December 26, 2011

A quick poem based upon my stupidity. Enjoy. :)

December 26, 2011
Written By: Michael T. Flanders

Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house
every creature was stirring, including a mouse.
A fight raged on, egos and feelings were hurt.
Both parties were left feeling like complete and utter dirt.
She wanted him to tag along to the family tradition.
He wanted to, but declined due to a back condition.
Neither one quite understood the other’s point of view,
so in their anger and depression they both continued to stew.
She walked out the door, a chilled wind in her wake.
He just wanted the argument to stop for goodness sake!
His apologies rolled off his tongue and he said things would’ve been different
If only she had opened up and said what she really meant.
Her claim was that it was Christmas and he made time for his family,
why couldn’t he do the same for her and avoid this calamity?
The disagreement carried on throughout the day,
even though the man knew he was wrong in every, single way.
A woman scorned is not to be trifled with,
they’re worse than the evilest and most powerful of Sith.
And as for the unintentional guilt trip, it still went through,
so he was left wondering until 7:30pm what he would do…

"Rock On!"

Here's another contrived piece from the mind that belongs to me. :)

"Rock On!"
By: Michael T. Flanders

Amp strummed his guitar, vanquishing yet another of Spazzy Jazzy’s monstrous henchmen. They kept attacking, scary servants of hip hop and rap, all with the intent to rid the world of everything that rocked. Some had two heads, others flew upon the wings of dragons. There were even some that breathed the icy wind of the north. Yet Amp remained vigilant, striking chords of destruction that vanquished each foe. His rifts were infused with the power of the Rock Lords, granting him the ability to turn his guitar into a weapon for the cause.

And this weapon was being used tirelessly tonight. It seemed that after one monster was slain, two would appear to take its place. This didn’t detour Amp from his mission however. Instead, he cranked the volume up to eleven and continued his charge into Spazzy Jazzy’s evil lair. It was here that he not only would put an end to Jazzy’s absurd plans to destroy rock, but he’d also rescue the Metal King’s daughter, Princess Ibanez. In fact, she was the key to Spazzy Jazzy’s plan, for she was the heir to all that was rock and roll. If Ibanez was thrown into the Pit of Hip on the night of the Vocalized Moon, everything she would inherit upon taking the thrown would turn to dust. Amp couldn’t allow that. No, he’d fight with every last breath he had to ensure rock would never perish under the rule of anything “hip”. With this, he made each strike of the chords that much more imperative.

Finally he reached the main ritual chamber…

Kicking the doors open, Amp was ready for the rock gig of his life. He held his guitar with force. Raising a hand to drag a pick across the strings, Amp prepared to drown out the repetitive and tired beats that resonated throughout this place. But he found himself stuck, frozen in place. His hand couldn’t move. His fingers remained glued to the fret board, prisoners of some invisible warden. Suddenly he heard a voice from across the room. “So good of you to join us,” said Spazzy Jazzy, “we’ve been expecting you for some time now.”

Amp looked across the chamber, across the void that was the Pit of Hip, only to see his arch-nemesis. “Jazzy,” he began, “it’s been a long time.” “Too long.” The King of Hip responded. He slowly stepped into the firelight that surrounded the room, showing Amp that he wasn’t alone. Princess Ibanez was dragged into view by the chains Jazzy so heartlessly tugged on. She was dressed in an unusual garb, shiny and extremely loose-fitting. Amp noticed her ability to speak was taken away by some sort of gag.

“Ibanez! What have you done to her?!” yelled Amp.

Jazzy laughed. “Easy there, tiger. You may be restrained through my paralyzing beats, but I may still feel threatened. If that happens I could be forced to drop your sweet princess here down the pit ahead of schedule.”

There stood Amp, paralyzed and glaring across at Jazzy. “Oh Amp, why such the long face? You knew this was coming ages ago.”

“Yeah, and I should’ve rocked you into oblivion then.” Amp muttered through gritted teeth. As if to answer for Jazzy, a loud humming noise suddenly radiated through the room, drowning out the Hip Hop Master’s phat paralyzing beats. The Vocalized Moon now loomed overhead.

