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I Have Nothing to Say

Posted 29 May 2002, 6.50 am by Berly

I’m not feeling very postastic lately. Writing about having nothing to write about is overdone and predictable. And so goes my latest offering to the site I love so much.

I’ve gone through my notes, looking for inspiration. Instead, I find fragments which entertain me for a split second - but fail to blossom into anything I’d be satisfied with. I’m going to post the pieces here - perhaps someone reading them can adopt them and use them as their own.

“The air is thick with dust, but I don’t know that until it settles on my car.”

“That is about as productive as washing the bubbles off of soap.”

“Even a scar fades over time”

A friend of mine called me one night, he was going to kill himself:
Him: “I am just tired of life being so empty. There is nothing here that I want.”
Me: “Ok. I should call the authorities because I believe you might take your own life.”
Him: “NO, DON’T! I have too much to lose!”

Overheard in my very own office:
“Ah ha! And THAT is why the aliens don’t land here on Earth!”

Driving home late one night - so late that I had most of the freeway to myself - I saw something off to the side I had never seen before. It was a giant cross, lit up with many lights. And next to it, was a giant disco ball. I don’t know if it was for some outdoor Christian boogie fest or what, but it surely struck me as an odd sight.

I met a lady one day who went in for a facelift and came out with a pulmonary aneurysm.

My friend Rebecca has been convicted of drunk driving twice now. She currently spends her weekends in jail - serving her debt to society piecemeal. Her last weekend of jail time is approaching. There will be “a huge bar-b-que and plenty of drinking” to celebrate.

One day I was walking down the sidewalk, in a town I don’t live in. I could see ahead, there was a kid fiddling with his skate board. He had jet black hair. I could only see that particular feature of his, until I nearly reached my destination. I turned to walk up the stairs at the same moment he looked up from his skateboard. He had the bluest, most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen. They were quite simply - beautiful. I quickly looked away, so I wouldn’t stare. I heard him ride his skateboard a ways down the sidewalk, away from me. I turned to look after him, and he turned back to look at me. I smiled and walked through the door. I couldn’t believe how a child’s eyes had taken my breath away.

The meaning of li.. your name.

Posted 28 May 2002, 11.01 pm by Villager

This site gives interesting definitions and histories of thousands of names.

My name means Valley. Beat that ..

First Aid

Posted 27 May 2002, 10.15 pm by Jake

It's a dark and rainy night in the heart of the city. A light fog surrounds all of the ratty dark buildings so that the lights inside shine a dull, blurry yellow.

A young man pulls his car into the nearly deserted parking lot of Big Bob's Porno/Novelty Hut. It's not hard to find a space, there are only about 4 cars surrounding the building. He looks out the window at the spattering rain as it dribbles down the windshield, and watches a couple more customers arrive. He pulls the hood of his poncho over his head. He takes a deep breath, opens the door, and makes a mad dash for the building.

Once inside, he removes his hood. The patrons stare at him and whisper. One man turns to another and quips, "It's that retard janitor from the high school. I wonder if he's here to buy fag porn." The young man just steels his gaze forward to the new releases section. Only if people understood. He wasn't ALWAYS like this. It's not his fault that the wreck had caused his mother to almost have a miscarriage. The impact from the drunk driver's car jolted his brain while he was in the womb and he came out mentally retarded.

The door-chime jingles, and an older, bearded guy with a pissed-off expression walks into the store. The young man glances at him and keeps on perusing the aisle. He's looking for "Bukkake Queens Part II" and is dismayed at the fact that he hasn't come upon it yet.

Suddenly, there's a disturbance up near the register. It's the pissed-off guy with a beard. He's brandishing a pistol and demanding the money. The woman at the register, presumably Big Bob's wife, stares at the attacker with a horrified gaze. She opens the register, almost mechanically. One man near the register steps forward as if to disarm the bearded, shouting man, yet the bearded man wheels around and presses the gun to the side of his head. "No fuckin' heroes in here, Chief.", the robber quips and glances back at the woman. He snarls, "Get that money in there, you cunt!"

The young man is near the back of the store, and he thinks that he might have a chance at getting away. He slinks along the side wall, around the bondage toys and chains, past the lubricants and lotions, and he is stopped dead in his tracks.
The bullet tears through the side of his neck. The retarded young man gasps and gurgles as he claps his hand to his jugular vein. The blood rushes forth like a fountain.
In a panic, the bearded robber tears the sack from the woman's jittery grasp and bolts out the door. A man near the retarded boy yells out, "We got an injury!"

Big Bob yells from the back, "I called 9-1-1, an ambulance will be here in 40 minutes. They can't hoof it in this weather!" The man walks up to the retarded boy and says, "Jesus, Bob! This little bastard's gonna die in 40 minutes!" He looks to the shelves and a grin breaks out on his face. "Got any duct-tape, Bob? I got a plan."

The retarded boy looks up drowsily at the few men crowded around him. Another man is next to him on the floor. He's sponging blood away from the wound. He picks up something in his hand, and in the dull light the boy can't figure out what it is. As it gets closer to his neck, he realizes.
It's a dildo.
The man inserts the dildo into the gaping wound. It's large enough to fit inside and block a majority of the blood flow. Big Bob hands the man a roll of duct tape, and the man wraps it around the shaft of the dildo to keep the blood from leaking out. He wraps it several more times to block the leakage...and they wait for the ambulance.

