have a vast array of dildos in my basement. My writing isn't even close to that of the beautiful Stephenie Meyer's. I have a blow-up doll which I use to -- oh, shit . . . I think I tranquilized her. I knew these antipsychotics would find use. Jen . . . Jen! Eh -- she'll wake up soon enough.

It's such a wonderful Monday! The sun is shining, the rabbits are furry, the air is delicious . . . and Jen is unconscious, spread across my floor. Sorry, readers. Have to cut our scantily-clad post short. This was partly my fault. Wait -- no it wasn't! She barged in and seized my keyboard. Either way, I'm a nice guy, and I don't wanna be arrested. Young girl, obviously pretty dim -- I can tell the doctors that she grabbed the medicine and thought it was a bottle of vitamins! Since she's a health nut (see also: anorexia) she downed the container of what she thought was zinc. I am simply the greatest. So, in haste, I leave you unfurnished, unfulfilled, unkempt readers with nothing more than.

Blank Dust

Hark -- my second poll has already entered infancy. He's growing up so fast! I'm really scared though that my cupcake is gonna get picked on in school with a name like Which of These Minor Characters Interests You the Most, Reader? -- I suppose he needs an alias. Post possible nicknames. Thanks. And don't make fun of my babe.

Large scream for Farm 2 Bistro. Great success story! Restaurant opens, gets little attention, youth gradually come in, thoroughly enjoy themselves, spread the word, the word enters the mass, the mass flock there, and we even get a nice little article by Antonio P in our high school paper! I went to the eatery Friday with a couple mates. Two chicken sandwiches, lemonade, and a slice of pumpkin pie -- all of it terrific. Bow in unison before Nutley's gold medal recipient.

Eerie shriek for cocaine. I've told many respectable folks that I'll begin snorting the powdery drug in a few weeks. I guess that's a joke. Sigh. Ritalin, here I come. Also, stop being like, "Nick, don't do drugs," -- I start tuning out -- "famous people die every day," -- asleep by now -- "Hendrix, Morrison," -- dreaming about FDA exec Margaret A. Hamburg this point -- "don't do it, Mr. Rapper, please." Sure -- most drugs are addictive, bad for you (in heavy quantities), and full of unnatural chemicals you never heard of. But all this modest proser wants: stimulation. I'm the number one blogger in my land now. Who knows, though, after an iota of coke? Maybe I'll claim the top ten spots on Luscious Living's Worthy Web Sensations feature this month! Just so we're clear and I don't get in trouble for "hugely misleading information," (Twig 26) do drugs. Can I be more forthright? Fuck, rhetorical questions are not to be included in formal texts. (Twig 17)

That calendar can't be accurate! If it is, then we're approaching the two month jubilee (thanks) of my blog. Wear appropriate attire to the festivities. Maybe I should lay it out right now. I'm assuming none of you celebrate Thanksgiving. Right? Holidays are midtown. November 26 through November 28 let us thank the Lord for Nick Rapper's linguistic adventures during our primer Fictional Account Festival. All this celebratory garbage takes place in Booth Park. No rain dates. No fee. Bring your own objects. Whoops, I'm certainly turning you off by now. I'm thinking the 26th will be Cast Day -- meet the real humans involved in the blog! Get your most favorite character ever to sign your pet, take erotic pictures with you, massage your back (no promises regarding the competence of your masseuse) -- the possibilities are "absurd."

Black Friday -- More like Crack Pieday! The 27th will involve the throwing of stimulant-infused desserts at each other! Note: don't let my homemade crack go to waste. It's all fun plus games 'til someone says, "Where ma crack at?"

The final day is titled Saturday Parade, and will center upon the compound noun after "final day is titled." Fans, characters, haters, me -- all humans aware of this blog's existence will march on Centre Street, singing anthems like "Fireflies" and "Run This Town" while savoring their leftover illicit drugs. I'd say these events look entirely rad, dudes.

