Ramblings of a Crowe

Do Your Eyes Deceive You?

No, they do not! It's....get this...DARTH TATER!

I kid you not folks. Mr. Potato Head can be bought with the full Dark Lord ensamble....

Scary....

An ADD Gamer Perspective

Here's an obviously ADD gamer perspective on the amount of cutscenes and dailogue in videogames these days. If you don't like that kind of stuff, stick to the classics....

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Last night, I was sitting in bed watching TV. It was around 12:30am, no one else was awake, the cat nowhere in sight, the dog sleeping in the back yard under the big blue spruce. Something right outside my partially opened window screamed. It wasn't a human sound, but instead, this eerie, loud screech, like nails on glass. It scared the hell out of me. You know, that feeling when your entire body goes numb? Funny enough, I looked for the closest object that could be used as a weapon. My free standing lamp would do, so I felt a bit safer. Things went quiet for about a half hour, and the sound came again. I got up, shut my window, and went to bed.

My first thought was it was probably something like this:

But more than likely it was something like this:

Or this:

Not that bats are much better...I HATE bats...

Kids Thoughts on Relationships

This a forward I got earlier today. It's halarious, so I thought I'd share it here for everyone to read! God bless the kiddies! They keep life in perspective! Ha ha!

>In a recent survey of grade school children, some interesting observations were discovered about:
>
>
>
> HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?
>
> ( 1 ) You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like
>sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the
>chips and dip coming.
>-- Alan, age 10
>
>( 2 ) No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to
>marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who
>you're stuck with.
>-- Kirsten, age 10
>
>WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?
>
>( 1 ) Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by
>then.
>-- Camille, age 10
>
>
>( 2 ) No age is good to get married at. You got to be a fool to get
>married.
>-- Freddie, age 6 (very wise for his age)
>
>HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?
>
>( 1 ) You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at
>the same kids.
>-- Derrick, age 8
>
>WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?
>
>( 1 ) Both don't want any more kids.
>-- Lori, age 8
>
>WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE
>
>( 1 ) Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know
>each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
>-- Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a treasure)
>
>( 2 ) On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually
>gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
>-- Martin, age 10 (wise beyond his years)
>
>WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR?
>
>( 1 ) I'd run home and play dead. The next day I would call all the
>newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns.
>-- Craig, age 9
>
>WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?
>
>( 1 ) When they're rich.
>-- Pam, age 7
>
>
>( 2 ) The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with
>that.
>-- Curt, age 7
>
>( 3 ) The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry
>them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do.
>-- Howard, age 8 (this one has very good morals)
>
>
>IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?
>
>( 1 ) I don't know which is better, but I'll tell you one thing. I'm never
>going to have sex with my wife. I don't want to be all grossed out.
>-- Theodore, age 8
>
>( 2 ) It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need
>someone to clean up after them.
>-- Anita, age 9 (bless you child)
>
>HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED?
>
>( 1 ) There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there?
>-- Kelvin, age 8
>
>And the #1 Favorite is........
>
>HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?
>
>( 1 ) Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck.
>-- Ricky, age 10

OMG Halarious InuYasha

You guys have got to see this. It's simply one of the most brilliantly hysterical things I've ever seen!

InuYasha Flash

(Thanks to Mandy for sharing the link with me)

Bankai Ichigo!!!!

Hiiiyaaa, Ichigo! Kick Byakuya's ass!

_________________________________________________________________

Random snippets from chapters 162-164; no specific order

Spyware Programs

Today I woke up with a mission. To find out what spyware is screwing up my stupid computer. If everyone remembers, last May, I got hit with spyware and a trojan that knocked out Norton and screwed up my IE. I abandoned IE after that (thanks to Arxane's recommendation), and have been pretty happy with Fire Fox. However, I still cannot access many pages in IE (when I need to use it, which is rarely). MSN Messenger refuses to work, and I can't reinstall Norton. My computer is running pretty slow these days, which is bothering me. I have AGV Virus scan and about 5 different spyware programs (laughs). Nothing seems to work. Whatever is on my computer is hidden.

So, my sister recommended "Hijack This". So today I decided to give it a try. I ended up with a huge list of stuff that I can't even begin to read, which left me crosseyed and confused. I was given a warning that deleting registries could screw up my programs and mess my computer up even worse. I downloaded another program called "Alert Spy", which is affiliated with "Hijack This" and ran a scan, which prompted me with about 9 infections that needed to come off the computer, one of which had something to do with "ActiveX compatibility". Active X is the reason my IE pages won't load. I get an error message telling me I need "ActiveX" to see the page (this happened in May too). I tried to delete the "infection" but it won't come off my computer (I didn't try to hard though)...I was worried that maybe it was a "useful" componant that got tagged as spyware (which occasionally happens). I'm not familar with "Twain-tech", which is what the registry name says it is, so I assume it's spyware....but then again, I don't know.

Spyware stuff isn't fun for the computer unsavy. I plan on taking this stupid machine in after I go back to work (in one week) and having it fixed again, as well as set up with a new firewall and anti-virus. I don't want to use Norton again. It hasn't proven too much help with whatever keeps nailing me...My ultimate plan is to buy a new computer this year, and destroy the stupid e-machine with a shotgun and shovel. Actually, I may give it to my son for games and stuff. He's taken a liking to drawing things on the computer too.

Spyware and spam pisses me off. I get tons of spam in my old email account, which goest directly to my trashcan, so I don't have to deal with it. My blog is plagued with it. I woke up one day to 80 spam messages. I was so pissed off. Lately, I've been getting a lot of bots pushing smut, which pisses me off even more.

Why can't people play nice?

Oh well. I'm certain there's a special place in Hell for virus writers, spam creators, and the like. If not, there should be.

**********On a different Note***********

昨日、私は新しいGungrave DVD４を見ました。チョー悲しいよ。私は泣きました。 （；－；） ハリーは、冷たくブランドンを撃って、ブランドンを殺しました。ブランドンはとても親切でした。。。彼はハリー、マリア、とBigDaddyが大好きでした。彼はハリーの竹馬の友でした。でも、ハリーはとにかくブランドンを殺しました。ひどいね。。。悲しいね。。。このくそったれ！！！死ぬ、ハリー！！！苦痛な死を遂げてくれよ。。。

Xenosaga: The Animation

Xenosaga, for those who don't know, is a major RPG videogame for the PS2. Episode 1 came out several years ago and was a cult hit. Fans are rabid, much like Final Fantasy fans. Message boards popped up, shrines, and websites rose like mountains. It was a fantastic game. A must for RPGers who love complicated storylines, lots of cut scenes, and likable characters. The game play was pretty standard, nothing spectacular really, but nothing horribly bad either. Most of us who love the game, love the story, which is surrounded by riddles and red-herrings.