Jazzy pulled hard on Ibanez’s chains, moving her into position just above the pit. “It’s here, it’s finally here!”, he exclaimed, his excitement contained for no one. Ibanez struggled with her mouth restraint, freeing her ability to speak. “Amp, the paralyzing song is weakened because of the moon’s humming,” she yelled, “play something on your guitar, quick!”

Although the song was weakened, Amp still remained frozen. He could feel its pull fading though, as he slowly started fingering the strings on his fret board once more. Another minute and he could play a power chord strong enough to take out Jazzy. Another minute could prove too late for Ibanez.

Shoving Ibanez’s gag back in her mouth, Jazzy prepared to sacrifice her. “Enough talking, princess! Not it’s time for you to perish, and for me to take my rightful place as the slayer of rock!”

“Wait!” Amp needed to buy time. “You really think destroying rock and roll will make up for your past? That’s just sad…”

Jazzy took on a concerned look. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, we all know you’re doing this because you rocked the least in school. You always had your volume turned low, while the rest of us blared it out until our eardrums bled. Pitiful.” Amp’s feeling in his arm returned upon the delivery of his last line. He grinned.

“What are you smiling about,” Jazzy’s voice broke as he continued, “I still have your precious princess in my grasp! The moon shall be at the right height in just a moment, and everything you loved will be destroyed! Your words mean little to me with that fact to comfort me!”

Still grinning, Amp couldn’t help but savor this moment. “Hey Jazzy, what did I always tell you back in school?” Jazzy scratched his head. “Always put the eyeliner on before the show?” Letting it show his arm was free, Amp took no initiative to hide his bravado. “If the tunes are rockin’, don’t bother knockin’!” He dropped his hand across the strings, unleashing a flurry of light and magic. A pure stream of awesomeness surged from the body of the guitar and hit Jazzy, sending him down the Pit of Hip right as the Vocalized Moon moved into position.

Having saved rock from destruction, Amp ran to Ibanez. He untied her, giving her back her freedom, yet she seemed distressed. “Amp, we don’t have time. You may have stopped Jazzy, but he was just a pawn. Beiber Fever rises in the south, and threatens to attack us any day now, making Jazzy’s plan come to fruition.”

Amp smirked. “No worries, princess. This just gives me another reason to keep rockin’ on.” They both fled the castle with haste, preparing for yet another adventure fueled by good tunes and awesome stage lighting…

The End

MATILDA

MATILDA

By: Michael T. Flanders

I gaze at the ground, my oblivion being condensed into dirt and rock. Never before had my neck felt so tense, so eager to move freely, than it did right now. Placed within the stock, I tremble each time Matilda’s rope is pulled. She’s a delicate lover, Matilda, yet a force to be reckoned with when she’s scorned. Treat her nicely and she’ll grant you one-of-a-kind entertainment. Get on her bad side and she’ll put you on the chopping block.

That’s where I was right now, awaiting the judgment of Matilda’s edge, her wrath if you will. It’s a bit poetic too, come to think of it. After all, I’m her creator, her Dr. Frankenstein. But now I’m hunched down, stuck with my neck in a rounded board. The blade will drop any moment, taking my life in one go if I’m lucky. That’s not how things always work with a guillotine though, especially one undersized. Matilda sits at only nine feet tall, a baby compared to old fashioned execution devices. Considering it now, I should’ve sprung for the extra beams to make her bigger. Damn me and my fickle wallet. Finally the blade reaches the top, waiting to be released from the executioner’s grasp.

Even now I had to admit I still thought my home-made death machine was a thing of beauty. She was endowed in all the right places, a woman of style and class. Yet like all women I spend considerable time with, she grew weary of me. Guess it was all the “Give me head” jokes that did it. Note to self: Think up new jokes in the afterlife.