Dave -- surefire clown -- has been odd with me lately. I asked him where he got his School is Gay t-shirt. He responded, ". . ." -- with clear stress on the last ellipsis. What a pointless airhead. What a lesbian pornography pioneer. What a slice of cutie pie. Um, we'll move on.

You know SparkNotes? It's a comical exercise in summarizing classic fiction! I know you use it. Don't perjure -- that's what gets you in Hell. So, what I was trying to say is that this website now offers dating advice. Some awkward girl wrote to "Auntie SparkNotes" explaining that her boy crush is such a weirdo, and her friends think he's creeper status, but she is infatuated with the man. The response to the qualms of anonymous was filled with sarcasm, useful advice and fine writing. My stance on SparkNotes is now "pretty cool" -- up from a long-held "whatever."

My readers know about Jen's fascination with erotica. Enter Jen's other, somehow rarer addiction -- twas confessed in Web Design a few days ago. I was conversing with Dave about the relative pain you feel, initially, when you snort cocaine. Dave told me sniffing anything messes with your sinuses. Even Pixy Stix. "It's true," Jen offered, depressingly. This is horrible! Before long we'll find out that our heroine is addicted to, well, heroin. Miss Jennifer may have inadvertently started a fad! She may be the first of an upcoming batch of tipsy Pixy Stix chicks.

What else? It's been upwards of a year since singer Marnie Stern unleashed a kissing booth at select concerts to pay off parking tickets. I'm hyperventilating right now. If I don't hire another, stabler writer soon, I'm going to end up posting bizarre rants, "random" calf feces, links to pornography, and recipes. I often joke about all this weird fuzz I bask in. But I am, for once, not festooning in irony. I'm actually getting someone else to scribe posts. Will she be the sole writer? I can't tell you with any impeccable degree of certainty that the question I posed has the answer "yes" to it when you're being deadly truthful in your reply. See, I'll tell you something you should know. Cocaine and Ritalin -- three molecules different. Irrelevant you say. Well then, go jump off a kite. Few cups of java and I'm wasted. Baked. Cooked. Sauntered. So, for a while, I honestly say goodbye. I love everyone in the universe. Peace. Take care. Enjoy your new author. Long, delicious hiatus -- oh yes, you have begun!

Starlet Chatter

Our title relates to the story for once! Wait, no it doesn't. Starlet Chatter was suppose to be yesterday's post. Fear not. I'm going to squeeze out a relevant tale, damn it.

Some gleeful Monday morning, many suns ago, I entered Web Design clam-happy; but seconds later I was oyster-sad! There Jen gleamed in her Blog Superstar blouse; my fellow students were crowded around her seat. Alison even troubled the starlet for an autograph. And, thus, the chatter of the day focused not on Flash teachings, nor New Moon, but Jen's annoying fame.

Oh, 'member that post from yestereve which said, like, I was leaving you guys, like, immediately. According to veteran Fictional Account brother Ryan A, I was "high as a [light framework covered with thin material at the end of a string to be flown in the wind]" when I said (you mean, "wrote") that. So, in brilliant sobriety, I pronounce my infestation of your petty existence to resume. Jen was "mad" scared that I was gone for good. She declared my blog an "epic win" of continuously "beastly" material. I said to her, confusedly, "Um, thank you dear madam." I later scribed, in my diary, that "the youth of today baffle me to pieces." That reminds me. Of what? I'll tell you, chill.

So, I was writer's blocked earlier today and needed inspiration . . . or better: students' text-based paraphernalia. In first period I tried to snatch Anthony C's notes on female reproduction but he slapped my intrusive wrist at once. In third period -- Algebra -- I slyly ran my fingers upon Marina's notebook. Then she detached my right arm and masticated it during the remaining class time. I'm forever a lefty!

Bloody, disillusioned, hallucinatory, throbbing, and gay, I crawled to Web Design. Agreeable period. Besides complaining about my phony post and communicating enthusiasm towards my prose, Jen piqued my attention: "Nah, I'm not having Thanksgiving with my parents. Actually they're in Peru -- yes Wilbur, I'm Peruvian." So, Jen's house is empty, thought a [see paragraph-opening adjectives] me. I resolved that I'd break into Jennifer's house and seize her diary.