So, when the animation finally came out a couple weeks ago, many of us were excited. I was really happy. Seeing the story of Xenosaga brought to televison was something worth watching. However, I must say, after two episodes, I'm not impressed.

Firstly, the animation style is sub-par. It's so second rate, so bland, so disappointing. I was expecting a better, more extravagant stlye for this show. I feel like I'm watching Transformers or something...back when I was a kid...They throw in a few CG scenes here and there, perhaps trying to make up for the disappointment, but the show is still pretty bland. I will admit, the Gnosis coming out of the gate jump was really cool, and a few of the fight scenes were nice, but it sort of ticks me off they skimp on the rest of the show. Once again, I feel I might just be watching the show for the story again, like I did with the game.

(Upclose with one of the Gnosis. They come in all shapes and sizes; Kosmos in a battle simulation wearing some weird suit; Alan talking with fellow Vector employees)

BUT...

I'm not one to complain about subtle changes in storylines. They don't bug me that much, and so far, the story hasn't gone become too wayward. However, a few of the alterations in Xenosaga: The Animation irritated me and have made me worry. Shion's interaction with the sliver haired girl, a Kirchswasser (I'm assuming that's what she was suppose to be since she "returned" to Albedo in episode 2) on the Woglinde boggled my mind. We didn't see any Kirchswassers until Albedo's introduction later in the game. And I wasn't aware that Kirchswassers were 100 Series Realians (it's been awhile since I played the game). Kosomos's awakening during the Gnosis attack was cool, but they really skimped out on it. They left little explination to why Alan was so afraid of her waking up on her own, and they left out the other crew mates, which took away a lot of the impact of the scene. I guess that's a nitpick, but it annoyed me. The main thing that really bothered me was Lt. Virgil DIDN'T DIE on the Woglinde. That's a major change to the story...big time. Kosmos shot through him to kill a Gnosis and he croaked like he deserved to, yet in the animation, he's alive and stuck on the escape pod with Shion and Alan. It was Commandar Cherenkov who was rescued with them, not Virgil, and that too makes for a HUGE change in the story...as it was Cherenkov and Margulis's fault the Woglinde went down (in my opinion), thanks to their operation to retreive the Zohar emulator. Cherenkov gets touched by a gnosis while on the Elsa later in the story, and changes into one...Lt. Virgil shows up from the dead at the end of the game...why, we don't know yet (I'm waiting for Episode 2 of the videogame), but I'm sure he's up to no good.

(Lt. Virgil is a creep. The stuff on his face is a disease he got from eating Realian "brains";Kirchswasser or 100 series Realian? We don't know; Albedo is as nutty as they come. He scares the hell out of me)

Of course, they can do whatever they want to the story. Like I said, I don't dislike adaptations, however, with a story like Xenosaga, I find it hard to believe they'll be able to make changes like these and have the story make sense. It's already hard enough to follow in the orginal, making it more complicated doesn't make sense, and simplifying it would ruin the story to the point it would no longer be Xenosaga.

(Shion stands in front of the Zohar Emulator the Woglinde picked up in space; Gnosis gate out to attack the Woglinde and fleet; Shion running for her life)

I'll try to curb my disappointment for the time being. The changes weren't rampent, though significant. They did keep the majority of the important events, such as Cherenkov talking with Margulis, the man touching the Zohar Emulator and disappearing, the Gnosis attacking the Woglinde and infiltrating the ship to take the Zohar Emulator, Virgils hatred of Realians, the appearence of Nephilem, etc. I'll continue to watch and see what happens. If it gets too bad, I'll just go play the game again until Episode 2 is released for the PS2 in the States. I will say that the Animation has a great soundtrack. The opening music is beautiful, very much on par with that of the game.

(Kosmos, the anti-gnosis weapon, awakens for unknown reasons; Kosmos is a badass; The Hilbert Effect forces Gnosis into our demension so they can be killed. Kosmos has a massive range when using the Hilbert Effect)

A few other characters that haven't shown up much yet, but will later:

(Jr, also known as Rubedo, might look like a kid but he's really 28 years old; Jin is Shion's older brother. He doesn't play much of a role in the first half of the story, but he may be responsible for the scar on Margulis's face; Nephilem is a mysterious little girl who only Shion and chaos (no capital for his name) see. Who or what she is is yet to bee seen)

Oh, and a big welcome back to Arxane! Nice to see you again!

Thank God For Medicine

I got drugs! Lots and lots of drugs!

I couldn't stand my misery anymore. I braved the roads and spent three and half hours at the doctors office. Both my ears are infected and I have a raging sinus infection. No wonder I'm blowing rubber cement out of my nose....sorry, that was sick, but the truth.

They hooked me up with an arm load of antibiotics and other meds to help get me through it. I'm so happy. I was so happy I almost cried. I'm usually pretty tough when I'm sick, but this cold has been one of the worst. I'm not to sure about this nose spray shit they gave me though...it kinda freaks me out having to stick something up my nostril...

Anyway, I can't wait to wake up tomorrow...though I'll probably still feel like crap, but it'll be a step up. Now, all I need to do is get rid of my chapped nose....

Bitter

No. I'm not upset I can't get to the doctor...Not one bit...Friggen freezing rain...

Anyone Out There?

Why is that? I've always wondered why the idea of other life outside the Earth seems so impossible for many people on our planet. I mean, our Galaxy, The Milky Way, is home to 200 to 400 billion stars and spans roughly 100,000 light-years from one edge to the other. That's just OUR GALAXY. In 1999 the Hubble Space Telescope estimated that there were 125 billion galaxies in the universe, and recently with the new camera HST has observed 3,000 visible galaxies, which is twice as much as they observed before with the old camera. That's a lot of stars and planets when you break it all down, and if you ask me, the probability that we are alone in the Universe seems pretty absurd.

The idea that there may be life on other planets is widely debated amongst scientists and other groups (specifically religous groups). Earth appears to be a rare planet, able to sustain life and maintain water for long periods of time. The Earth is 3.8 billion years old and intellegent life only occured a little over a million years ago. The placement of our planet is also a key to why life has been able to grow in abundance. We are protected for the most part from astaroid bombardment (thanks to Jupiter) and the placement from our sun makes for habitable water and weather patterns. The Earth may be a rarity among planets. Possibly one in a million or one in a billion, but still, even with that number, it's estimated that in our galaxy alone there may be 10 billion habitible planets.

The same laws that govern the physics that created the Earth, also govern the Universe, so why is our planet so special? Recently, stardust was found to contain amino acids, the building blocks of life. The Earth has numerous extremophiles (organisims that thrive in extream places), which shows us that life can thrive in some really nasty places. Which leads to the questions of evolution, adaptation, and life variation.

