For my birthday, which will be an unremarkable 14th one, I'd like to do something of great splendor and class, and what is moreso to than seeing the Killers perform live?

I'm intending to start a chant for them to cover an Oasis/Cure song. I don't want an autograph/photo session that much though. Maybe if I decide that I'd like to make the members suffer and stuff, yeah, totally.

Anyway, yeah, Killers!

BEHOLD

Interview a soldier, a priest, and the owner of a nearby school. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Memorize an elocution piece that is probably around 12 stanzas long. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Get everyone on my team in Pokemans to level 50. ( ACCOMPLISHED )

Acquire the National Dex in Pokemans. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Read "Shakespeare Spy" for book report. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Create designs for the yearbook page of my class. ( HALF ACCOMPLISHED )

Upload that one beautiful song of mine. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Attend to personal life, like relationships and whatnot. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Study in advance for the next semester. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Improve Powerpoint for presentation. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Write script of a short film. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

Write script of a short play. ( NOT ACCOMPLISHED )

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Lucky for me I have until Monday to do most of these. And lucky for me one day is a long time.

While laughing at my laziness here is a semi-amusing picture.

Dark and dreary, dank and decrepit, a savage beast overlooked the valley. It howled, and it pierced the very souls of its kin. It was a rogue, yet it led the pride with such power and efficiency that one would think the beasts were robotic in nature, even if one had not yet seen the inner mechanisms of the beasts. What lay beneath the pelt of the lions was a labyrinth of sorts, a conglomerate of tubes transmitting signals and oil throughout the body. A vault-like chamber was deep in the chest cavity of one lion, containing vital data concerning hunts, and also emergency rations to be procured if one would fall. These lions looked normal on the outside, but what worked inside was a completely different matter altogether. Especially the rogue.

"Sir Timothy, "

Timothy Bonham turned away from his window, which granted him a position similar to a vulture, for his eye spread across the entire village of Norwick. He could see everything. And just like a vulture, when a soul left the earth, he swooped down from his perch to collect the fallen. But much more like a human, he sped from his manor in his sedan, and picked up the limp cadavers and threw them in the trunk, to report to the mayor the next day. He would do this four times at most during a year, but during the past few weeks, he had had to do his work thrice.

"Yes, Isaac?"

"There's a body,"

"What?! Again?! Didn't our mayor spend a large sum of the tax money on the police? Like that batch of newfangled laser rifles? ...Whatever happened to bullets?"

Timothy eyed his precious Hechler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. He had obtained it during a firearms convention, which was so long ago he had forgotten the cause of the gathering. He mouthed the word 'bullets' once more as he eyed the stack of ammunition boxes situated behind the MP5 in its display case.

"The body is an officer, actually,"

"Again, what?!"

"That's the third one this week, too, I'm surprised you're not spotting these killings from your 'vulture's perch' , O malevolent Timothy."

Silence.

Timothy took the joke well and gave Isaac a brotherly jab. They then joked around for next five or so minutes, before Isaac bid farewell to Timothy. This would be the last of these meetings.

Isaac left, as did the calm atmosphere in the Bonham Estate. Timothy was getting tense, his thoughts raced to the possibilities, his mind wandered to the causes of these deaths. He paced about his ivory desk dozens of times, he kept his hands dug into his pockets, and he readied his precious MP5. He loaded it with the proper ammunition, and disabled the safety. Sweat dripped from his brow, he was tasting a premonition of ultimate defeat. His heart raced, coinciding his perspiration, something in him knew that this was the end. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, anger swept in from all sides. A sharp, unexplainable anger, with no known source, only a flame burning, with no ashes, nothing burnt, nothing left in its path, it was a fire burning the very air he breathed.

The door swung open.

Timothy Bonham kept his cool, but beneath his lax facade was a bull. He walked sheepishly to his living room, where guests entered and exited. His feet came in contact with his Persian rug, he could feel every single thread on the sole of his foot. And he could feel a subtle vibration, a disturbance.

