In talking to Randy as of late, he warned me of the dangers of opening myself up on such a wide scale as the internet, that my reputation may remained stained and such and such; however, I find it quite funny that people relent in providing any help with my depressive states, yet they'll flock to pry into Rebecca Jensen's business at the drop of a hat.  Coincidence? Eh...But these things are in no way to criticize Rebecca's motives or anyone else's in particular.  I suppose that's the way my life has crumbled down the hatch to the regrouping cellar.  If this cathardic session offends you in anyway, you should probably stop reading it.  After all, what good is it to listen if not stretch the contents of your mind.  I think, generally speaking, a lot of Christians countermand the ideas of knowing why you know what you know, and I think it's a problem.  If I just accept what I, a flawed being, believe is true, then I've gained nothing except to just repeat back like a parrot, but know the meaning and the principles and to explore for oneself is a better gain in the end.  Does that mean try everything?  No...but it does mean that if someone produces a good argument that disagrees with your point of view, you should reconsider your view, consider theirs, and determine the best course of action.  To simply say, "Well I believe this regardless," is stupid.
Now, many of you at this point are probably shrieking over my saying these things, for how can I justify my own life by the standard of this advice?  It's true, regardless of my character, however flawed.  Besides, most people didn't listen to my advice when I was "good" (and I can give examples so that it doesn't appear to a fanciful delusion of misery); why should your opinions change?  No, I say these things in the hope one day someone will be helped, despite my stupidity and foolishness, not to make the mistakes or at least to come out of life with a better understanding of it.
I don't understand God, but I'll bet you a million bucks you don't either so that you can't judge.  I don't think in this life we were ever meant to understand God totally, but to have some semblance of Him set in our minds as a goal for why we live.  I realize that, without a God, life is pointless.  There is no point without God, even in helping our species because the law of entropy will eventually consume everything until nothing else exists, but God exists outside this law, if He exists, and controls the aspects of it.  If our end is death, we are simply wasting time; but if our end is life, we have something to hope for.
I figure that I believe in God, but that I'm at odds with Him so that, while I tell people I don't believe in God, I simply do so as a means of relinquishing some small amount of responsibility or judgment by not hypocritically claiming to be Christian, as so many in this age do.  I am working things out.  Am I suicidal?  Yes, at times, and no, at times...I vacillate like nothing else.  These are my problems, though, and if you knew me, you would communicate with me on regular basis, not simply with empty conversation, but with words of importance to life.  I realize it's difficult with my situation, but if you care to judge, you must also care to try.  If you don't try, you can't judge.  You have no vested interest in my life, so why judge me?  I only say these things on judgment to address Randy's fears, not to express paranoia, as some supposed "reprobates" do.
If you view my site, you have the right to remain silent; but if you do speak, speak these words to me as well, as I evaluate my own life.  Who knows?  You might have something good to say, something that may help.
You, the reader, may not understand all these things I've written and will write.  Perhaps, you will remember and realize later, perhaps not.  I don't know.  I find I know very little of important things anymore.
So, here's my catharsis, my way of expression, and my ventilation that you make take as you like.  This is my disclaimer: that I have, and will continue to, stretch your point of view as I stretch my own.

I've been thinking a lot lately--namely about my purpose in life.  I guess you could say part of my obsession with suicide is concomitant with my lack of motivation for any clear direction or understanding of such.  Don't get me wrong as you might usually do: your conversation's always welcome.  Just be aware that all conversations from my end will never be entirely submissive and may be anger-filled on occasion depending on the mood.  It was funny, as depression goes, to notice that, at one point, I intended on suicide and even journey to the Skiles Building to evaluate a suitable jump.  (I think the car idea's a bit better.)  At the next moment, I contented myself with newspaper reading then guitar playing.  It makes no sense to be at odds with myself half, and then half be at peace.  There's no logic in this.  If I didn't think differently, I'd say I've become a little mad from all this thinking and such.  So what is the purpose of the proposed suicide?  That's a good question.  I guess it's that I feel God hasn't answered my normal cries for help so that I feel the need to do something more extreme, but then again, after dismissing most godly principles and such, the feeling generalized and grafted itself onto the people I knew.  For a long time, I've had trouble trusting people because I used to be naive and paid the price for it.  Also, I easily attached myself like a leech to the most hideous of creatures at times and, even when not, brooded like a parasite over the troubles of the attention-starved, the normal, and the arrogant. 

As my mother says, I sometimes strike intimidation with my voice.  I doubt my affability in most things, especially with the pessimistic, somewhat crass attitude I have with daily happenings, especially religion and its tenants.  Where I'm unknown or unsure, I'm shy; and where I'm comfortable, the opposite takes hold.  Then again, the question of change comes back onto the table like an unforseen bet or challenge to the regulars.  After hearing of my drunken vomit episode, my mom quickly posed the question: "Why can't you go back to being the old Chris, the Chris I know?"  She even described my current behavior as the Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll, to awakening displeasure. 

While it's true most of you won't understand all these things I am writing, and, if I write a suicide note, will not understand those things in its grim persona, I will have you understand one thing.  I am what I think myself to be and say likewise.  I am what I am, dying inside, and threatened by an odd world with odd people and odd truth.  If you feel these things to all be jokes, sarcastic or otherwise, you're incorrect.  Even jokes have truth, even more so is truth known when jokes are not told.  If you want to talk, I will hear anything at this point in time...