But, Jen might go directly home after school! Good thing I'm a pioneer of forethought. "Jen, you know the first meeting of the Conceited Celebrities Club is in Room 301 at 2:38. I'll be there. Marina said that club has her name written on it, literally. She's wrong and worthless, but anyway, she and -- I guess Katie'll be there." Our heroine accepted my overtly-innocent invitation. Yay! The plan was thus: bell rings, go to Jen's house, then enter her dormitory, steal her diary, if there's time grab some perfume, leave her room, run out of her house and flee her street.

The last bit of Hawthorne will enter my prose quickly, just because I can't fucking be an amputee during all these forthcoming installments. So, um, since God hath love me, His endearing messenger, He let my right arm grow back. Sorry for the interruption! Proceed! Eth!

My plan succeeded -- not without its quirks, though. For one, the infirm leech Nick L attached himself to me during my quest. It did get creepy in Jen's bedroom -- him being the sexual predator he is; me being the driven-for-evidence, stern-countenanced man of social rank I am. To boot, while we -- the nitwit never left me! -- ran back to my house, your narrator tripped over a mass of pebbles. Predictably, Nick L laughed. Unpredictably, I sliced him. Yes! I have personal space!

I arrived home and threw Jen's journal on my desk. The Twilight-themed (apparently it's a twiary; vomit) personal account was decorated in Edward and Bella confetti, and lots of blood. Very romantic, Jen. I opened it to her most recent entry! Gold:

Scott♥♥♥oh, he is dee cuuuuutest. so, i saw new moon tonight!!!!! not as good as the book. so, me&dave = good friends, just like i wanted it. its a good time to be alive. oh, ill admit, math is hard. and web is hard. but molly and amy and zack and abby and amrou and porn basically friends are life♥♥ if its wasnt for friends well id be dead. well i mean its not so much im living for friends but that im complete with them. uggg and i wouldnt tell them about my addiction. only you can know that, diarieee!

Right now I'm a douche -- bottom of the barrel trash garbage. But a real Professor of Douchery would post the journal pages which pertain expressly to Jen's lamentable obsession with pornography.

(If your given first name isn't David, don't read this parenthetical notice. Dave: can you come to my house right now and deliver Jen's diary to her and take all the blame which is rightfully mine? Please! I've done things for you. Dave, remember when we saw that commercial for Extenze and you're like, "Looks good!" My scholarly response: "Dave, it's not a proven method for enhancement -- don't waste your green." Then you said, "Fine, babe." Maybe you said that. Doesn't matter what the exact quotation was. Point is: I saved your ass. Well, your genitals.)

Closing Pence. A new poll has been added to my blog! "You're probably joking around Nick, right?" In front of my youthful readership is New Moon, Dancing with the Stars (Season 57?), Grinding Emo (some of us follow the adult film industry; I won't name names, JEN) and now a brand new, plastic-wrapped Fictional Account poll! I give my butterflies a sextet of minor characters -- all have made a small, but individual mark in the Nick Rapper laminated glass window. Huh? I'm so tired. That was my Every Other High School Student impression. Abrupt departure!

Farewell Felicities

And he's off again! Things bigger, better, more pronounced and empiric -- they're calling for me, and I must depart. Yes, I've been consumed by the prose of a Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose fastidiousness captivates the mind of us all -- if not inspires our kind daily!

A goodbye may not be issued! Oh . . . at once the sentimental and sensible of my readership hath called for one little dose of delirium to satiate their enjoyment for now. I give to thee (okay, you're pushing it, author) a tale of Jen, Dave, Wilbur, Dylan, and Alison forthwith (final straw).

The browser-based pool simulator Dave's been toying with is so bothersome. We might be so cruel as to place all online clickers into one category: time-wasters. But it's too obvious that great ones, average ones, and horrible ones exist for your selfish pursuits! Why delete minutes of life on a common, never-stimulating thing such as Most Boring a Pool Clone Which May Exist: The Bleh Edition.