We may never know the answer to the question of life on other planets. At least not in my life time, and probably not my son's. Space is a huge place, and unfortunatly, we don't put a lot of effort into studying it (we're to busy building stuff that destroys and kills each other). Personally, I doubt we are the only creatures in the Universe.

Origins

Black Ice

Well, I tried to go to the doctor today. My cold isn't getting much better. If anything, it seems to have moved from my nose to my entire head. I woke up this morning feeling crummy and decided well, I suppose I should give in and visit the clinic. I assumed the roads would be semi-safe since they've had a few days to plow them....so I set off on my journey to get drugs to kill the bugs invading my sinus cavities.

Oh ho...I made it not even 1.5 miles from my house when I thought I lost the transmition in my car. It took me a moment to realize that as I shifted into higher gear, my poor little car was sliding across traffic. Apparently there was black ice on the road... Whoops....so, I maintained a safe 30mph over the bridge while people flipped me off as they passed me. Excuse me for not having snow tires! Excuse me for not having GOOD tires....Sheesh...

So, as I proceeded forward, worried about my car, worried about ice, worried about my health, I realized that my nose wasn't running nor was I coughing. So, using deductive reasoning, I decided that if I wasn't as sick as I thought I was and needed to go home before I became stranded or in an accident. I got off the highway and cut through town, where my poor car slid at the intersections. I wasn't the only one though. A truck in front of me nearly did a 360 while changing lanes. Another person slid through an intersection. I was beginning to wonder if cutting through town was a good idea.

I made it off the main roads in town, and took the streets over by where I work. There's not as much traffic over there as in the middle of town. I thought I'd stop by and visit with my boss for minute to tell him I may not be able to make it work tomorrow, since I plan on going to the doctor if the roads are better (It's suppose to be 50 degrees tomorrow), but the sneakly little devil wasn't there! I imagine he was smart and stayed home....

So I continued home, making a big loop that took me about an hour...a trip that under normal circumstances would take probably 15 to 20 minutes....I didn't go home right away though, as I came back into my small, backwater little town. No, I figured I'm make my trip worth while, so I stopped at the local store and bought some Halls, gum, and Sprite with hopes that I would live through another day...

I made it home in one piece, which is a relief, though I still worry about my little car. Not surprising though, the minute I get back in the house, my nose starts to run, my hands get clamy, and I cough....

Maybe I should just move outside....

So anyway...I feel like I deserve a treat for my bravery and smart decisions...as well as for the misery I've been put through these past four days....

photo from (AFP/Paco Serinelli)

A Silent Plague?

It's called Hikikomori. You can find several articles on this phenominon here and here. Over a million people in Japan, mainly young men in their late teens or early 20's, lock themselves away in their homes and refuse to come out. For what reason, no one really seems to know. Bullying at school or in the work place, to much expectations put on them, stress, lack of social skills, under-laying mental illness, poor family structure, depression...the list could go on. What really stands out though, is the fact that no one seems to be willing the help these people. They are an embrassment to themselves and their familes, hidden away and cottled by their parents or familes.

Here, in the west, we call it agraphobia, the fear of going outside. People claim what's going on in Japan is different, but I don't think so. What's different is the way they handle the situation, which makes the case more extream.

Wow...that's incredible. Living in the same house for four years and NEVER speaks to his parents, never leaves his room (that they know of), nothing. It's really difficult for me to put my hands around a situation like this. What astounds me is the way they deal with the problem, by not doing a damn thing about it. They try to hide it. They're ashamed of it.

This probably one of the biggest reason the problem in Japan has gotten so out of hand. Things like this bring major shame upon their family. They're schooled to hide or ignore problems like these, but unfortunatly, these issues just don't go away. Typical of other cultures as well, you'll here the various doctors and analyists studying the problem to find excuses, such as "technology" and "poor mothering skills". I shake my head when I hear stuff like this. Technology isn't an entity on it's own. It can't MAKE anyone play a game or watch TV 24/7. It's a person's responsibility to moderate what they're doing. Duh...If a person doesn't have the skills or capacity to do this, there's something wrong with them that requires professional help. As for the poor mother/child relationship...well, I'd say in regard to most of the cases on the reports listed above, it's not just the mom and son who have problems. The whole family probably had issues to begin with.

Being American, I honestly can't understand how the situation has gotten so out of hand in this particular case. It's a matter of culture, something I can't possibly comprehend. Where I live, if you locked yourself in a room at your parents house, they'd kick the door in and either haul you off to the medical center or kick your ass out on the street. Nothing like a little fear of being homeless or commited to the funny farm to make you think through your problems...Maybe if a few of these cases knew they might not have a roof over their head, meal in their belly, or a game cube to play all day, they'd be a bit more reluctant to go to such extreams. Then again, maybe they'd be a suicide statistic instead? I dunno, but the entire system is set up to enable people for this kind of behavior. It's actually very sad.

How did they get to be this bad? Somewhere, something in these familes failed. Many of these people went into hiding after some sort of major event, like bullying, failing exams, etc. Are Japanese parents not paying attention to their kids problems? I've heard that in Japane, the victim of bullying is the one at fault, not the bully themselves. That's pretty harsh. Bullying can make a kid snap, even here in the US when there is little parental support from the family. Exam failure is a bit tough to swallow, but once again, it's a matter of culture. In Japan, schooling is incredibly important. Kids often go to school after school. They go home to study. Here in the US, you might get sent to summer school or held back a grade, but studies aren't taken as seriously. Here, most parents believe that kids have to have a life outside of school during their education years. American kids aren't under the same amount as stress as their Japanese counterparts when it comes to schooling.

Sadly, Japan isn't much different than many other places in the world when it comes to mental health issues. They're probably worse off, since they believe that issues like that are "family problems". Here in the US, mental health has just recently come into the light. Treatments can be hard to diagnose and support is difficult to find, but the new awareness is helping. There are people studying the problem of Hikikomori and offering solutions, but the treatment tends to be passive. Western doctors feel that time is of the essence when treating Hikikomori, but the Japanese feel that making the sufferers comfortable is the key. I'm not sure about that, since I think comfort is part of the problem. If it's too easy to lock yourself away, why bother venturing out again?

Overall, the problem is at least coming to the public light. That's a good step. A first step. Honestly, I think a change in culture will have to happen to help these young people, but stuff like that takes time. Agraphobia in western states can be severe, but thankfully, most of us lack the co-dependant relationships that the Hikikomori thrive on. It'll be interesting to see how this plays out in the future.

Snow and Boredom

What a miserable past few days.