If any of you watch South Park, Comedy Central refused to let them depict Mohammed in their cartoon, despite their having done it before (not being as publicly announced however).  So in a statement for free speech, I've found all of the Danish cartoons the Muslim world raged over a couple of months ago and posted them in my photo box.  Enjoy...

(where I found them http://furtheradventuresofindigored.blogspot.com/2006/01/sometimes-
cartoon-is-just-cartoon.html)

Here's my fav...

I figured a more intelligible entry was past due for a while, and so here it is.  I never told my mom, but on her way home, because my dad was unaware of that fact, he managed to somehow engage in a cellphone conversation with her about it.  So she calls me later and freaks out, as I knew she would.  I think it still hurts her, but she seems to be making an effort to hide her emotions about the situation, while I am unphased by it.  Besides, it was months ago...the fee involved is the only matter to me.

In a conversation with Chris Morgan (very) early this morning, I realized that my current belief system (or possibly lack thereof) lacks the needed reasons why and explanations behind it, but it is, however, a very hard thing to explain, seeing as I have trouble explaining it to myself.  I guess I'm more a deist than anything.  I figure God created the world and let it be, and then somewhere along the line, humanity tried to fill in where they thought it ought to be.  Although the general of manking might be to "glorify God", I highly doubt if someone missing from that group will be cared about.  You see, I think, when people say God helped me through it, really they just got over it, and God really had nothing to do with it.  I don't think God really answers prayer; at least, He hasn't answered my own.  Those cases did have lack of belief or anything so come with me with your reasons for why God didn't answer me or why I seem to have no purpose in life.  You don't know my life, and most of you because you simply didn't bother.  That's what I love about people: they're really good at passing judgment without being involved in the situation at all.  I guess I'm one of the most guilty.  So the current plan for suicide, if and when it happens, looks to be driving my car into concrete without killing anyone else.  I chose this because it seems to be easy.  The van has no real value, and if all goes well, it should be over quickly.  Still, the issue is doing it cleanly.  So I was wondering whether I should wear a seatbelt or not if and when it happens.  The only thing that makes me hesitate is my parents because I think it'd be a burden to hold a funeral and all that.  I'm sure the a lot of the people I thought were my friends won't show up, yet a bunch of old retards with nothing better in their lives than to pry into lives of others will show up.  That would suck.  I wonder what people would say.  I mean really.  God, he was dumb, and he's in hell, so let's go eat!  What a world...it's quite depressing...

Writing off the wall, on some sheet of sorts, splatter of nothingness, paint chips sands of time (hail from beneficence?) but I've read in between these lines (not!) just memorized splattered out nothingness for my own sake, shaken by destitute times, dire straits, frightened of what I may become, disappointed at what I haven't already is a time these decisions should have broken ground in this miry clay (What shall I do with Jesus?) no one listens noone (has passed) hears silent cries I'mpertinent, audacious, inTimidate, caustic in my own embirthed (bittered) acid, siphoned out just ciphers, can't figure this gravity pull (pushing back against tide, jumping that waterfall, salmon) but what if reality were all it were cracked up life is just a vapor but, for a vapor, it's pressure belies its time, dpdepression sits in on my chair, highest calling lowest times, dark times, I feel turgid from inhaling the pompous smoke of fool's talk yet I reach for angel's whispers...what has happened will not be always...

For lack thereof, I marked it well,

A hit or miss does kiss and tell,

Or telling and missing that kiss

On the cheeks of even fortune.

Balance is the key

To an invisible door.

Incomprehensible, fine,

But do you have to yell so loud?

Mirrored my empty personality,

Vampires, less than hemophiliacs,

Need replacement from endless supplement,

As the real maniacs pass us by,

No soapbox, no difficult stead;

Just position and shot

For perfection to head.

He's dead, he's dead,

And our mouths are sewn shut...

It's okay if you have no musical tastes becuase I'm always here to provide the better alternative--music improvement.  But on why your music probably sucks...

1.  You listen to it because it's in a certain genre.  This reason is irritating; even being a fan of metal, I am nevertheless shocked at the amount of metalheads who will listen to anything that labels itself as alternative or metal.  Remember: just because it looks good doesn't mean it is good.

2.  You listen to pop punk.  Back in the day, punk meant something, something like anarchy and rebellion.  Now it means hot topic and complaining about your life as a junior high kid.  The Clash is punk, NOT Green Day, Good Charlotte, Yellowcard, My Chemical Romance, and certainly not Simple Plan.  Punk wasn't even that good of a genre to begin with, but the populace had to go and make it crappy.

3.  You listen to it because it's in TRL's Top Ten.  I think this is self-explanatory.

4.  You listen to it because it's indie.  I also think this is self-explanatory, but, then again, a lot of people are retarded.  Indie music, as touted by those bitches on Pitchfork.com or elsewhere, has problematic tendencies.  First, as seeming nonconformity to the auto-tuner pop "singers", indie music has the incorrigible fetish for lauding terrible vocalists.  Don't excuse it: you know they're trying but can't.  They're bad.  Second, if I wanted to hear music produced by eight-graders, I'd tell my little sister to make a band in a garage and save fourteen dollars on the compact disc members of the "elite" think is so amazing and innovative.