Star Wars - Gangsta Style

Posted 27 May 2002, 12.46 am by Alexander

This is extremely well done. I've seen other flash animations by the same people and they're always great. It's a constant wonder to me how much time and effort goes into these things -


Most amusing....

happy happy happy

Posted 26 May 2002, 11.19 pm by Villager

What of happiness? What of timeless serenity and joy? What of the warm contented feeling that graces those who can embrace it? I'm long learned that such a thing is beyond my grasp; human frailties and harsh realities prevent that, but what of an equivalent? What of my pinnacle of happiness? When will I be happy? I don't ask for fairytale glee or ignorant bliss - I'd rather not feel compelled to ask at all - but life seems so very ill fitting of my person. Are any but the ignorant meant to be truly happy? Are the rest of us meant to be left to juggle what joy we can find with the lives we cannot escape? I find those I would first grant happiness the least likely to ever achieve it, those who have the greatest capacity for joy seem to spend the most time in sorrow. Self pity? Self indulgence?

Or is the glass really half full? Does the unrelenting challenge of keeping your head above water and successfully balancing those joys and troubles elevate our satisfaction to a more fulfilling level? Is striving for something you never quite know exists worth foregoing immediate satisfaction and pleasure? Can achieving personal goals and carving your own portion of happiness be more rewarding than the blissfully ignorant could know?

Occasionally I remind myself the futility of asking such questions. Wallowing on the unpromising greater picture necessitates missing out detail - detail which redeems this life to existence and hope. I am happy, broadly. I'm just not satisfied. And that satisfaction may have to wait until wisdom of years and experience untold breaks the mould which brings me so blindly into adulthood. Are you happy? Could you be happier? Are you happy enough? How do you know? What will you do with this if and when you realise? Is happiness not striving to be happy and smiling whilst doing it?

Maybe in 60 years I'll have the answer.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Posted 26 May 2002, 4.11 pm by Craig

This game is addictive.

Visit Site.

It's Not a Test

Posted 25 May 2002, 9.56 am by Berly

You will need a fast connection and a lot of free time to get the most out of this site.

Why Are You Createive Dot Com. Go on, give it a poke.....


Time For A Change...

Posted 23 May 2002, 7.23 am by The_Roach

This is a post that I originally had up here a few weeks ago. Due to some confidentiality issues, I was asked to remove it until this time. I apologize for anyone who has to read it twice - Roach

Let me tell you a few things about my roommate. He has no sense of smell which, I suppose, limits his enjoyment of food somewhat. He's never noticed it as he was born with the disability. On the flip side of that, he has no idea when he smells. Try standing in the same room with the bastard immediately after he removes his shoes. Go ahead, try it. You'll be hard pressed not to cry out in agony as the flesh on the inside of your nose melts away.

He's extremely religious, almost to the point of being a zealot. He'll drive across town on Sunday to go to the one church he likes, then spends the entire day there. When he was growing up, he'd melt down the chocolate bunny that found it's way into his Easter basket and mold it into the shape of a cross. He turns away children who show up trick-or-treating on Halloween, telling them to come back for All Saint's Day and he'd give them a halo (donut). The power of Christ compels him in every regard, and the stories of the bible are (pardon the pun) gospel.

He owns five, count 'em, five VCRs. He watches no less than 100 hours of television a week, fast-forwarding through the commercials and laughing uproariously at sitcoms. His indulgence of mass media doesn't stop there, though. He has no room to place clothing in his closet because it's filled to the brim with his comic book collection. Even so, he's had to store an additional thirty boxes of comics in his father's garage and spends no less than $200 a month acquiring new ones. In addition, he sees nearly every motion picture that is released in theatres and frequently buys them on DVD once released in that format (some times multiple times if a new special edition is released).

He has nearly every character trait I despise. He's self-righteous, arrogant and terminally polite. He doesn't believe in the concept of "dating" because he thinks about things in the "long term". As a result of this (and other factors), he's almost thirty years of age, and he's never kissed a girl. More important, however, is that he has that one trait that irritates me more than any other. For all his faults, he's a much better person than I could hope to be.

A few hours ago, he informed me that he would be taking a promotion that would move him to another city here. I knew he'd been considering (read: praying on) it for a couple of days now, and I encouraged him. If there's one thing he and I have in common, it's an extreme hatred of change. The problem with hating change, though, is that it doesn't allow us to develop as people. We stagnate, go through the daily grind and wind up with no real history, no things we can look back upon for better or for worse. So, when he told me about the opportunity, I whole-heartedly wanted him to go. Perhaps there he'll be forced to meet some new people, maybe meet a nice girl he can settle down with (although, he's pretty settled already).

Honestly, I never expected him to go through with it.

Now, I'm faced with some difficult issues of my own. I have to find a new roommate, pray that the leasing company who runs my apartment complex will allow the lease to be transferred either in whole to me, or partially to the new person (whoever that is). I'm going to have to adjust to a new living situation of my own, help one guy move out and another in. Did I mention how much I really fucking hate change?

I'm sitting here, smoking a cigarette and looking forward to having my traditional post-writing vodka. Thinking back, I have difficulty remembering much that was truly significant in the last year and odd months that he and I have been living together. I've met some interesting people and done some interesting things. No doubt he's done things that he can conjure up in the history there. The problem is, he doesn't really fit into any of my memories from this period in my life, other than that he was there for it. There, on the sidelines, casting disapproving glances or laughing as I stumble through existence. For somebody who never really involved himself in my life, I'm really going to miss him.

Drewcifer, this one's for you.

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Doggybag/baggy_dog is an artist living and working in Barga, Italy. Click here to read about this piece in his own words.

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80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?


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