The online activity of Jen -- nay, of us all -- has been gravely impaired by the new Flash era we've entered within our birthplace. But such a lady struggling with technical preciseness may be doubly affected. As of recent, her talk hath centered upon boots, purses -- whatever extraneous and expensive possessions our cousins may fester upon. Her benevolent neighbor may ask her specifics -- she complies, aware these obsessions of a superficial nature may render her memory inadequate. The price? Cost! Not! Relevant! Sir! When not on shopping sites I find this girl drifting forth to the most peculiar stops in Internet locale. She'll tell you of her exploits. I leave thou!

Not before a final, drawn-out, tear-inducing paragraph, though. My good pal Dylan, the class-leader Wilbur, and the symbol of confusion -- it's unique amongst those encountered in other academic endeavors; it, following the peak of joy, can be labeled a bawl of questions, or the misclick -- Miss Alice, became final brushstrokes in our endearments! I leave the literate, later, for multiple reasons. The time given to me is usually high, and that grandness breeds nervousness, e.g. "All these hours to write! I must deliver sanctity or else the people will frown!" Another obstacle is my pretense that thou shall catch up with the unread Nick Rapper material! I depart, at a reasonable epoch, with that dumpster of characters and their actions for you to fully grasp; and, I pray the foreshadowing of thy mind commences, or continues! Without more Puritan age jargon, without more shout-outs to key characters, without more hastily coughed-up morals, I enter a period of appropriate recluse! A final slice of aforementioned trio, please! Heretofore, Dave, be good. Good life and love, readers. Your Eternal Companion, Nicholas.

Quilted Qualms

Vait, vhot? Antagonist Dave is your democratically-elected winner of our poll. He's the favorite, the protagonist of expected fan-fiction pieces, the commander-in-chief, the aggressive negative-campaigner who once referred to Marina C as "little more than an angry fembot whose assets are both nonattrative [sic] and, I don't know, repulsive."

Let's break this matter down to its atoms. In first place, Dave claimed 48% of the vote. Anthony is the runner-up with a modest 25%. Jen got 16% and Marina a weepy 9%. I was pulling for Ant in the homestretch, but he never came through for us. I'm bawling right now. Bawling with Angelo L, whose various positive comments about Ant have touched me both linguistically and emotionally. "Sometimes, when I see Anthony C in the daylight, I'm staring at the physical embodiment of productive merriment." When Ang threw that beautiful line at me, I immediately entered the fetal position -- the tears lasted at least twenty minutes.

Marina's percentage reflects her wretched soul, her disingenuous fashion choices, and her opinion of the Juanes track "A Dios Le Pido." In a recent interview, Marina declared the song a "masterwork," citing the refrain as "hypnotic," and the outro as "Nick, fuck off. I've talked to you for thirty seconds. That's enough." It's my personal belief that she did not want me to leave her desk, but was, in fact, upset about her ignorance of the term outro. This chick is in choir, for the record!

Jen's number is at once surprising and reasonable. She is the heroine of my blog, the independent-spirited romanticist whose gleaming character should win readers over. But, then again, most Fictional Account aficionados are juniors, and most of you out there (out there) are demonic shrews.

We put an era of corruption, hacking, dissension, barbarism, and greed behind us. Local discourse brings me to unselfish endeavors. I solemnly swear to bring you more characters, new vocabulary terms, an editor to dot my is and cross my ts, merchandise (low-cost but at least meh-quality), character profiles, group photographs, rallies, [insert your Nick Rapper fantasies here] -- but most of all, prose to lawl, a host of drawls, and posts of scrawl.