5.  You listen to it because it's a classic.  Listen, I know a greater portion of the world thinks the Beatles are good, but the world also thinks abortion is not murder.  (And we all know better than that, do we not?)  In all seriousness, though, older artists did make some very innovative original music, but a ton of it is very overrated as well.  In other words, you got to have balance.  Plus, production value has skyrocketed since the sixties, so chances are newer music on compact discs will usually sound better overall.

6.  You listen to modern country.  Bluegrass was beautiful type of music, but then came shit, and it covered all of Nashville.  Enough said...

7.  You listen to most Christian music.  When the lake's smaller, the chances of getting a better fish is equally smaller.  Same with music.  I've never been entirely sure where the majority of Christian music is going.  Lately, it's been creating (or "writing") as many three-chord, "next big thing" worship songs.  Come on, seriously, for God's sake, branch out a little!  I'm sure people can be a little more creative than they've been.  DC Talk had some good songs when they weren't covering someone else's (and same with Audio Adrenaline).

8.  You listen to "whatever's on the radio".  Enough said...

9.  You listen to bad pop.  There is good pop, if you look for it.  Michael Jackson's Thriller (not referring in any way to his deviant behavior) was a very good album.  Justin Timberlake's Justified is also a good album.  So good pop exists.  Ashlee Simpson doesn't count.  Lindsay Lohan/Hillary Duff doesn't count, and someone please kill the Click Five and Black Eyed Peas.

10.  You worship the band.  No one band is the all-encompassing peak of perfection, and chances are yours is not even close.  So stop the groupie fellatio.

11.  You listen to bands that capitalize on wartime.  Now, I'm not one to be too judgmental, but come on, you're not adding anything new to the "We don't like Bush" table by releasing a "controversial" album.  I don't care for Bush much either, but the trend past the point of simple vexation.

I may add some more later...

Life is stagnant.
I feel alone most of the time, and before a couple of people say, "Well, you're not alone: Jesus is a friend closer than a brother," keep quiet long enough for me to tell you that, unless God changes His mind, He has not shown up physically lately.  For the most part, however, life has just slipped me boredom along with my elixir of events, yet the effects don't seem that drastic, I guess.  I don't know.
Actually, I'm lucky to be on the internet today because I think a short in the wiring in my room causing me not to be able to get on most of the time.  I was almost too nervous to peer into my inbox.  (We get a lot of junk email at GaTech.)
So, anyway, besides Beatles fad of Paul and Doughty, and the accompanying venture capitalism of weed and Halo 2, nothing much sparks interest (or contempt for the Beatles) in my soul.  All weed has been free for me for a while now, although I don't like mooching off of the rest of the gang; as Trotter said, though, such distribution of goods tends to be communal nonetheless.  But worries abide as to the supply of their dearly beloved and my nerve calmer.  So maybe it's venture communism.  I don't know.  Maybe I just word-dropped spontaneously.
Again, as I said, I'm alone (right now literally), but if you compelled to call, you can.  I don't really want to post my number for everyone to see though.  Rebecca knows it, though; so get it from her I guess.  (I almost can't believe I'm saying this.)  A lot of times, I feel as if people can move on easily without my existence, a fact which obviously hinders recovery from bouts with depression.  Ah, venting...
Well, this weekend, my mom's coming down to Atlanta: this "confession" ought to be good.  Although she told me she was no priest and therefore wanted to stall any future confession to her, I feel that, since I'm spending a good portion of funds (125 dollars) on this penalty, she deserves to know.  Personally, though, I really am still debating telling her because I know her reaction will entail an enormous argument and subsequent awkward silence between us.  Oh well...
Musically, I've been checking the quality of the band Isis.  So far, they're proven all right.  They require further inspection though.

I guess the hardest part of telling my parents of times I've drank alcohol is the knowledge that I've hurt them.  Regardless of whether my dad seemed distraught or perfectly fine (I really couldn't tell over the phone), having to explain what I've done and the $125 fee involved with it never comes softly.  At least I was able to tell my dad.  My mother's brother has had issues with alcoholism in his life so that every "violation", every perceived crossing of the line with respect to alcohol, follows many days back to issues of the past.  I've only seen my uncle once that I remember in my lifetime for a week (I think) my sophomore year.  You know, and my time with alcohol really wasn't worth it; I probably would've drank alcohol again after the fact if I could've stood the taste.  I don't know.  I just hurts me every time I hurt my parents.  I don't intend: I just fail...

So today, the GT chamber choir had a "gig" at the Emory Presbyterian Church, a small but quaint little building, with a seemingly sincere woman pastor.  (I say woman because I don't meet very many women pastors.)  The overall service was quite formal, but it was nice for a change of pace.  We even got to wear these pinkish robes, which actually happened to be tight in the chest.  What was weird is that no one ever clapped, a fact which for church music strikes me as odd (but it's cool), but I had a lot of fun singing in a lent service.  Plus, we ate Mexican food afterwards, so I can't ask for much more than that.  Since then, I've slept a lot, but it's cool.