The temps have fallen into the teens and it snowed again. Apparently the weather is suppose to get warmer again next week, with highs into the 50's. So weird. One minute it's freezing the next it's practically spring time. It's always like that here though. Well, minus the snow. We rarely see snow that stays more than a day or two. The past two years have been odd in that regard. I just hope it goes away and stays away by the end of this month. I'm suppose to go back to work full time on Jan. 31st (plus I don't like to drive when there's snow). I'm running low on cash, so that will be nice...not to mention I've been pretty bored here.

I'm also sick. I felt fine all day Thursday, but on Friday I woke up with a horrible sore throat and one side of my face felt like someone kicked me in the head. It got progressivly worse and all day yesterday I just laid in bed with a towl over my face. I wake up every hour to half hour, I can't stop sneezing or coughing, my eyes are watering, and if I didn't know better, I'd swear I have a hairball in the back of my throat. My poor nose looks like a rudolf ripoff. I'm miserable. The good news is that despite all that, I actually feel better today than I did yesterday. Not much, but it is an improvement. It's been awhile since I had a good, honest winter cold. (no J, it's not the plague so I think I'll survive...ha ha). I did miss my son's birthday party though, and I felt really, really bad about it. They went to the movies while I stayed at home, laying in bed, wondering if my brains were leaking from eyes and nose. Bummer....Hunter was understanding though. He's come in to check on me a few times and gave me a bracelet of good luck beads. Ha ha. He's so sweet.

This week, I'm suppose to take Griz, our dog, into the vet to get neutered. Hunter didn't understand what that meant, so I had the pleasure of telling him. He was pretty disturbed about it all. I reassured him that they don't do that sort of thing to humans so he had nothing to worry about. Griz is two years old, and last week he got out of the yard. Three times in one day. He likes to roam around, so when he leaves the yard, he's gone for hours. I was pretty upset to find him gone and had to go look for him. He always comes home, but I still worry. I found that he was climbing the fence in our pasture, which shocked me since he's a big dog. The fence was leaned over a bit, so dad had to fix it and Griz had to stay at Grandma's house for the day. He hasn't gotten out since, but it's only a matter of time and determination until he finds his way out again. So, he's gonna get snipped. Dad's put it off for a year, but I'm glad he's finally decided to have it done. People should spay and neuter their pets. There's so many unwanted animals out there already.

Well, I think I'll try to take another nap. Hopefully by tomorrow I'll be even better. I don't like this cold business....

Anita Blake Series Racist?

Well, at first I was going to write this entire post in Japanese (to the best of my ability at least) to save myself from any offended or self-righteous people who stumble on it and to make a particular point. However, I decided that, nah, it would be too much work and listening to whining morons is much more fun. Especially when I can just delete their post if they are too stupid.

Racisim is a touchy subject. Being white, I can say it makes me nervous just talking about it because someone out there is going to accuse me of being a biggot or ignorant because, get this, the color of my skin. Funny how that works, isn't it?

I'm white so I can't possibly understand how it feels to be judged by the color of my skin. Is that so? So I don't get followed around a shopping mall or stopped by cops. I don't know how that feels, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out that it must be pretty degrading and infuriating. Sort of like walking into a lunch room full of non-white people and have them all move from your table. Or walk into a bank where there's maybe two people of "my color" and have everyone stare at you with those "You don't belong here you evil white person" eyes. Stuff like that pisses me off, hurts my feelings, and makes me feel...well...violated and bad.

Racisim pisses me off to no extent. Not just racisim, but any kind of biggotry that lessens another human-beings worth because they are different from someone else. I was brought up a human-being. I was taught to judge people's worth by their character and not their color, sexual preference, handicaps, etc. How about you? Don't tell me I can't be outraged for someone or I couldn't possibly understand what it feels like to be discriminated against because I'm not . I CAN be outraged because I'm a person, a human, and we are all capable of the same emotions. Nor does it take rocket science to know that humans should treat humans as...well...humans, not some sort of color swatch or whatever else fits in here. So yeah, I get angry when people drag race into stuff because to me it is so utterly rediculous, and reminds me how completely hopless the human race is. *sigh*

Race has become this thing everyone waves around like a flag these days. And I mean EVERYONE. The minute the race card goes up, people start falling all over themselves. We all know OJ was guilty. DNA doesn't lie folks. There's a reason paternity tests hold up in court, and by the OJ ruling, all those dads in the world paying child support should be getting their money back. He killed two people and got away scott free. Why? Because he was black, famous, and the cops were dumbasses. I can't tell you how disgusted I felt when they gave the verdict. What a sad day for humanity that was. Two people brutally murdered and their killer walks because the color of his skin and the money in his bank account. Has the worth of human life fallen so low?

Anyway...this sort of crap is all over the place. People bitching about Affermative Action, television, music, politics, etc. Political Correctness will be our downfall. It's gonna kill us. If we don't start thinking like "people", we're all doomed. Biggots come in all shapes, forms and colors. It's not just a 'white' problem.

I stumbled on this thread today and it really struck a nerve with me.

Opening Post:
I am an ardent fan of LKH's Anita Blake but I don't see many faces in her books that look like mine. I think that we have been introduced to only two black characters so far; Jamil and Vivian, I think their names are....Do you think that she may introduce more in the future or did she explain in previous books somehow?

I think the question started off innocently enough, but why it should even matter enough to pose bugged the hell out of me. Especially when considering LKH's books. I read a lot, and she is one author that poses a multicultural palet of characters. Though the majority of her characters are white, Anita Blake, for one, is half hispanic. Not only that, but many of the minor characters are of various ethnicities. Shit, she's even thrown in an inter-racial relationship...the taboo of taboo's <---sarcasam. So why even bother asking this question?

Of course, people take a thread like this and RUN WITH IT:

There has never been a strong black character in any of her books, at least not one that has survived.
None of the Vampire council are black, Indian by way of Punjabi.........doesn't count.
There has never been any strong love interest for anybody that were black.
Before anyone yells,............What about Stephen and Vivian, the two of them are the most vulnerable characters in the series. Essentially they will always need someone to protect them.
I think the solution to RAZ's problem with AB lies in that one area.
Any other opinions?

Of course there aren't any strong black characters, she wrote the book about a half hispanic woman. Not to mention, LKH is white, so I doubt she has much experience with black culture. Kinda hard to write a realistic, believable main character without knowing much about her/his culture. I can only imagine how outraged the complainers on this board would be if LKH made Anita a "white black person". Oh, and isn't it funny how the Indian guy doesn't count...guess he wasn't "racial enough" for this poster. Christ, he was even a Hindu and one tough mother to boot...not to mention, Anita didn't kill him.