The executioner walks to me, “Any last words?” I look up as much as the stock permits me to and get a decent look at the person controlling my fate. I was shocked, if not a little appalled when I saw who it was. I begin to stammer out something, but it’s cut off -no pun intended- by the executioner releasing the rope from his hand, sending Matilda’s blade on a one-way trip to the back of my neck.

Have you ever heard the sound of a head being decapitated? More specifically your own? It’s an extraordinary thing to hear, a self-beheading. Imagine walking through the squishiest mud you ever had, combined with a hammer –yes, a hammer- chopping through a bundle of dried out twigs. Add a popping of the ears to these noises and you’ve got a full-on party happening now. Yet the party is crashed by the grinding of a blade against bone as it’s slowly pulled out of my neck, preparing for its sequel journey up the tracks and back down to finish me off. Told you things don’t always go as planned with guillotines.

So the executioner works Matilda’s anger up the wooden frame once more, letting loose what sounds like the occasional chuckle. This dude is a complete dick, I’m letting you know this right now. I mean come on, my head is barely attached by sinew and a sliver of bone, yet this guy is laughing at me. Given the circumstances though, I’d probably do the same thing if I had Matilda in my possession. He’s still a dick.

The blade is again reset, having worked its way up Matilda’s garters… with some help of course. It now dangles above the hole in my neck, preparing to make sweet, sweet love to that bloody crater. The douchebag executioner laughs again, letting loose the tirade that is Matilda’s fury. With what little feeling I have left I can sense the blade’s arrival through the vibration it sends down the track. Son of a-

Matilda has served her purpose yet again, causing my thirst for entertainment to be quenched. Removing my gloves, I reach down to claim my prize. A flood of nostalgia and discomfort takes hold as I look at my gory reflection. He was stupid, weak, a child of ill-manner and bad taste. I’m now his successor, I will put things right. He may have built my love, but Matilda now rests with me. I’ll treat her right, like a lady deserves… if only out of fear she’ll pass the same judgment unto me.

The Beast

Our assignment was to write a story based on a child's interaction with a creature of our choosing, but without giving away what the creature was until the end. With that said, here's "The Beast".

The Beast
By: Michael T. Flanders


The boy was scared. He entered the cave in hopes of finding the butterfly he had been chasing around for the better part of the afternoon, only to find that he was now face to face with something nightmarish. The first thing the boy noticed wasn’t the horns or wings, but rather the smell. The entire cave reeked of overcooked meat and burnt hair. It caused his gag reflex to respond almost immediately, yet he was able to chew back the bile, if only to hold it in for something worse. Pushing past the urge to throw up, the boy finally took notice of the creature before him. Its scaly eyes were piercing, stirring emotions the boy didn’t even know existed, but also highlighting the ones he already had. Needless to say, his fear of the unknown never had validity until now. Slowly backing away, the boy broke for the cave’s entrance, wanting to get away from this mythical creature as fast as he could. The light from outside merely a few feet away, the boy’s escape was halted when a coarse fist wrapped itself around the boy’s torso. The boy’s mind went crazy. How was this possible? How could something of God’s creation have such a large hand? What would happen if he couldn’t get away? Feeling the pressure from the roughly plated hand, the boy took notice of the scales that encased the monster’s arm. Not just its arm, but its entire body. Pouring through different tactics of escape, the boy finally decided to attempt biting the creature. The attack however, was rendered completely useless due to the natural armor that the beast was covered in. On top of that, the thing tasted of rancid spinach, so it only ended up making the boy spill out some of that bile he’d been holding onto for such an occasion. Placing the boy on the ground during his fit of vomiting, the beast took a step back, arched its wings and let loose a magnificently terrifying roar. It was at this moment that everything the boy had known became forsaken. After all, how’s a child supposed to accept the fairy tales of old when a dragon dwelled in the world of today?

A quickie, but a goody!

Earlier this week we were asked to write a simile/metaphor poem based upon an ex. Here's what I pieced together within two seconds.

Untitled
By: Michael T. Flanders

My ex is the tampon anti-Christ, the embodiment of forgetfulness and unhygienic habits, and as tyrannical as Darth Vader, like a Dark Lord of Vaginal Control.