Then he saw the rogue.

He helplessly desecrated his living room with bullets, painting a portrait of desperation and ultimately, desolation. His aim chased the foul beast, but as he fired the last round, he drew his last breath.

A cold sensation on the back of his neck, and Timothy Bonham was no more.

Isaac reeled in bed the next day, rolling about and making a mess of his finely folded sheets. He sat up and took his daily cocktail of mandatory pills. The contents of these was never disclosed to him, but why bother? Everyone else at the law firm took these, and they were all fine and dandy.

Google that.

I was there!

These are all the people that I think are cool on NG
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It's sad to admire people over the internet. I'm not having any of that.

I've got a date today, and I can't be late, damnit.

So, I'm stuck in the heart of an LA traffic jam, with cars bumper to bumper and angry white men walking out of their cars and picking fights. Pitiful.

I whip out my cell phone and call my girlfriend.There is a dial tone. It is cut off by her voice.

"Hello?" she says.

"I don't think I can make it, there's some serious traffic over here." I reply.

"Well, I guess we're on the same boat then,"

"Wow, sounds like some kind of Chinese superstition crap"

"Probably, Jeff. Is there a fight happening over there?"

"Yeah,"

"Same here. Some army tool decided that he wanted to sermon a bunch of hippies. It's hilarious."

"From the looks of things, I don't think this date can pull through,"

"Probably. It's okay, we have a lot of time on our hands, I mean your job doesn't have awkward hours right?"

"Nope."

"See you later"

"You too."

The name Christie Hong flashes on the screen one last time, followed by a beep and the disappearance itself.

The sun's rays pierce through the thick windshield of my Bentley and force my eyes into a squint. The heat intensifies, as if there is some strange correlation between this one particular squabble occuring at my side.

There is an Asian man, worried out of his wits, deadeyed as this hulking behemoth of a black man argues with him. Apparently, he accidentally rear-ended the black man's car, which was a very posh looking Escalade. A prominent dent is on the rear bumper of the Escalade, with the pristine black pain on it interrupted by the noise formed by the dent. Scratch marks, crumpled metal, the works. There is an ocassional shove here and there, and it's obvious the black man is cursing, I mean his pride and joy was ruined. As the fight rages on, the sun increases its output by tenfold, with it culminating in the black pan pushing the Asian man down on the ground, with the heat making me fade in the confines of my car.

Fading away.

My soul washing out of this shell and flying on the other places.

Other places.

I am the eggman. I live alone in a cottage suspended above a quaint little village located in rural Europe. It rests on a perfectly circular conglomeration of branches forming an also circular hole, with a plaza situated below. The cottage consists of tightly packed together straw and mud, with a wooden shell on the inside to give it support, and the hole is in the middle, providing me with means to spy on these pathetic creatures called "humans."

Oh, how I dislike these so called "sentient beings". They are merely a caricature of the image they've been attempting to convey to us storybook creatures. They do not think for themselves, they do not have free will, they do not even have the mental capacity to decipher if whether or not their actions are logical. They are all controlled by the media, the hivemind of these scoundrels.

Ever since the dawn of computers and technology, my endless life has been fraught with a mere fraction of the magic I've experienced throughout the years. Humans used to be kindhearted and never made an act of violence towards me or any of my friends, we used to get along even, singing songs and telling stories by the campfire of life. But as time went on in its lumbering stride, change happened, and it happened hard. The people grew more and more violent over the years, their friendly gestures replaced with pitchforks. So, as a result I was forced to move my cottage. Ten years ago I was a mere 6 inches above the ground, and now I am one hundred feet up in the air.

It's been a very long time since I've lived properly. My shiny shell was once the center of everyone's attention, with an ever present grin of immense joy on my face and the finest clothing in town on my body. I used to walk the town with my wooden cane at my hand and the town's children at my knee, following me and trying to keep up, listening to my tales. I was all they had, and they were all I had. That feeling you get when you see a child smile and that you made that all by yourself is irreplaceable.