Global Aspirations

Soup, Progressives. Few will get the reference; all will perish. Anywhat, I'm still in let's-expand-the-blog-empire mode. The demographics I've claimed are thus: secular stoners, chivalrous cheerleaders, and friendly foreigners. But I'm going to BBC this shit. Yes, it is time to expand our global popularity and importance. There are five groups I've ignored throughout my literary quest. You might as well throw baseballs at my house and call me a "prejudiced pinhead." Well, you had your chance to do that -- my blog is fucking gorgeous, so ya didn't. Anywhen, I've decided to make an appeal to the following cliques: whores, gangsters, hipsters, guidos, and Mormons. I'll present to you stories for each set, written in appropriate diction, using established Fictional Account characters, in the order prescribed above, within syllables. Ready, set, ho!

Confessions of a Teenage Tramp

My name is Jill and I'm a prostitute. It wasn't always this way, though. But who fucking cares . . . I love my job and it pays the rent. My drug of choice is heroin, and I frequently ingest it before sucking off a guy. I'm not sure you wanna know the really sexual stuff. Why should I care, though? My dad's in prison, my mom's in an insane asylum, and my mouth is wrapped around a lollipop. I use various candies as sex toys. I'm like Katy Perry.

Coming into the business with nothing more than money and fake bosoms and wide hips, some have said, "Jill, how'd you do it?" I can't answer that question. Talk to my clients. I'm trying to convince my friend Jen to support me, but guess what, she fucking doesn't -- that's not fair, it's not. I think that being a whore, slut -- I don't care what you call it, hey I don't care what you think about me, hey, call me fat or dumb if you want, I can tell you now, I don't fucking care . . . where was I?

Oh, well, being a whore is tough, since I'm against what I do. I wouldn't call myself religious, but I have faith that God will forgive me if He's there, because I give people pleasure every single day, and pleasure can't be a bad thing. I'm not happy about it, ha, well maybe I am. I just have to tell you, stay in school but if you want to have sex for a living, go ahead because you're basically -- well I call myself a humanitarian. Whatever way you cut it, it's still the same thing. You want people to be happy and you want money. Reciprocal. I'm no dummy, by the way. I really really like Ellen Hopkins' Crank -- sometimes I cry when I read books. When you feel exactly like the author describes you get the feeling you're both alone and not alone, the first one because you physically are -- the second because you're mentally not. I love myself and really like sex and don't box in my emotions. So forgive me, God.

Streets Strengthen Structure

"Yo, Jewfest, whatchyou doin' today?" I said to Dave C. Dave gets a lot of shit in our hood because he's a Jew.

"Chillin' wit Ang, ya dumb Nazi. Mims's gonna be at Starland. Come bro -- twenty fo' tickets."

"Screw that shit, muddafucka. Les see Daddy Yankee -- he be at Nokia at eight."

"Reggaeton is horrible. All they got is Sean 'n Daddy Yankee. See Mims bro; his new album if fuckin' beast."

Honestly, the dude had a fucking point. Reggaeton is ruled by Sean Paul and Daddy Yankee, but I love the genre to death. I'd see Mims that day, even though his stuff is terrible and he's not doing anything for hip-hop lyrically. "This Is Why I'm Hot" is fucking catchy, though. I'll give you that.

"Whatever . . . I'll go to the Mims show," I conceded.

"Hell to thee yes," Dave said, enunciating every fucking word like a retard.

I was looking forward to seeing the opening act. Because, believe me, Mims is a joke -- no doubt. The time passed and eventually it was around seven and we headed to Brooklyn. What happened could only be described as "amazing." It was me, Dave, and Angelo, and we saw FAG (First American Gang), our rival gang. The feud between our gang, GOT (Gleeful Oddball Troop), and FAG, commonly called the FAG-GOT Wars, was about to undergo its seventh or eighth battle. I had my pistol on me, bitch.

We were definitely dumbasses that day, trying, us three, to beat them, which was probably, I'd say there was nine people out there. I went down first. My fucking Biggie Smalls t-shirt was permanently ruined. My wrist was . . . sprained. Dave was the second victim. He clearly injured his ass. Kinda funny but man was this battle violent. Angelo went down last because by then it was a good seven on one and he just fell. Didn't get many injuries, just a few bruises and a torn eyelid. That's it, don't get an erection haters.