I believe she is biased, if not purposefully, then from ignorance. Not that I forgive her for this, because ignorance is not bliss. There are people of color in every aspect of every day life. It is not possible that she has no frame of reference, unless she is prejudice and do not interact with other races.

IMHO, I believe she just threw a few black folk in there so she would not be accused of discrimnation. If that was her only reason, I would rather she did not.

I love the last bit, "accused of discrimination". That just took the cake. First of all, if LKH wanted write about blue muppets with shaved heads, she could. No one has the right to assume an author should create characters to appease a certain people. Thinking like this individual's scares the hell out of me. Stories are personal. Many authors take great care and consideration when creating their characters and the worlds they live in. I find it incredibly offensive that this person assumes a writer should just "make up" various characters and include them into a story to make it more politically correct.

She must be blind too, because Jamil is a really good minor character, not just a piece of personality, but I have a feeling that anything short of "main char." wouldn't be good enough for this person. If there aren't enough books out there with strong ethnic main characters, I suggest people pick up a pen and start writing. What's stopping you?

It seems as if she has a hard time believing that ppl of color come in a variety of shade simply because we are not all the color of coffee with no cream.

Apparently she missed the chapters about Luthor...

Before I post I want people to know that I don't consider myself racist and that this topic has sparked the whole racist issue of todays society. Firstly, I am AMERICAN and when I first meet a person he/or she is an AMERICAN. If I am forced to distinguish then I am white, you are black, he is mexican/hispanic, they are indian, she is asian. If I wasted my time being PC about everything gosh I'd never walk out the door!

Which I may have just done and apologize if you are offended.

AMEN! Notice how she apologized for being offensive. I wouldn't have. I mean, why is it expected for a white person to apologize almost immediatly when the topic is race? Guilty until presumed innocent maybe? Good comparison with the French angle to. As for "the most polite black man" comment...well, that was never said in the books. It was actually " the most polite man" she'd ever met, but someone on the board read what they wanted to read and added it to this thread.

First, I would like to point out that other than caucasion characters, there are more African-American characters (regarless of how they are described)represented than any other ethnic group in the AB series. While there are the 4 black characters who return periodically, Luther, Clive, Det. Perry, and Jamil(more so than others) there has only been, if I remember correctly, one Asian character, Meng-di(sp), one Native AMerican, who was of Aztec decent (is that still considered Native AMerican?) who was a vampire and was killed, one Indian(fom India) the council vampire who left, and the hispanic detective from OB. No one from the middle east has appeared at all if I remember correctly. And when you are listing black characters I seem to remember a black vampire with Nicholas in the first book. And just because we dont see Rashida much, dont forget that we dont see always see all of the wolves that have been introduced in other books return in each new book.

Hope this helps.

Another nice post, not to mention more books to check out. However, Colin's human servant was American Indian. Also there were several Aztec Indians in Obsidian Butterfly, and a few hispanic characters as well (like Raphel). Add another ethnicity to LKH's score board. Tell me again, why are people bitching?

The truth is most of the people on this board are just as ignorant and "biased" as the other, with only a few exceptions. The entire point of this rant was to show how utterly stupid it all is, esepcially when a person of one ethnicity gets offended when they aren't "properly represented". Is there some rule these days that says authors or directors must have "strong" ethnic characters? Do I have a problem with such characters? Absolutly not. What I do have a problem with is people EXPECTING IT, like they are owed something. If stuff like this is important to you, start writing your own book or directing your own movies. Don't force artists to conform to the boundries our fucked up society has set. Racisim isn't confined to just one type of people. Everyone can be infected with it, and more often than not, you don't even realize it.

I, for one, am tired of all the complaining. Yes, there has been horrible discrimination by "white people" to people of other ethnicities, but why blame everyone? My ancestors never had slaves. I've never looked down on anyone because their skin is darker than mine (I've dated a few hispanic men,my ex was half Japanese, my brother in law is Chinese). So people need to stop being so quick to point fingers at others. Stop looking for something to be pissed about. Get mad about the stuff that matters, not dumb crap like not enough "minority" characters in books and movies. Get mad at the PEOPLE who keep racism alive, instead of blaming a whole group of individuals. Hold people accountable for their actions. Start looking at people as people, because technically, there is just one race and that's the Human race.

Easier said than done though, isn't it? People aren't willing to push aside this stone we've set between ourselves. I wonder why that is? I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where we weren't so obessed with the differences between people. Is it possible?

I hope so, but if it is, I doubt I'll live to see it.

Gotta Love Otaku...NOT!!!!

I haven't bitched about the rediculousness of otaku for a long while...mainly because I've been avoiding the places that they hang out in swarms...like merciless, blood-sucking flies....

Anyway, being that I'm bored and broke, I was tootling around a Naruto site and decided to see their "Poll" database (or whatever you want to call it). That's when I stumbled across THIS GEM. I'm not sure who I consider the most stupid. The 3% (who are probably immature pranksters) that think 4Kids would be a good choice to license Naruto here in the states, OR the 59% who don't want it licensed at all...Can we say ELITIST TRASH! Good grief...

私は。。。オタクが嫌いだよ！！！。。。マジで嫌い。。。

ふう～。。。ブツブツ言わないで!もう飽きてきちゃった。ねぼけんじゃねよ。。。

Anyway...

There's no Naruto manga for another week I hear. I'm a bit worried that the anime is catching up with the comic too fast. We all know what that means...FILLER! Not that I have issue with filler episodes, some of them are pretty good. Inuyasha filler hasn't bugged me at the least. However, I'm always worried that Naruto will turn out like Kenshin did, with horrible filler that finished the show before they actually got to the best part of the series. That was quite a shame. I'm really looking forward to seeing more of Itachi and the Akutsuki. I hope they get animated again in all their evil greatness. *laughs* If not...oh well. I'm sure there'll be movies.

Here are some screen caps from Naruto Episode 118:

Orochimaru isn't a happy camper now that his arms are rotting off. He's in need of a new body, and fast! Unfortunatly for him, Sasuke hasn't arrived and they're out of time. Kabuto looses the captives in the dungeon for a free for all, telling the winner he'll set him free. Free, as in, to become Orochimaru's new vessel. The winner realizes he's been duped and can't do much about when Orochimaru meets him and taunts him with a very large snake with teeth that would make a crocadile jealous.

The boys finally catch up with the remaining Sound nin, Sakon and Tatuya. Now the objective is to steal the bucket that contains the runaway Sasuke and make a hasty retreat back to Konoha

Sakon charges the team instantly and Naruto uses Kage Bushin to create the Rasengan. Sakon is suprised, but he nullifies the deadly technique by grabbing Naruto's arms so he can't hold the chakara. However, it was a ploy to draw Sakon in and Kiba uses the Tsuuga technique to cut through the Naruto bushin. Sakon ducks and realizes that Kiba's target wasn't himself, but the bucket. Kiba snags the bucket as Tatuya watches, unable to move thanks to Shikamaru's shadow catching techinque.