Lately, I've been getting into Meshuggah, a Swedish "mathcore" band.  Whereas the guitars on the whole aren't written to be very complex, the drums substitute for that complexity with a jawdropping oddity of their own.  The drummer has ultra-syncopated the music, by not only playing syncopated music, but also playing a normal 4/4 beat at the same time.  Weird but fun stuff.

I had a whole bunch more to post about this week, but until recently I didn't realize I could actually post, at least through Firefox.  Apparently, Firefox has decided not to load the text editor in my blog manager anymore, but 64-bit Internet Explorer will, which is weird, but whatever until Nathan can figure out what the deal is.

That said, now, it seems almost as if all that (if not everything now) can be neglected on this thing, or I don't remember it, or I realized it wasn't that important, as most things I say on here aren't.  I guess, the primary purpose for any journal I continue is a means of retrospection and ventilation (venting).  What have I done in these past fews days, and what will I do?

I even thought of impartially describing the social effects of weed in my little group or rambling on about music and its genres, but no, something someone else said grabbed my attention.  While this person has hardly seen me since before college, they nevertheless relented in saying one thing: that I've changed.  But I guess, I don't see it as a dramatic change, and so far, I've found most change isn't dramatic but gradual.  So, I guess my question is how have I changed?  And was it as dramatic as it appears to be?

Read Only If You Are Willing To Understand...

Hail to nonconformity!  For that which proves my innocence in life, the very fibers being blessed upon with grave yet glorious cause, has proven most excellent the very death and destruction of my stead.  In
the stead of truth, derelict words, harsh words at that, nature of my flesh, precluded all sense in the words much better spoken at times untold, and my dreams lie all the same, providing no apartheid from reality to fantasy.  I am my own prophet, yet having died and
risen many times, just to shame my heritage, prophesying only a fool's destiny!  While unrequited love abhors my hormonal imbalance, surging blood to the unintelligent head of all decisions, I forgot my teachings even to others in advice, while regarding my selfishness as worthy
gain.  Am I psychotic?  Would even Freud himself shun the analyses
behind the piercing eyes of such a lunatic?  On that night, nothing halted the exigency behind saving the good ship ego from eternal darkness in its righteous depths.  Reducing myself to layman's terms, I brutishly meted out injustice to undeserving parties, only managing to copulate
the bitter ecstasy of hatred.  Now, on to the question lying ahead, should apologetics for man's nature form the further nature of communication in this regard?  But what should one say in this black hole?  Furthermore, words preceding, precedents, have impacted none—well, no propitiation for heinous crimes--while the truth I
do speak lacks an audience, cacophonous or other; yet I can state none other facts than my regret; and contrition dwells in a humbler, far more placid place because of these events.  If your wish is discourse, let it be known, for on my own end, the matter is settled.  I send my love and best wishes, if you choose to understand my meanings in this penance. 
Would people have cared for a more unknown victim of circumstances  I question in pride; but in truth, I have given up the ghost of my misgivings and allotted time for you to answer, whether forgiveness and mercy be the priority of your palette.  In God's art, may I find peace, despite my misfortune to fleshly desires.  As an individual must determine his course in the hail to nonconformity, I have forsaken my conformity in narcissistic ruins and have progressed in self by courage, by love, and by virtue of the past as guidance for my incredible future. 
Evidence relies on the facts, as its law condemns, and I have my
condemnation in your hands even with this apology, but more importantly, in God's hands, in His wisdom and Spirit.  So this decision is yours, whether your beliefs belie my wishes for peace or otherwise.  I have commended my spirit to higher court.  Your testimony to these facts have not been forsaken.  Poetically, and fervently, I ask for forgiveness.

Well, my attempts at being heard prove futile...no remarks, but tons of regrets.  I'm quite bored and depressed, even at the chance of marijuana later on this night (which I doubt, and quite frankly is temporary anyway).  I've no one to call and no one to talk to back home.  Here, the chances are pretty slim too.

You know, I try to be happy and social, but for real, it doesn't work out too well for me.  Of course, all that's overshadowed by mistakes I've made.

And so...I'll probably fail again this semester these classes, and then run away from everything...again.  I thought about going to Lee next semester, but who'd want me there either after all this?  Ah, this venting ain't a cathardic session...I don't feel any better...

If you feel like I'm depressed (or depressing, whichever suits you best), you're correct.  This site's original intention was for me to actually keep some form of journal in private (b/c I won't if it's not in this form...I tried notebooks) as some sort of vent mechanism.  Now, it feels like just a confluence of humiliation.

You know the funny thing about depression?  There's really no point, no reason behind it.  It's like this semi-controllable (often seems totally uncontrollable) monster that creeps up on you to beat the crap out of you and then go away for a while.  This, of course, repeats a lot.  But there's no real point of grief behind all of it.  No one close to me died; I'm not poor; and things for the most part, on the outside, seem fairly good; yet that's not true.  Everyone seems a potential enemy to an ever vulnerable self-esteem.  Every success seems the beginning of what one doesn't have.  The lack of a significant other and the emotions entangled in such become a major "weakness"...

So...Life goes on at a crawl...