AND THAT'S ALL FOR NOW, FOLKS

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Yeah, my MWC9 entry for the month. A work in progress. This is like, the prologue.

I'm serious.

How are you all doing?

I'm fine today. Here's my favorite song EVER.

Okay guys, I've got to tell you guys a story, a fantastical one at that. Actually no, it's not a story it's more like a mindless rant going to nowhere, but I'll type and type and type anyway, just to kill some time before the Will Ferrell special of Man vs. Wild airs.

Well, lately I thought I've been finally shifting from an angry pessimist to a life-loving optimist, much like those sixteen year old moralfag-girls on givesmehope.com. It's because of all my time off of here that my outlook on life has gone better, which is sad. Not just sad, depressing in fact.

I mean, every day I'm away from you lot, I feel better about myself and how my life is going. All because I'm more dependent on actual social interaction than seeing text. I feel much more refreshed and relieved when I talk to other people in person.

But then, when I came back, the opposite happened. I started getting pessimistic thanks to seeing all the pathetic losers who post on the BBS with their "OH WATCHMEN IS TOO MATURE FOR YOU 13 YEAR OLD GO TO BED IT'S LATE" or "OH MAN THESE SHOES ARE UGLY PEOPLE WHO WEAR THEM NEED TO GET SHOT". Frankly, even if these two terrible quotes are figures of speech they sound so pathetic.

I mean, every visit here I see other pessimists, and I see them complain and whine about the most inane shit. I see people say "OH RAP IS RETARDS ATTEMPTING POETRY LULZ" or other kinds of moronic babble in hopes that they'd strike a chord in someone, sparking a brief flame war and feeding their ego after they win. The BBS is full of goddamned egomanics who can't stop touching themselves, morons who think they're special and highly intelligent, boring fuckers like the ones on facebook/twitter and naive people who are so awkward looking that you can't help but shed a tear at their naivety.

I keep telling myself day after day, "I've got to stop posting in the BBS" and yet I never bring myself to do it. Why? Because you nincompoops dragged me into all this. You pumped my ego and it hungers for more recognition and fame. You brought me into this endless whirlpool of failure and negative thinking. I blame you for all this, and I blame myself for letting this happen.

Maybe the jobless 20somethings who still live with their parents and have no friends IRL will give me a vivid enough message some time.

Maybe I'll stop being a tool.

Maybe I'll get more friends in real life.

Maybe I'll start using my cellphone more often.

Maybe I'll build my confidence up to use in order to get a girlfriend one day.

Maybe I'll just leave this stupid society one day.

Maybe.

I'm just walking here, in a straight line, man. This straight line, it's got nothing to it you know. I step forward, on and on with the road in front of me. In my pocket is of course, my wallet. I have all my important credentials in it, ranging from an ID card for the state of California to an arcade card, with all the points I've earned there. One thousand and eighty six points. One thousand and eighty six points of effort that could've gone somewhere more worthwhile.

I admit, I'm a nerd. In fact, I'm so much of a nerd that in a desperate attempt to live a little, I took up the life of a drifter. I packed all my things, bought a decent pistol-- a Walther P90 and I began a cross-state adventure into the unknown. There's of course, something else to this. I mean, a humble nerd doesn't just up and leave his life because he doesn't deem his day to day experience fun enough, right?

"Onwards to the deepest corner of the Earth."

That line suddenly struck me. Early into my adventure, I encountered another drifter, a native American, to be exact. He was middle aged, had wrinkles etched on his face, and a voice raspier than Lou Reed's. We only met for three minutes at a rest stop. After he uttered those words with a half smile and a half glare, he waved goodbye and I never saw him again.

I am still walking. The road ahead is barren and bleak. Cars whiz by with little thought to the humble drifter walking alongside them. His scruffy beard, beady blue eyes and bushy hair tell a sad tale. A tale too sad to touch the pure hearts of the children.