I hope you enjoyed this snipit of nothingness. Was it good for you?

The Fall of a Ranger

Here's a prose based upon my "first crush"... I was a child of the 90's, what do you expect?

The Fall of a Ranger
By: Michael T. Flanders

She was Rita Repulsa and I was the Red Power Ranger. Our skirmishes happening daily, there wasn't a time we weren't together at recess. A feigned kick here, a restrictive hug there, my feelings betrayed me. I was falling for the enemy, what worse deception of self is there? My heart erupted with a first grade infatuation, the object of my obsession being a girl who attacked my groin. Little did she know each blow inflated the attraction, making me step down as leader of the Power Rangers to confess my love. This was my undoing, sadly, for Lord Zed's Bride had a storeroom of treachery, and a former Blue Ranger turned leader to admit her affection to... She became the Pink Ranger, discarding her title of evil to be with the pretty boy forerunner... And I was left to pick up the shattered pieces of my self-esteem with the brats who played Beetleborgs.

The Jest

Here's a half-assed sonnet inspired by a fictitious event I half-expected to occur this week.

The Jest
By: Michael T. Flanders

A violent death awaits him tonight.
Awakened from my slumber, I'm distraught.
The douche is bedside, attempting a fright.
Now in my backyard he will sit and rot.
Granted, I may have overreacted.
But you don't mess with a man and his rest.
A horror scene getting reenacted.
Oh shit, it was just a perverted jest!
Looking back, it wasn't a snake in his hand,
But rather the half-inch stick he plays with.
It's still not my fault his head's now in sand.
Now I'll go down in history as myth.
A man who killed his friend over a small prick,
but it's still funny he died over his dick.

The Nightmare

Here's a completely (un)original piece written for class by yours truly.

The Nightmare
By : Michael T. Flanders

It's a realm of eternal darkness, fortified with the screams and cries of the forsaken. Although a close relative to Hell, the Nightmare Universe very rarely is full of fire or brimstone... Unless that's what you're afraid of. This is the place where the Boogie Man exists, where reality and logic are checked at the door, where HE dwells. Known only as the Entertainer, this man feeds off the agony of others. Your pain is his breakfast, your sorrow is his afternoon tea. Upon first glance you'll think this man is a saint, a person of virtue and truth. However, this only until his mascara runs, leaving a stained image of black leather, snakes, dismembered corpses and a top hat... You can never forget the top hat. The only good thing about this man is his lack of singularity, for he sees EVERYONE as an enemy, not just the righteous dreamers who accidentally invade his home, but the wicked and the damned as well.

This is where the story ends for now. As a rough map of something to work with... It still comes off as completely stolen from someone else. lol But hey, I'm writing about what I know, who can fault me for that, right?

The Morals of Morality

A few days ago a friend and I were having a conversation. Our topic of discussion (which comes up a lot between this friend and I) was why I wouldn't "hit that?", "hit that" being slang for having gratuitous amounts of sex with some chick. In a roundabout/back and forth fashion I told this friend that I couldn't do it because I wasn't that sort of guy, it went against my better judgment and how I felt as a person (laugh all you want, but Michael does have a sense of right and wrong). He laughed and brought up the ever-popular cliche', "Why play by the rules when all nice guys finish last?" Now I know I have my moments where I can be a decent human being, but normally I don't pride myself on my "niceness". When I brought this point up, however, it was quickly shot down as an argument, so I was forced to try a different approach. He asks me again, "what's the point of playing by the rules if all you're gonna get is life kicking you in the ass while everyone else is getting what they want?" After thinking about it for a few days, I finally have a valid (and obvious) response. If we don't follow our personal guidelines, our own morals, then what's the point of even establishing them in the first place? Yes, there will be times when we falter or bend the rules, yet it's important to stay true to one's self in the long run. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes, but if we start letting the negativity pour in, changing the very fabric of who we are, then we've missed the very point of life itself. To counter-attack a cliche' with another cliche', "it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game." Life sucks, it's not always meant to be fun. I'm not gonna lie, this week has been shitty for me, today being the cherry on top, and there's nothing more I'd love to do right now than go have generously gratuitous amounts of "woo hoo" (a Sim reference, not mine) time, but that doesn't benefit me in the long run. Will this choice get me a gold medal in the Olympics of Life? Hell no. If anything, I'll be ridiculed and kicked out of the Man-Club. Such as life though, it's just not who I am (Oh how I'd love to talk to myself three years ago and hear the hysterical laughter "Past Me" would let loose).
In short, I guess I'm just venting due to lack of creativity and large amounts of boredom. I know life could be better, and it's always easier to look at things, wishing they were different (in this regard, actually having a girlfriend rather than just a person wanting a cheap fuck), but it could always be worse too. A lot of people overlook this prospect of the game called "Life" (real life, not the board game). Ok, so maybe nice guys finish last, but just remember there could be a guy "nicer" than you who's struggling a hundred times harder. Be happy with what you have, live life for "you", and don't be a tool of society's general machinations. K, rant over.