The Beatles Are A Terribly Overrated Band...

Good, now that you're here, you can remark on that statement as you like; not that I don't believe that statement, but I needed something to get your attention also to read the post below and remark on that one as well.  Please feel free however to post on both.

I read this and laughed today...
"With no ground to hold on to,
[the band] Meshuggah demands of you to walk along a path of unequaled rhythms and
to dive head first into a sea of pulsing human corpses while the beat
pounds your nerves in Hell."
Fun Stuff...

I really suppose I could tell you all about my spring break, and you may understand what has transpired or not.  These thoughts are for my future self to discern, and probably (as well) God.  Although Rebecca Jensen states that complete honesty does not equal complete candor, I do believe that pertinent information, especially that which would change the behavior of someone close to her, should not be withheld from that person, but should be intimated in a cautious manner.  However, this act for which I've berated her on her Phusebox really did not consume my thoughts in my attacks on her person.  There are (quite obviously, I think) other reasons involved.

I've said, many times, that people really don't understand me.  Whether this opinion rehashes "teen angst" or not, I believe, at least to an extent, that it is true.  The better question, as Chris Morgan astutely speculated, is whether that misunderstanding comes from my own intention to be "unique" and misunderstood or from actual misunderstanding: the answer, likewise, is murky at best--both are involved.  So the question becomes which came first--nature or intention; and I can answer that.  First came my being understood, or better yet, my perception of such misunderstanding.  Because of this misunderstanding, angst set in, causing a desire for simultaneous conformity and "uniqueness".  That developed uniqueness causes misunderstanding, but it's not always intentional...As I said, the solution to Mr. Morgan's question is complicated at best...

Really, all of this is to say that, despite your thinking you understand the one side of any story you may have heard, a need ALWAYS exists to discern the truth from all sides--to read between the lines.

That being said, I can't really delve into the more difficult parts of the subsequent story, because I haven't the permission; otherwise, I would.  For those of you just expecting a description of my spring break, I had fun meeting with my grandparents and other family members from that side for at least a little while at Village Creek State Park in Arkansas.

Around my ninth grade, I met Rebecca Jensen and her brother Chris in Kenny Pyatt's Sunday School class.  Quite frankly, I was reluctant to meet with them (they didn't look that "cool" at the time), but I realized neither was I and that I needed to be kind to visitors as one longstanding member of FWC (to an extent).  Nothing really struck me about her then.  I really didn't get involved with her until Teen Bible Quiz the next year: I had heard she was a threat.  When I was lazy, she was, but other than that, I realized both Josh and I surpassed her.  The year went well enough.  During that time, I think I engaged in a considerably awkward conversation with her where I semi-propositioned...Don't worry, just kissing...during a Friday night cookout at the Lewis's property.  I think she admired Josh at the time, but for the most part, other than hormonal outbursts such as that, I remained largely uninterested in her in anything other than friendship.  Both the older Morgans thought she was attractive: I didn't really care.  Honestly, I didn't care for her mother very much, even though my family had started to become acquainted with theirs via invites to dinners and such.  The funnier thing was her age.  On the outset, she seemed older than she actually was--a year and a half younger than I and thus much younger than Josh (he was always weird about these kinds of things).  She claims I never noticed.  That's not true: I did.  I just debated it for several reasons.  At the time (my ninth and tenth grades), I was interested in the nonconformist way of life (e.g. Paige Crockett), and Rebecca was hardly that at all.  She seemed too set...too down-pat...too what everyone wanted.  We still seemed to manage a well-developed friendship though.  Eventually, I realized Rebecca admired me.  I knew this for a long time, but she seemed indifferent whenever I tried to ask her about it.  Later, I discovered that most of my signals were misinterpreted as attempts to exploit her "fault" for liking me.  It wasn't until she stayed in Washington with her sick mother that I began to really become interested: this would prove to be one of the initial problems I had with initiating a relationship with her.  Because she developed problems from the situation with her, I began to interested in her.  Read that sentence a few times, and you'll see the problems.  I began to see her issues as part of her kindof, a revelation to her personality and emotions.  Still, she represses those ideas.  But whatever the case, I was there and heard everything.  Later on, I entertained the idea of a relationship and followed through on the tail end of my senior year in high school (last summer)...next dumb idea.  We'd barely enough time to solidify any sort of relationship in addition to the temporal grief and concomitant issues.  I kept telling her the distance wouldn't phase me, but it did.  Georgia proved a much more depressive state than originally anticipated.  (I'm skipping a considerable bit here.)  I slowly began breaking it off, but my selfishness impeded my viewing her perspective.  I didn't answer my phone period--not just when she called, and she called often.  So it ended very awkwardly with apologies with some aspirations to the future, but nothing clear enough.  I talked to her a little, but was under the impression things weren't going too well.  Whenever I did talk to her, usually, I'd draw her into some fucked up argument usually dealing with my depression.  Other than that, we discussed her problems. 

Shortly speaking....I probably gave her more grief than reprieve.  Then as of late...