Sakon makes for the bucket containing Sasuke, screaming at Tatuya to do something. He realizes a bit to late that Tatuya can't get out of the way thanks to Shikamaru. Shikamaru forces Tatuya to move forward and then suddenly releases her. Unable to avoid Sakon, Tatuya catches his assult head on and it sends them sprawling. The boys make off with the bucket.

This pisses Sakon off and he releases his curse seal to level 1 and takes off after the Konoha team. Tatuya follows close behind.

Unknown to the two teams playing tag in the forest, Kubuto has sent in reinforcements; the one man army known as Kimimaro. He's making good time and will be upon the two teams in a matter of hours.

_______________________________________

due to spammers comments on this blog only remain open for a few days. If you wish to comment, feel free to email me at ~charmin22 at hotmail dot com~

Happy Birthday Hunter!

Happy Birthday to Hunter today! Yay!!!! He's 10 years old...almost a teenager! (cringe)

Fanfiction/Original Reviewers

I happen to enjoy reading fanfiction (no, this wasn't spawned by Arxane's post on his blog ). Occasionally I'll even write a story if something strikes me. I like to write almost as much as I like to draw, but I'm far from perfect in either catagory.

I'm working on getting together material for a major piece of original fiction. I've been working at it for many months and the story has been in my head for at least two years. Original fiction is more difficult to write than fanfiction. At least, that is, if you plan on writing a good story. Research is key to making orginal fiction work, and research takes time. Lots of it. So fanfiction has become a creative outlet for me. All the elements are there. I have everything I need to work with. The characters are "built", their environment is set. All the author has to do is make their story work.

There's a lot of crappy fanfiction out there. Hell, there's a lot of crappy orginal fiction right in the bookstore. I mean, if you're going to spend so much time writing a story, why not take a bit of pride in it and make it look good. That means, no rushing, spell checking, re-reading and re-reading again until everything sounds right, doing research when you don't know something, etc.

Listening to others and asking help is the best way to improve. People have good imput most of the time. I send J some of the stuff I write and I can count on him to be honest. Having someone look from the outside in is fantastic, since they aren't biased about characters and haven't spent so much time on the story that their eyes are crossed.

HOWEVER, this post is meant to address the reviewers. The very people who are suppose to help us grow. For a long time, I've noticed that various fanfic places that offer visible posts by reviewers is crawling with FIRST CLASS JACKOFFS. You know these people when you read their reviews. They're mean, rude and totally classless. They're the ones who are sarcastic. They point to all the bad and never touch on the good. They're the ones out there trying to make people feel like shit about their work.

Why?

Hell if I know. Most likely, they are just fuck heads who were never taught any manners and wouldn't know the word "tact" if it slapped them upside the head. These people make me want to spit nails. I want to beat them with an etiquette dictionary until their eyes bleed.

So, that said, lets talk about reviewers...and I'm going to be mean...because these people deserve it...and I'm petty like that....

Let's look at a reveiwer's post from FF.net:

Let me see... punctuation, incorrect usage of emphasis, spelling, grammar...horrid abuse of character design...

There are my two cents. And please don't retort by saying I write horribly myself. I know that already. You don't need to be a talented writer to critique someone's lack of writing skills.

Oh yes...this is a most helpful review, isn't it? Someone had PMS or gas when they wrote this...

Firstly, being a reviewer doesn't give you a right to be rude. Just because someone has had the balls to post something for the world to see doesn't make it fair game for the "jerks are us" birgade. No...give them a bit of respect, even if the story is horrible. It takes a lot of guts to post something so personal on the web, and writing is personal.

Secondly, if you can't say anything nice, keep your mouth shut. Anyone who knows anything about reviewing, understands that a critque isn't a chance to take pot shots at someone's work. No, a good critique involves honest, yet tactful input. If you can't pull that off, you have no business reviewing ANYTHING...not even my 10 year old son's English Castle report. The point of critiquing isn't to bash someone's work, but to help them...OMG, imagine that. Give them pointers on what was wrong, but also make an effort to point out the good points...they are there, even if the story is horrible. Make an effort to look for them folks, or you're just as lazy as the writer.

Thirdly, know the difference between objectivity and subjectivity. I get so pissed when people say things like "that's boring" or "it's too dull", and then go on to talk about how bad a story is because it didn't draw them in. This folks, is more often than not, and opinion. Boring doesn't tell an author anything. Dull doesn't say much either. What is boring or dull to you might not be boring or dull to a dozen other people out there. Keep these words out of reviews. A story can be FLAT...remember this word...but it's not the same as 'BORING'. I had a person reveiw one time and tell me how boring a story was...My reply was, "If it was so boring to you, why did you waste a half hour reading it? Are you some sort of idiot?" I don't buy Stephen King books or Dean Koontz because I think they're boring. I don't think their stories are bad (I've tried reading a few), but they just don't interest me. I won't waste time reading them....(Though I strongly recommend reading "On Writing" by Stephen King. That is an amazing book). I happen to love Anne Rice, but many people find her stories to wordy or dull. BORING is a matter of opinion.

Fourthly, (or whatever comes next), if you can't write decent stories yourself and you admit it, what the hell are you doing reviewing anything? Especially mean, hurtful reviews. Ever hear the phrase, "blind leading the blind"? Makes you shudder doesn't it? If you can't write crap in a bowl, you have no business leaving reviews like the one above. Any ounce of credibility you have has gone right out the window. Why should anyone listen to someone who admits they can't write decently? I sure as hell wouldn't.

Fifth, no one is perfect. Especially in the FF world. There is room for a variety of speculation and interpretation. Once again, opinion comes into play. Don't like Mary Sue's? Don't read the fucking fic if it has one. Doesn't take a dumbass to figure that out. Don't like AU settings? Once again, don't bother reading it. Something is OOC? Well, is it meant to be a serious fic or is suppose to be funny? Half the fun of fanfiction is messing with characters, and if you don't want your lily white series/game/book tampered with, stick to the orginal work. Duh....

Now...did this review come from one of my stories?

No, it didn't. I often read reviews before I read a fic and stumbled on this one. Yes, the story had horrid grammer, punctuation, and spelling problems. Apparently they suffer from dyslexia, or so they say. Who knows. It was hard to read, but even through all that was wrong, there was hope. The author of the story has the right idea and with more practice and help, could most likely write some decent stories.