Sleeping To Dream

Here's the exercise from my second day of Creative Writing... Longtime readers may recognize this as a tie-in to my "Fine Print" script (due to be performed this Winter, also located on this blog). Keep in mind this was merely a five minute piece, not intended to be directly related to anything of performance merit.

Sleeping To Dream

Drenched in sweat, John awoke from his dystopian nightmare. Looking around his apartment for affirmation his dream was in fact just that, a dream, John had to remind himself to breathe. His dream world had become chaotic as of late, but he never experienced anything so vivid. In what can only be described as the Rapture, John found himself caught in a battle between his best friend and a female interpretation of Lucifer. His friend had sold his soul to the feminine Satan for a moment of happiness, thus causing a false deal to be made and the apocalypse to start. John begged and pleaded for a way to fix everything, to set things right, only to have "Lucy" offer him a choice; kill his best friend or live in a world blanketed with Hellfire... As he lunged to deliver a deadly blow, that's when John returned from his dastardly slumber... John pushed his dream aside, refocusing not on his environment now, but rather to the knocking at his door. "Open up, it's Lucy" yelled a voice from behind the door. John laid frozen, afraid of whatever may happen next...

The Squirrel Story...

Continuing my assignment for class, here is the ever popular squirrel story, tackled in both first and third person perspective...

A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 1st PERSON PERSPECTIVE

I once went on this hunting trip with my dad. I wasn’t licensed to hunt big game, so I got stuck going after squirrels (of all creatures). I wasn’t really expecting to find anything, nor did I think it was a big deal, but my dad encouraged me to go and find the biggest squirrel I could… Although, he could’ve just been making fun of me (the norm for my father). After all, he was rather intoxicated for most of our hunting trip. Either way, the sun had started to set and I was told to do a sweep of the area before it got too dark. I grabbed my point twenty-two rifle and walked about fifty feet away from camp. As I was walking, I heard what sounded like something scratching a tree. I looked into a nearby tree and was met with a little, furry squirrel. Wanting to make my dad proud, I pointed my gun at the critter and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet knocked the woodland rodent from the tree, causing the body to fall out of eyesight, and it was getting too dark to see on my own, so I returned to camp to get a flashlight. Trekking back to my dad, I told him of my victory over a defenseless creature and how my manhood had been established. He asked where the body was and I had told him about my quest to obtain a flashlight as to find the squirrel I had shot right outside of camp. I grabbed the electronic torch and headed off towards my trophy, only to find that the body went MIA. I scoured the whole area, only to come up empty-handed. To this day I am still made fun of for shooting a non-existent squirrel, and it is jokingly blamed for most ill-deeds that occur in my life.