The Mims show was good at least. Cool Kids opened. Pretty badass show I'd fucking say.

Timely Commentary

Oh, I am so very dissatisfied with my pronunciation as of late. The sloth bug has crawled upon my crops and defecated on my raspberries and avocados. I recall a discussion with my good mate Ryan; thereupon I lamented his stamina, rendering it less than stellar -- the expression may seem tiresome and overused, but it is an apt substitute for the source text -- and he retorted, as his brow furrowed, with a disagreeable "not accurate."

Here arrives my entry into the apathetic rafters: "Well, I say it is, and it is." Three-fourths of my dumbly-delivered quotation were given a bag of chips for lunch, a can of Axe for cleanliness, the half-hearted rubbish seen in today's youth on a grand scale. I have hence practiced oral exercises on the hourly, reciting As You Like It monologues, rehashing news stories with incomparable emphasis on trivial matters such as creed or count, ironically delivering barely-realized fables in town square -- the latter I've since spent upwards of threescore hours in prison as the result; who knew anatomical features shan't be yelled out in front of supposed "littluns" -- for nothing but increased self-awareness.

I have no enemies, only exaggerated opinions (meritable folks still call them that, I presume; I must conform to emphasize the following). My good comrade Alison B, one offspring of God's ambivalent and beatific actions, has taken a liking to Adam Young's musical (by whose measure?) exploits, vomited from the alias Owl City and mastered by a laptop and allegorical confusion. Twas my first aural experience of Young's somehow-emotional fodder when I decided I'd spend a few hours each day, for the rest of my dwindling epochs, protesting the existence of an Owl City.

This life mustn't look at troubles and pensively gasp, "I shall let you off, at once!" My picket signs were both artistically endearing and dramatically crafted. Once the townsfolk become aware of Owl City's abhorrent endeavors, they will -- along with their ears and hearts -- reject it! Homo sapiens, the sole music makers, must preserve their medium. A negative trend may be a deceased philanthropist quicker than a ringtone hip-hop connoisseur rises and falls. I suppose some moronic dullards thrive in my state. Quietly and tastefully, I delved into Sayreville to oppose Owl City's infestation of the area. Teenage scum paintballed my aesthetic masterpieces and looted me. The two chaps with me, the punk-influenced Jennifer A, and the effective Queen of the Indies, Miss Sarah B, managed to remain unscathed during the chaos. I have a renewed passion for both ladies because of their now-ubiquitous scruffy, scrappy nature which is absent in their respective visages.

Those sensible young persons searching for emotional comfort and auditory, hedonistic delight need not look farther than Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism and Chan Marshall's You Are Free. Never sacrifice self-consciousness, quality, passion or public affection in thy idealistic engagement -- time is thee purveyor of only waste; be the binman. My words are thence excavated from a life knowing little of mindless pursuits. As a token of indelible gratitude for your hopeful fancy, I henceforth divulge my motto: popular culture, by its very nature, blurs thine intellect; hesitate nil and commence warfare.

Jersey Shore Product

Let's make it known -- I hate reading, you hate reading. But today was fucking awesome. I love taking my girl down for a walk on the beach -- fuck that, but she likes it, and she's hot as hell, bro. You know what -- this girl I have right now has proven to me dark-haired broads are so much better. Her tits are fucking beastly, too.

I fucking hear it everyday, bro -- New Jersey sucks, it smells, all this bullshit. It's honestly the best place ever though. So many hot girls. So many. I'll tell you guys about my day, though -- it was a definite win.

I woke up at one, bro, and I'm just like, fuck this. But there was a party later so I'm all chill and shit, just talking to my main bro AJ basically. Dude's got two threesomes in the last month. You gotta meet this guy. He's fat as hell and doesn't talk much but he just scores.

At three I went to the gym and did some chest flexes and cardio shit. I was pumped like a champ by the time I got back to my apartment, bro. It was like four and I just started doing my hair and crap, getting ready for clubbing with AJ and Vlad. I gotta break up with my girl. She's absolutely perfect but I'm just like, restricted, ya know?