No one starts out perfect. No one is born with a pen in their hand. My stories have errors, I know that. I appriciate people who point out grammer and spelling issues, or give me ideas on how to make stuff flow better. It doesn't bother me. Snippy people get their reviews deleted along with a nasty e-mail...but I've only had to do that once ( the "aspiring author" who told me my story was boring).

I'm fairly confident in my creativity and my writing ability...not entirely, but enough. I started writing in the fourth grade, got a book published and won an award (yay little me). I held A's all through school in the area of English and writing, was selected for a college prep english course in highschool which was incredibly difficult (I still have nightmares) and maintained A's until I graduated. In college, it was the same. All my English classes and Lit classes were easy, and I averaged anywhere from a 3.6 to 4.0 in them. If I put my mind to it, I can write a decent paper in a matter of a day or two. I wonder what would happen if I actually put effort into writing something...*laughs* Writing has always been easy for me (probably compensating for my utter patheticness when it comes to anything numerical). My only downfall is I tend to be lazy, slacking off on grammer, spelling, or just plain not giving it my all. I do that often...a bad character trait.

My son, who will be 10 on Tuesday is an amazing writer. It's incredible the way he can peice together a fairly complicated story and make it work. Even more astounding is he comes up with stuff on his own. His teacher has commented on his ability and it's something I intend to nurture. He is, however, like me, and tends to be lazy when something is too easy. *laughs*

To everyone who is writing something, keep your chin up. Accept help from others, because we all need it sometimes. Keep plugging away and you'll get it eventually. Also, when helping others, don't be an ass. Play nice with the other kiddies. I don't care how cold hearted you are, you know words can hurt, so put yourself in their shoes when writing nasty reviews.

(for the record, I don't spell check this blog. If I had the option, I would, and like I said, I'm too damn lazy to write these in Word. *laughs* Here, I write the way I would speak...foul language and all...)

Arrogant

You know, that tsunami business was pretty horrible. I was stunned at the amount of damage and lives caused during that catastrophe. Mother Nature is simply amazing...the power and extent of her wrath is astounding...

My heart goes out to those who have lost their families and homes....

However, I'm getting really sick and tired of all these bleeding hearts who bitch about the amount of money the US is contributing...We gave money,why the hell should we give more? Has everyone forgotten about the problems we have here at home? We're already contributing how much money to the Iraqi and Afgahnistan cause? How many other times have we delved into our pockets and handed over cash to those in crisis?

Good God...give it a rest already. Yes, we are wealthy and powerful nation. We have an obligation to help out, but exactly "HOW MUCH" of an obligation? Millions of dollars? Billions of dollars? Take care of the problem all by ourselves? As far as I'm concerned, a donation is a donation, there isn't any set amount on what we should pay...in fact, we don't have to give anyone a friggen cent! It pisses me off how people just expect it from us...espeically our own country men. Ummm, hello you geniuses. Who do you think pays for these contributions you're crying so hard about? Do you think the treasury fairy just fires up the presses and spits out cash? Oh, and I bet most of these people are the same people who bitch about jobs going overseas, yet pass up dropping a dollar into a coffee can at the local convience store the help feed the homeless. Can't spend your money at home to help your own people, eh? How noble you are....

I suppose the argument there could be, "The US is a rich country and can help it's own." Sure...if we stop giving all our pity money away to other countries I'm sure that attitude would work just fine. I for one am all for cutting off charitble donations to an extent and spending our cash here on our own soil. We've got enough problems of our own...if you haven't noticed...Oh, but that's right, if we actually fixed everything wrong with our country, the bleeding hearts wouldn't have anything to bitch about...Silly me...

Anyway...

I'm praying for a friggen blizzard. I want it to snow so damn hard into next week that I can't get out of my driveway. I want it to hail and freezing rain until you need ice skates to get the mail. I'm praying...I've been praying...God seems to be answering, since it started snowing this afternoon. Please, please, please give us a blizzard! Please! I DO NOT want to go to a meeting in Spokane this week. If it snows hard enough, we won't have to attend (it's 150 miles from home).

I decided I don't care much for my job. It's not a bad job, but it's boring. It's coorporate work (read:slimy). I love the people I work with, that's not an issue. They're all really great. It makes my boring, dull, monotonous job fun. I suppose one of these days I should figure out something else to do with myself....Until then, I'll continue my life in public services and practice my fake smile...heh...

*sigh*

Such is life...

Bad Stuff Comes in....

Doesn't the saying go "Bad Things Happen in Threes"? I can't remember, but I hope so, cause Lord only knows in the past month, I've seen my fair share of crappy shit. Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder if the Fates are seceretly laughing at you.

They must get a hoot out of me. Oh well, at least I'm useful in some way. Ha ha.

I'm used to miserable luck. Honestly, I can't count the amount of mis-timed crappy luck has struck me and left me for a loop. Like last year, getting the hospital bill for my Thanksgiving Night fiasco to the emergency room two days before Christmas. A double whammy if you ask me. Or there was the time I just started a new job and came down with bronchitis, strep throat, and kindey infection. That sounds pretty trival, since everyone gets sick, but on the way home from the doctor, the car in front of us crashed into a highway divider, we barely missed the accident, and I found myself parked on a bridge, running down the highway to the wrecked car, praying I wouldn't be pulling any dead bodies from the wreckage. Sick as a dog, running a fever...Nice...Thankfully, no one was dead. A small blessing. The year before last, I got laid off work and the next week the master cylinder in my clutch blew up...in my new car...Another time, I was working out of town and got a piece of granular fertilizer in my eye and ended up 150 miles from home, a huge gouge taken from the bottom of my eye ball, practically blind...Oh, and can't forget the time my boss and I were working up in Northern Washington and got lost. We drove about two hours out of our way, ended up at the Canadian border, and there was a dead guy laying in the ditch. That was fun. Apparently he tried to shoot one of the border patrol people, but got shot instead. The cops were nice enough to give us directions....

*sigh*

It used to make me mad. I'd get really fusterated and angry when things didn't go my way. Now I just don't care. Oh, I still get annoyed, occasionally upset, but I don't really rant and rave, or fret about it too much. If anything, when something goes wrong, I laugh. I mean, not much I can do about some of the stuff that happens. Crying about it doesn't solve anything. Getting mad only makes my blood pressure go up, which can't be good. No, I've come to appriciate the irony.

Still, the past month has been a bit tough. Nothing I care to talk about here, except my emergency room trip that cost almost 1700 bucks. I'm not necessarily upset over the misfortunes, but a bit tired of them. One after the other is a bit much for even me. No one is at fault, nothing is to blame but...shit happens. That's all I can say. You just have to roll with the punches and deal when the time comes.