A VIVID CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE

Michael reluctantly took up his firearm and marched away from camp. Finally being allowed to hunt on a trip with his father, the boy couldn’t help but feel as if everything he ever longed for was wrong. Sure, he had wanted a gun, and he had gotten one for Christmas when he was eight, but he had never thought he’d be given the opportunity to use it. Thinking of it more so as a trophy, Michael was now dreading the moment he ever asked for the rifle. None of that mattered though, for he was on his way to seek prey in the form of squirrels. How hunting such a small and meaningless creature would prove his manhood was beyond him, but Michael wasn’t going to give up this rite for anything. This was finally his opportunity to show his dad how much he had grown in his twelve years of life, and that he’d be a worthy successor to the name of Flanders. Granted, it wasn’t a kingdom he’d be taking over, but Michael still wanted his father to know he was a man. With that in mind he continued his search, looking for any signs of squirrels within the area. Luckily the search didn’t last too long. Upon approaching a rather large tree, Michael heard the faint sound of scratching, causing his attention to aim upward. On one of the higher branches sat a greying squirrel, complete with nut in hand. Dwelling on how his father would react to failure, Michael forced himself to push back any doubt he had regarding the death of this furry creature. Would Michael feel bad about taking the life of this small animal? Of course he would, but it’d be overshadowed by his father finally putting down his beer and accepting him as his own, rather than just a child for him to yell at in a drunken stupor. Taking aim, Michael lifted his rifle up to the squirrel, trying his hardest to keep his hand steady. Finally within his sights, the boy pulled the trigger and sent the squirrel flying out of the tree. To his distress though, Michael could barely see anything past the tree, for the sun had slowly sank away while he contemplated his decision. Racing back to camp, the boy explained to his father the event that had unfolded, and how he needed a flashlight in order to find the carcass of the assuredly deceased critter. Taking amusement from the boy’s rite of passage, his father tossed him a light and exclaimed he should enjoy himself, almost poking fun at what the boy did for his father’s approval. Back in the forest, Michael searched fervently for the body of the squirrel he had watched fall out of the tree at his own doing moments ago. Time passed by, yet the boy couldn’t find any trace of the animal he had killed, causing a weight to be both lifted and placed atop his shoulders. What if he had only grazed the squirrel, or worse, what if he never even hit it? Bringing despair up from the pit of his stomach, another thought occurred to him. What if in an attempt to appease his father he had imagined the squirrel? With the forest growing darker and no trace of the squirrel around, Michael let his mind drink in the failure he had committed, finally hanging his head in shame and trudging back to camp. He recounted the tale to his father, about how the squirrel had just vanished, and he was met with what he hated the most; laughter. His father tore his self-esteem apart, ripping it to the smallest of pieces with joke after joke. Even to this day, over ten years after the incident, Michael is still ridiculed by his friends and family about the squirrel he had “supposedly” shot, yet never recovered. And it is to this day that Michael still thinks he dreamt up the whole idea of the vanishing squirrel in the tree, if only to get his father to be proud of him for just a moment…

My first childhood memory in the first and third person perspective

FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 1st PERSON PERSPECTIVE

My first childhood memory is none other than Alice Cooper. I’ve been raised on his music for as long as I can remember (insert “duh” here), and it’s shaped a lot of who I am today. I can recall sitting on my living room floor, my mom, dad, and sister all stretched out across the room as I intently watched the television. Alice Cooper was onstage, dressed in a glow in the dark tuxedo (complete with top hat), and he was dancing around with skeletons. For a child of such age as I was (around two or three) this should’ve been somewhat terrifying, if not at least a little disturbing. Instead I was entranced, wanting to be up on stage with Alice, wishing I could be dancing with the skeletons too. The lights onstage flickered off, and the ensemble had disappeared. Suddenly, everything was visible again and Mr. Cooper was strutting across the stage with such bravado that I immediately bowed down to this man’s presence. It didn’t stop there though. Vincent Price, spiders, and a skewed cast of monsters all took to the performance in some way or another, offering narrations, inciting fear into the main star, and crafting a physical dreamscape that no other individual has been able to mimic. In short, when I look back as far as I can into the heart of my memories; it’s almost too easy to see Alice Cooper’s mascara lined face grinning back at me… Welcoming me to his nightmare…

FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IN THE 3rd PERSON PERSPECTIVE

The lights in the room were off, the only illumination being the soft glow of a television set flickering scenes unfit for a boy of age two. Surrounded by his closest of family members, no one came to the aid of the child, allowing his delicate mind to bear witness to images of violence and vulgarity. Nightmarish creatures and rhythmically possessed humans danced around a stage built atop the crazy delusions of a single man. This man assaulted dead bodies, wielded a sword, and even defeated a Cyclops with its own head, yet Michael couldn’t remove his gaze. The boy watched on as this man, a man with a woman’s name, fought poisonous spiders, mingled with skeletons, and paraded around unaffected by these atrocities… All while singing in a raspy key. Michael should’ve been terrified of this man, this Alice Cooper person, but there was not a single fiber in the boy’s being that once screamed for him to look away. Instead, Michael viewed the actions of Alice as an escape, as a way of spitting water into the face of life. It was from that moment on the little boy known as Michael ceased to be, and the little hellion who served in Alice Cooper’s monstrous legion came into fruition…

Santa's Edible Boot

Here's the draft for my "free-verse poem" about one of my favorite foods...

SANTA'S EDIBLE BOOT

By: Michael T. Flanders

The deep fried smell of death brings my nose to life,
walking into yet another Clown's House of Sin.
Machines clank together, cooking, re-cooking
and embalming my desired menu item.
Laced with an undetectable addictive seasoning,
I repeat my order for the millionth time in my twenty-three years of life.

Hooked since age four,
I've been shooting up processed meat in front of the likes of
Barney, Elmo, and the Red Power Ranger,
all with judgmental grimaces...

Placing my order I step in line with the rest of the sheep,
awaiting the McPimp's generous dose of greasy ecstasy.
Time ticks by,
every second building up the anticipation
for when my next hit will be acquired.

Finally, the "food" container is thrown in front of me,
my excitement barely held.
I reach for it like a scene out of
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
awaiting the bolder of Barnum and Bailey attire
to squash the hopes of my filthy habit.

The box is obtained and I flee to the back of the
McOpium Den to indulge my appetite.
Heavens can be heard falling
and my soul can be heard dying
as I open the lid of my
Chicken McNuggets.

Portraying the form of edible footwear,
my hunger wins out yet again,
forcing my hand to start shoveling in the
overcooked chunks of meat.

The beast has been fed,
the monkey removed from my back,
only until the next day when the Golden Arches
beckon me once more.
Damn you, Chicken McNuggets,
for my voice of reason is no match
against your delicious poultry bits of
death.

My first class assignment and updates

Hello all, once more it has been months since my last visit to this lovely, little blog site. Not much has changed in the life of "The Fuzz", but let me give you a breakdown anyway.

Work has been... odd... as of late. I'm not really sure how I pulled it off, but I've been down at one of our other schools sites and they put in a transfer request for me. After declining so I could stay at my work site, I was rewarded with a week-long adventure back to the site I turned down. We'll check the "awkward-meter" tomorrow... On top of that, my work site has been down in numbers, down in happiness, and pretty much down in everything. We're all a wreck over there, with no easy fix in sight.

The Fuzz Mobile is still rockin', 'nuff said.

Yours truly is still a victim of the dreaded single life, even with every attempt to break out of it. Between a busy schedule and "non ex-girlfriends", it seems as if I'll be a one-man wolf pack for awhile.

My grandmother is insane and my grandfather is locked away in a care facility. Fun times...

School started again today, which is actually the reason I'm blogging in the first place. I had my first assignment today; writing a brief piece about eating an apple. It'll be listed below momentarily. My homework assignment, however, is going to be a bit of a challenge. I have to write a free verse poem about my favorite food. Poetry - the bane of my existence... Okay, it really isn't, but it's still pretty bad. On that note, here's the uninspired, completely unoriginal creative writing short from Mr. Devilishly Good-Looking over here...