A sign stands in front of me. "10 Miles to San Diego" it says. I remember that place. I was born there. I lived sixteen of my eighteen aimless years on that godforsaken city. I went to a pathetic private school filled with sad, supremacist Mexicans. All the white people there were weak, and the black people were overshadowed by the Mexicans. Us Asians, we were at the bottom rung. Especially me, Jackie Hsu. What with my laughably struggled English and my penchant for all things Bruce Lee. I was a walking stereotype. A permanent constipated expression on my face, straight As, drives a Daewoo. My logic got the best of me, and as a result, I didn't take proper action. But today, I'm going to do back these... bastards.

But before that, let's go back a bit. Back to six years ago. I was a twelve year old lad, merrily chomping on his egg salad sandwich watching Will Smith and his wacky antics on Fresh Prince. My father spoke to me, we were alone in the living room, and his face had an unmistakable expression of anguish.

"Son, I've got to tell you something,"

"Yeah?"

"Well, remember those few months where everyday I came home with a gift from work?"

"Yeah, dad! I remember that BIG teddy bear you got me! I love it so much! I named him Mr. Sni--"

"I need it back, son."

"But Mr. Sniffy is my friend!"

"I need it back. That's an order." My father slightly raised his voice and developed a stoic expression as the sentence ended.

I was crushed at this point, and ran out of the house, tears dripping down my cheeks and staining my Nirvana tee shirt. I came to a sudden halt in front of two menacing men. Who pushed me aside and entered my home. I studied them for a moment then heard a struggle, then a bang.

The memory ended there, and I was tormented for the next five years. It turns out my father was deep into the underground drug trade circuit, and all those toys he bought me were laced with trace amounts of drugs. Mr. Fondle was no exception, he was even laced with a three pound bag of pot, selling for a mighty sum. In fact, that very day he was supposed to give it back to his higher officers; those two men. He had trouble finding it, and the men were hotheaded. After he tried looking for it, they shot him dead when he turned around to get to my room.

As an eighteen year old Asian boy, with a background of martial arts training and a fascination for guns and archery, my next move didn't take much thought. I stormed their residence, guns blazing. After a long year of searching for these ruthless bastards fruitlessly, and even dipping myself in the dirty puddle of the underground drug circuit, I've finally got them.

The steps where I approached their home took forever. I was ecstatic with the thought of getting my typical revenge. I loaded my P90, I picked up some grenades from my military friends and I just savored in the events of this day. I get to tarnish my soul with the burden of killing, I get to throw this pointless life away to be remembered for something actually significant.

No scientific discoveries, no groundbreaking philosophical thoughts to spread. Just a dark, pulsing tale of a clean cut kid suddenly murdering two gentlemen. This would be made even more twisted by the fact that I was a leader in my high school days and that they served their community often. Going to mass every week, donating to the poor, the works. My research told me they were as active as ever in the business though, and they organised a lot of killings as well. And they had a slimeball of a lawyer as well, who got them to jail for only a year for that brutal murder. They mucked around that crime scene and they had a self-defense plea. My father's violent, fabricated record didn't help either.

As I arrived at the doorstep, I pushed the doorbell. I heard a friendly call of "Who is it?" and I answered "cleaning service." The amiable looking black man in his forties answered the door, and I just waved my pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. A hole penetrated through his skull, then his brain and it hit a portrait of him and his colleague right in the middle. The smoke started to emerge from the barrel of my gun, and all the kindness I've kept in my heart vanished as the smoke did. The television was on, and there was breaking news of a building being hit by an airplane of some sort. That's two more deaths today.

The other man, a personable looking Mexican came running towards the doorstep. He spouted some Mexican balderdash and brought out a Glock. I raised mine.

And so, a standoff ensued. I pulled the trigger, the bullet pierced his skull just as it pierced the other man's and he grew limp and died. Blood stained their fine carpet, and I left. I left a different man, and my soul still doesn't have the justice it has sought for so long.

Then, another road. Another thousand and eighty six hours points of effort wasted.