I hear it's like the same rate or more -- girls are horrible, they cheat all the time. But at the club, it was just awesome. This girl made like seven hundred jokes about my hair -- I'm like, yo, I need a funny chick. Most girls are just not funny, at all.

But yeah, I'm still with my one girl, and I feel mad held down -- I'm just gonna be honest with her. She's fucked at least 4 of my bros -- believe me, this chick is strong, she's hotheaded and the worst that'll happen is she'll spread rumors about me. But honestly I don't think she'll do that shit. She's one of the most truthful girls you'll meet -- that's why I'm with her. If there's one thing in Jersey that I hate, it's the drama. This chick is fucking chill.

Honestly I gotta fight this guy Adem -- he's been texting my girl Josie. Yesterday I took Josie's phone and texted him -- I'm like, Dude get a fucking life. He texts me back saying how, Wow, your boyfriend took the phone from you obviously and that he's gonna tear my ass up. I don't fuck with people normally but a guy like this -- that's when I make an exception. He's 150 maybe -- skinny bitch. Anyway, peeps, always be true. I hate liars. People are like, Yo Nick you're a guido, popping your collar, working out, all this shit. I'm like, "First off, fuck you. Secondly, I'm a guido, sure. I'm proud of it. Third, don' mess with me. I love my life and I'm gonna live it to the fullest. Spending your time hating -- what a waste of space you are." Peace guys.

Splatter Grey Paints

Hello. You may call me Christian, or simply Chris. I prefer the former for a host of reasons, though I'll simply say Chris is not a very happy person, and Christian is a naïve boy of sixteen, searching for the utmost joy that usually accompanies childhood. My parents are respectable people, although I may hardly proclaim them patron saints of leisure culture.

I really enjoy the game Candyland. I understand its juvenile and fantastical ties, but it's so fun, and I wish the board would envelop me and I'd be a carelessly happy schoolboy on Gum Drop Mountain, just pigging out on peppermint sticks and licorice, enjoying Z-100's party tunes. I am aware that most of said songs center around sexual intercourse, though its too obvious to offend me. It's bubblegum to the ears, I say.

My parents push literature in my face at an alarming rate. I really enjoy reading, writing, watching television, seeing films, looking at glossy photos of stars in magazines -- virtually all forms of escapism I try to reach. Most forms of media I am not suppose to consume, though. My good friends have brought me with the delicious sweets because my friends are unarguably the best.

Though I love my God, and my parents and the wonderful Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, et al, I still marvel at this feeling etched in me. I feel like the mild oppression I've experienced has only made me more prone to closure. Reverie has taken over me, and its warmth, and the comforting spiritual reliance never to depart from me, has made my life only the greater.

Alas, it was a Friday night, at around quarter to ten, when I started reading Twilight -- I finished it by early morning, before crashing in my cot. The last bit I got from it, on the back flap, was that Miss Stephenie Meyer is a Mormon. But, oh, the novel wreaks of sexual tension, and I think she shouldn't call herself a Latter Day Saint with this disgusting piece of child pornography etched onto her breast. It's inexcusable for this poorly-written account of sexual angst to be taken as an indirect symbol of our people.

Do not deny our reputation. According to current archetype, we never have fun, we aren't really Christians, we go door-to-door spreading our faith, and our leader dreamed up all this nonsense, Christian P -- you can't possibly take it as anything more than fiction, can you?

I won't refute any stereotypes. I'll just say Stephenie Meyer is someone who carries herself loosely, without regards to tradition, and has an inattentive husband who must cry over the words that leave this dame's mouth. I'm so sorry for the insult, Miss Meyer, but you only push down brick buildings a layer before completion. I've learned some distinctly human lessons from literature, and I must share them, because they stick to me. Be yourself, because individuality only exists if you don't know what it is, fully, and respect everyone else's right to speech, prayer, belief, and thought.