I began rekindling feelings for Rebecca lately, but she was either too retarded to notice or forced herself not to notice.  That sounds mean, but come on.  I became more awkward around her when I met with her last weekend.  She seemed indifferent and foolish, carried as much away with imaginary social problems she conjoured up with the Lewis/Morgan group as she could.  You can argue with me about that.  I do think they got too involved, but she always gives off this sort of passive aggression that simply doesn't solve anything.  Again, I could explain more thoroughly, but it would just serve to anger me more.  I don't want to be angry.

So I asked her in private if she still loved me, and boy the hell I opened in my soul.  She said yes, but not in the way I was thinking.  I was thinking...heh, yeah right, you mean no.  So I ended that conversation in about the most inept way I could and drove off to meet my parents for dinner.  Later on, Phusebox happened.  I attacked, and she didn't get mad.  That's her for ya, never could defend herself.  I still don't know if she got why it all happened or not, although I assume that she knows why.  Whether she wants anything to do with me is anybody's guess or I guess whoever wants to convince her that I'm evil and shouldn't be talked to.  Haha...what a weird thought...but I guess I'm the bad guy.  You know, maybe after all this, I don't really love her after all.  Would love attack that person loved?  Nah...at least in my mind.  Maybe no one will read all this shit.  Maybe you all will just all stare and say, "Hey, there's someone drowning: isn't that nice?"  Stupid fucks...never could get anything, but why I stopped attacking...

I've been asking to God to speak to me in my dreams.  Part of my dream on Wednesday night was a group of people including me were on a black beach.  On this beach, I followed Rebecca and ridiculed her, but she seemed phased only a bit.  Eventually, [a girl I know named] Kendall asked me why I did what I did.  I told her that I hated not having what I wanted, and wanting what I couldn't have.  She told me that I was doing no good, and ultimately was just hurting myself.  So I cried and cleaned up my section of the beach.

As for whether I'm sorry...I know I'm sorry, but am I contrite and penitent.  I don't know...But I know you, and you guys will go on with your lives whatever I put on here anyway...

So, whatever...remark, bitches...

God,
Your words were, at one time,
The essence of my soul,
But now they have all but dissipated
From my torn memory,
And faded into the shell of religion.
O God, what have I done?
How much fleshly relationships
Pattern my spiritual course!
The Spirit has wept for me
Because I traded Him
For unfulfilling substances,
And His thoughts of me
Appear in the dreams of men.
But I reached out to the air
Beside me, and called Your name,
That You should appear
Physical yet pure,
Yet You did not appear.
I wept in my silence.
When shall I come to appear
Before the presence of God?
When shall I come to appear
Before the presence of God?
In my thoughts, twisted doubts
Tell me You are not.
Why should You relent
In disproving them?
Still, pride in my heart
Creeps like a vine
On the tree of faith,
Eventually to cripple me.
I have sat on my hands,
And laid on my feet,
And they are asleep,
My heart does not move,
I am numb and lifeless.
But what constitutes a life?
What purpose? What meaning?
Show Yourself to me:
I don't care if I go blind!
Appear in my dreams
Continually, if You will,
And reveal these mysteries.
When shall I come to appear
Before the presence of God?

After getting home from school, I don't exactly remember doing anything of any purpose at all that Friday. Actually, it's quite weird that I can't remember Friday, and Jenny, my younger sister, gave me the weirdest look upon such a question.  Saturday, I geared up for the concert that night, which I attended alone, a fact that sucked, but the concert was awesome.  Bleeding Through, Every Time I Die, Between the Buried and Me, and Haste the Day played.  I only lasted through Every Time I Die: I didn't have any earplugs (dorky I know, but I worry about damaging my ears).  The mosh pit was awesome, as were the last three bands I mentioned (the played in the order backwards from how I mentioned them).  Moshing and slam dancing is such a rush. The whole thing was amazing.
Sunday, I went to church with my family.  We ate out...go figure.  Then I met up with Rebecca, which was terribly, terribly awkward for me, which I will describe later (also why the song below is written).  Attended FWC that night...yada, yada
Today, I bought clothes and my most expensive pair of jeans from Buckle, but they're a nice fit so I'll see if they're worth it.  If not, I'll just learn from the experience.  It was a nice birthday present.
"Do you still love me?"  Well, that was a dumbass question.  It's like asking people in a funeral, "Did someone die here?  Why are all you sad?"  Sitting in the car, I'm not sure who to be angry at. Myself or her?  The better question is who deserves it more.  Probably me.  Oh, yeah, and by the way the feeling's mutual...what?...No it's not.  You still love her, you bastard, even after fucking with her head in this whole relationship.  No, you can't hug me.  I don't want you near me.  Yes, ya do.  You wish you could embrace her for all it's worth.  (This is by a way, a conversation with myself, if you hadn't noticed.)  God, I hate women; they act retarded until you get used to that and then they act smart when you least expect it.  I can't mollify this pain with some balm or aloe.  It's an irritant, but I don't know that the friendship can ever last.  Why should it?  All you fucking outsiders, you have no idea, but you think you do...or maybe you don't, I don't know...I'm just venting...I could go more in detail but I don't really want to...

A song by me, as cheesy as it may be

Narcissistic, I find that
I'd rather be the odd man out
Than better than everyone else,
But that's not really true,
And solitude never rewards
Someone with genuine pride.