"Keeping The Doctor Away" (Not my title)

The tough skin felt coarse and rugged under my teeth. I chomped down, tearing through the protective, red shell that housed the juicy goodness I so longed for. Contrary to the jest the ruby peel played, the innards of Eve's temptation screamed of moist pleasure, hardly showing any relation to each other. Another bite and the seduction continued, fending off the doctor's visit with my fruitful lover. Within moments I had devoured the once whole apple, putting an end to any ill delusion its rough casing had made.


I know, I know... It's contrived, but deal with it. I haven't written anything good in months, so I'm shaking out the cobwebs. On that note, it's time to bolt. Hopefully I'll stay more up to date with the updating of the blog (I'm doing two writing classes this semester, so I should have stuff to post often) As always, questions or comments are welcome, and you know where to find me if you wanna talk. Seacrest, out!

Long Time, No See...

Yeah, yeah, I know... It's been a few months since I last posted. I'M SORRY!!! Life has been pretty hectic lately! School, work, LIFE, it's all swarmed me, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Here's a breakdown from the last time I posted, which should be somewhere in November of last year:

My play, Ichabod's Hollow was a pretty big success, with yours truly even making a special guest appearance in it on the final night (look on my Facebook for the pictures). Since then, I've written a couple of one-act plays and did some revisions on others for an anthology show this past Spring. However, things fell through with that, but a Fall show is in the works using all of the scripts. Once the final prep work is done on that I'm hoping to have my Noir (?!?!?) script done for a Spring 2012 production. I know, I know, Noir is a bit different for me, but Casablanca really opened up my perception to it. In related news, keep a look out for my Fine Print script in the Fall line up, it has potential to be one of my best pieces yet!!!

Year One at Hogwarts is officially done! I completed my first year of (part time) college and am returning in the Fall for my second year. I think this year I will concentrate more on my general studies and writing courses, rather than the educational classes (didn't dig my intro to Ed class too much). I guess I'm just biding time until I either drop dead or hit it big with a script. The former will probably happen first. :\

When I'm not writing or going to school, my time is preoccupied with having a FULL TIME job! Now I know what you're thinking... "FINALLY!" But don't judge me, friends, for it took a lot of trials, tribulations, and me having my head up my ass to get here. I'm just glad I've finally recovered after a couple of "dark" years... For those interested, I am a preschool teacher/breaker at a nifty little place out in Peoria. It's a bit of a drive, but the people there make it worth it. I tell you what, I thought it'd be pretty hard to find a place that treated me better than WPHS, but at least this place doesn't make me do coffee runs!

As of now I am rocking the single life (boo), and for those of you who aren't keeping tabs on my love life, I split with my last ex around the end of January because she was a cheating harpy. And I emphasize the word "harpy". Alas, that doesn't mean Mr. Michael is without a love interest, but he has done what is the norm; placing himself into a completely "WTF" situation... I guess old habits die hard...

The remodel of my (mom's) house is underway, but has stagnated a bit this past month because things have just become incredibly busy. Fret not, for everything will get done this summer! The living room has a new coat of brown paint, and comes equipped with a 42-inch flat screen television, all of the game systems an early twenties male needs, and a back wall lined with posters for Shaun of the Dead, Ghostbusters, Army of Darkness, and Back to the Future. Yes, the uber-geek in me is coming out for the remodel. I won't even mention the Sam and Dean poster I have in my closet, just waiting for a place to be put up...

Halloween is just around the corner, and you know what that means! Not only is the house getting a facelift this summer, but so are all of my lovely, little toys for my favorite holiday! I think the guillotine is going to be raised by about four feet to give it a little more authenticity, the gallows will be altered (hopefully), and the dummies will have even more maneuverability! Still gotta make up for Halloween of last year... Silly friends and their wanting to get married. Pfft. :P

I have a van. An awesome van. That keeps breaking down on me. But it's still awesome. Yeah. It is.

Well, I think that about sums me up for now. Feel free to drop me a line if you want to make sure I really am alive and not a Michael clone, or if you just feel like catching up more! Keep on rockin', people!