Everytime you said, "I love you,"
Brought me something special and new
But now that things have changed,
Girl, you feel so far away.
All I want to say is I miss you.

Guess I'm the one to blame,
After all, I made all of the mistakes,
In what I labeled a cheesy game.
Foolish pride, it seems, is the cause
Of all my unrealized dreams,
Now wanting what I can't have.

Everytime you said, "I love you,"

Brought me something special and new

But now that things have changed,

Girl, you feel so far away.

All I want to say is I miss you.

You said I owed you a song,
But selfishness gets in the way,
So all that I can say is I miss you.

I had several things I thought I would say today when I got home, but I've forgotten most of those things.  Most of those anyway have nothing to do with what I want to say.  Really, though, I don't know what I want to say, and quite frankly, I don't know why I'm alive--not necessarily in the sorrowful, "I want to end it all now" sense of that statement, but moreso is that I want to find out why I'm alive.
Honestly, I find myself at odds with religion time and time again, and for you people who always like to tote the idea that religion and faith (or a relationship with God), the principles are, in the practical sense, inextricable.  (God still continues to intrigue me.)  First, between eternal hellfire and eternity with all of America's Christians, the eternal hellfire seems rather attractive.  Beyond the jokes though, I think Christianity lacks the "umph" it used to have.  I think Kim Klaudt described it well, "Signs and wonders will follow you, not you should follow signs and wonders."  I just think the power available is being forsaken, even in Pentecostal circles.  Again, these are reasons for my aversion to religion, so don't get on here and preach at me about how that's not an excuse and all that shit because that's not what I'm arguing here.  The common excuse is that only certain people are prepared for such power.  Really?  That's why so many devout believers don't make use of it?  Well, maybe the dumbfucks are right.  Maybe, modern Christianity is stagnant in the wake of its own human influence.

Today was colder than expected; I walked out in shorts and and short-sleeved shirt only to be rudely awakened by chilling breeze.

Everytime I journey to Andrew's or Mai's phusebox, I find myself questioning what the fuck they're talking about.  First off, I don't think anyone at FWC talks about them: I think that's bullshit conjecture.  If it's not, they're welcome to name names; and if they find this offensive, I don't really care.  All I'm saying is not to be paranoid about religious concerns if you have none.  If there's nothing to be worried about, why worry about it?  It's not your actions that have us worried: it's your willful separation from friends that care about you that's the problem.  I don't think people are talking about you.  Why should they?  I don't walk around thinking people talking behind my back (well, actually that's not entirely true, but the reasons for that deal with my depression).  I just think this shit is overplay on both their parts.  I have no problem admitting I have smoked weed or drank alcohol.  These are not the problems that concern me.  My problems deal with why these things came to be in my life and the unfulfillment thereof.  I think Christianity, on the whole, has a lot of problems, but if it didn't, it wouldn't be an accurate description of the real world.

In other words, these supposed gossips, if they indeed exist, are not supported by the influential parties at FWC, and not by God, who FWC supports.  Under such assumptions, why continue with this banter?

You may be offended by what I say, but if you are, I refuse to blame myself.  We all know our own needs for improvement, but to lord them over the brows of others who work just as hard is a farce of what you claim to face.  Each one is given what he is designed for, but to come out among men, and brag for defeating a foe and living with the bitter taste he left is just stupid.  Hail to nonconformity for such stupid claims to fame.

You rave on and on about how others misunderstand you, but have you clearly understood others and God's plans for them?  Don't trade blow for "blow" if you don't.

Second, I would wish that people would leave Rebecca to her own business, and not to interfere simply for your sake of love or whatever it is you call it.  Radical action isn't always appropriate in this case.  If she has anything to tell anyone, let her do it herself.  Believe me: I was there from the beginning.  I know. 

I'm trying to determine whether this has anything to do with the person more than the situation.  Would you carry on such a great crusade if you knew my thoughts as well?  But no, I've already told you and you misunderstood what I said time and time again.

I have many questions.  Have you ever asked something with a glimpse of hope but knowing that the chances were really slim?  That's kinda how I feel right now, not that it should concern you, although I suppose other things I've posted would concern others more, hence all these questions towards me, such as the infamous "Is school getting to you?"  No, it's just dreadfully boring, lowers my self-esteem, makes me feel very alone.  Other than that, it's fantastic; but really, there are definite good points.  The choirs here are enjoyable to say the least, and I know people well enough to have things to do on several occasions.  One of the larger problems spawns from the fact that I'm stuck in between Christianity and secularism (if there is such a word as that).  No matter what I do then, there's always the shadow of my being kind of a parvenu.  I don't know though.  I think for the most part I shove myself into corners by desiring to be maverick and then regretting it later for feeling ostracized, regardless of whether I actually am a maverick or ostracized.  There are definite times I've felt ostracized without attempting to appear "against the tide" of what I perceived as mediocre and dull.  Everytime I travel back home, I feel even more out of sync than I do here.

Speaking of which, it made me stop today when I heard that Pastor Lowrance was praying for me.  Many people say it, but he's different.  In fact, there was one time over Christmas break when I shook his hand and was scared to death of him, not because he's unkind--he's a very approachable and well-meaning character--but because I know the Spirit dwells with him continually, or, more or less, overflows from him.  I've never felt the same about anyone else I've met, which gives me the impression that whatever God allows him to do will be successful as the Spirit sees fit.  Even in moving away for spirituality, there are still some things I won't disregard or totally ignore, one of those being the movement of the Holy Spirit.  I've figured, from my own expeditions in experimentation, that anyone who uses body-altering substances frequently without cause (a generalized substance abuse) can not be filled with the Holy Spirit on a continual basis.  So if you ever hear from someone who spends much of their time drinking and getting drunk, they're not filled.  It's like this, and you may disagree with me.  The Holy Spirit is like the apex of the natural high, so far as I can tell; but He's far more than any sort of manmade drug.  Now, as to why I haven't really applied this to my life, that's another story for another day and another train of logic.  That is, however, the conclusion I've come to.

What is truth?  I find to elicit sympathy for my cause I relish in the faux facts of our glorious time, these tragedies, and the Jeffrey Dahmers behind them, all for the sake of glorifying myself for no one's sake but my own.  But if I have no purpose in these sayings, why am I saying them?  And why are you here?  Have you come to slay the dragons of our world?  Or to relish in your own weak attributes defined as some unique characteristics? 
God has blessed the clairvoyant.
I could feel the rush, if I had stepped outside that box keeping locked on to some faulty target.  Blame the others for my lack of self-assertion; theirs is unbearable.  When you cannot let them know, build up a few walls, say a little shit, abuse a few substances, and you're alright.  Fulfillment's just a shot away.  I had daydream about being attacked by two grizzly bears, but being able to defeat both.  Angels came to restore my body back to health.  What do you ask a God you don't know if you know anymore?  What do you say to those you've crossed in selfishness only to recognize your love still remains?  Would you care as much if I said it?  If only guns weren't so expensive, the end would be in sight, but is that the end I want?  I could say many things to fill many pages, but none that could fulfill my heart to You, O God.

I'm about to celebrate my birthday with family, and all I think about is how much life sucks.  Someone said that happiness is not the purpose of life but rather the result of a life lived with purpose.  And yet, what can I gain by doing nothing to achieve nothing?  My life, so far as I can tell, has only the purpose of a shell covering insurmountable depression.  Why can't God at least take that away?  I wish He'd just kill me and get this stupid thing over with.  I'm restless and tired of beating around this shitty bush called my life--the venture into boredom and celibacy via relationship ineptitude.  I feel so lumpen for the posterchild of religious influence...

This weekend, I celebrate my birthday...kindof.  With all the excitement of a kid on a trip to the dentist, I have approached the weekend with the semi-dread of not being content.  Brother Harrelson, care to self-prophesy?  I profess to nothing else than what people would expect--that is, the rumbling and tumbling of the fall of Rome, corrupt kingdom with a crapshot end.  Luck of the draw did not fall on us tonight; we didn't get Jesus' clothes out of this batch of gambles.  Solving the negativity problem is not just an issue: to me, it's more a crisis than anything else.  As depression waxes old in the spirit it oppresses, the spirit dies along, tailing success with injustice.  It's a bigger problem than I've originally surmised, and I can't countermand my own soul forever.  A change is always needed in humanity.  Yes, I'm desultory, but please retain your composure.
I realized today that maybe, if I pray, God will grant me a vocalization in speaking that is less monotone which would grant me better chances with opposite sex.  Of course, anything aside from Georgia Tech would do that.  Would that even fulfill though, as misogynist as I've become?  The women I consider even do not consider me, and those have their own needs to be fulfilled by other agendas.  Whatever...Love shits on you when uninvolved and uninspired...

Pretty much, I'm sitting here trying to fIgure out Matlab, the ulTimate programming Shitfest of the century.  Just sang to aluMni todaY in chamBer In a Room THat haD fortunAtelY good acousTics as OpposeD to the D.M. Smith building where prActice is held.  We sang "Comin' Round the Mountain" (a verY cool arrangement I might add) and "Ride the Chariot" (your standard joyful old-timey hymn sort of thing).  It went well, and we got food afterwards which is always a plus for that sort of thing.

I've realized that people are a lot like grammar rules, if that makes any sense.  Generally speaking, certain things will work, but there exist many exceptions to those rules.  Plus, to succeed, one must not only master those rules but go beyond into the realm of creativity with them; otherwise, the writing and the personality are dull and ignored.

Past that, however, people tend toward that which and who makes them feel good about themselves.  That's why an altogether worthless person to one may be a diamond ring to another.  It's all quite arbitrary.

I've created myself, my own image, that someone can copy, given I pry into others' business with a despicable character and misconduct in consent.  You could say that I'm a rapist to personalities, devouring and consuming others' darkness for my pleasure, but then again, you love me, like THC to a psychological addiction.  I find no peace.  I am nothing, like the ultimate lack of fulfillment, such as pornography.  Half of you wouldn't comprehend anyway this mess, for I've dug an sin well instead.  Ravaging the land while it's ravished with me.  Something I could never comprehend how you hated me before but loved me since sin, nothing could be more backward in this rusty tin can, or carbon, and covalent bonds, fucked together, like a hemaphrodite.  I'll say whatever I want as long as you want to hear it.