I tend to be a bit superstious though. I honestly hope this isn't some sort of warning on how 2005 will go. Last year was a good year. Very little drama and very little excitment. I don't like excitment. I'm only 28, but I've had enough drama and crap to last my life time. I'm hoping that this year will be as easy as last...with very few ups and downs along the way.

"The Music Box"

"No matter how hard I try, it's useless."

I think, even at a small age I knew the truth, but just refused to see it. Humans are like that. Even the young ones. They don't want to face the harsh reality that is life. They tuck themselves away inside hope and dreams, praying for something better to come along and bite them in the ass. It never happens that way. We live with the hand we're dealt. If we get a better card, it was nothing but luck. Praying doesn't have much, if anything to do with it, but people insist on it anyway.

I was no different. I watched my parents and sister, pretending to be the perfect family, from the dark shadows they carefully put me in. It was all silly pretense. Nothing but a pathetic play, but that didn't stop me from wanting to participate. I wasn't satisfied being behind the stage, though my father would prefer I not even be that close. I did my best not to irritate him, but just looking at me seemed to set him into a fit of terrible fury and rage. It frightened me, but my desire to be accepted out weighed my fear of him. The need to be nurtured and protected is what makes a child's heart beat. Without those essential necessities, they wither like flowers in the hot summer sun. I believe, that deep inside, every child knows this. It's called instinct.

For instinct's sake, I endured the beatings my father doled out. Every punch, every kick, reminded me that he knew I existed. Each time he screamed in my face and pushed me to the floor, I felt a small bubble of relief. I was alive and I hadn't been forgotten. Silly, maybe a bit sick, but it was a child's logic. I feared being forgotten more than anything, and the pain I felt told me that they still saw me. They knew I was there. I wasn't going to disappear.

I knew nothing of tenderness or kindness. If I'd been shown any of those things as a babe, I didn't remember. I saw other children laughing and playing with their families at the parks and shopping centers. Watching them confused me and made my heart pitter in my chest. It was as if I lived in a completely different world, a world that I didn't want to be in. Why was I so different? I thought that maybe some kids were just born bad, and had to work a bit harder to be worthy of their family's fondness. Unconditional love was an oblivious concept. Love always came with strings. Or fists. Cold hard ones. No child wishes to be born, and when they take their first breath, their entire world is their parents love and protection. If I'd known then how children came to exist, unwilling and unfree, I think I would have been more angry at the life I'd been living.

In my mind, I just had to try harder, I was one of those bad children. So I pushed. I fought. I worked myself into their happy little world where I wasn't suppose to exist, killing a part of myself with each thrashing I received. Deadening my heart was the only way to relive the flusteration and unfairness I felt, because I did feel it. I wanted what those other children had. Love, happiness, laughter, everything a family was suppose to be. I didn't dare let my aggravation rob me of what I worked so hard to achieve. I wouldn't give my family an excuse to cast me aside. I continued hoping and praying that my persistence would finally win them over, all the while, my tiny heart was wilting, blackening like the bruises upon my body. I was dying and I didn't even know it.

A simple music box taught me hatred. I'll never forget that day, seeing my sister smiling with glee, holding the gift my father brought home for her in her pretty little hands. It was beautiful, ornately carved and carefully modeled, straight from France. She looked so happy. So sure of herself. So...loved.

We lived in the same house, but existed on entirely different planes. There was me, the dirty little boy covered in bruises and bandages, and then there was her, always a shining picture of beauty and perfection. Where I was beaten and bloodied, my sister was praised and reveled. She was the perfect child in my parents eyes. She held their gaze in a way that I could only dream about. I wanted them to look at me that same way, with adoration and pride. I envied her and I watched her, trying to discover the secrets of the hold she held over our parents. She seemed amused by my attentions, but she was never honestly hurtful or cruel, a bit thoughtless at times, but never malicious. Her kindness was a small blessing in my world of suffering.

When she turned to me with a small smile and asked our father where my gift was, I felt something break inside me. He never gave me anything but bloody lips and bruises. Was she so blind? Her unintentional cruelty stabbed my wounded heart, piercing deep beyond my capabilities of forgiveness. I hated her in that moment. I despised her for reminding me of my place inside our family, that I didn't have one, that I didn't belong. I hated her for not noticing my struggles and my strife. I felt betrayed. I felt foolish. I'd trusted her and come to rely on her compassion to ease my pain. Her words shook the fragile foundation of my hopes and dreams. My world of carefully placed bricks began to crumble and scatter.

I buried that damn box in the backyard. I stole it from her room the very night she received it. Petty, I know, but I was only a child and it was the best I could do the vent my anger. I wanted to repay her unkindness in spades, though somewhere inside I knew she meant well. She hadn't meant to hurt me, but I didn't care. When I think about it now, I believe I needed someone to lash out at. Someone safe. Someone who couldn't hurt me with their fists or feet. People don't realize how utterly helpless children really are. Or perhaps they just forget. Yet, at that moment, I understood exactly how helpless I was, burying a stupid box in a shallow grave behind our home. How ironic that my own body would succumb to a similar fate years later. Would anyone remember that box once it was gone? Would they remember me?

I remember holding the music box in my hands, turning it over and over again in the moonlight. It really was a beautiful thing. The design was simple enough, but the carvings and colors were intriguing. Curiously, I opened the lid and listened to the sad melody that tinkered out from the motorized keys. After listening for a few moments longer, I decided that the song didn't suit my sister at all. If it had been me, I would have chosen something more upbeat. My sister was a cheerful girl. Why shouldn't she be? She was loved. Adored even. My fond nostalgia disappeared instantly, remembering the anger I felt, and I dropped the box into the cold, hard ground while it still played. As I pushed the dirt over it, the tune grew faint but it fought the against the soil to reach the capturing wind. When I patted the ground with a filthy hand, I could almost swear I heard the muffled, mournful melody playing up from its grave.

I forgot about the music box. So did everyone else. I pushed the memory of the sad singing box into the back of my mind and continued my crusade to win some semblance of acceptance inside my family. I tried hard, desperately even. The simplest things gave my waning hope power. Photographs, stories my mother would tell me, the fact my abusive father gave me my strange, girlish name. I took them all as signs not to give up. To keep fighting. My own sad melody was playing out from beneath a suffocating darkness, but no one was listening. Not even me.

The day my father killed me I sat in a darkened hospital room surrounded by sterile, stale air and the eerie hum of machinery. I'd been in an accident of some sort, though I can't remember exactly what. All I remember was the sound of my father's voice as he called my mother down the hall. He was worried, scared even. I sat up, a thread of hope curling through me. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected him to rush to my side. For a moment, I believed there truly was a God in Heaven and He'd answered my prayers. However, my fantasy splintered and cracked an instant later, shattering in a million directions when my father sighed in relief that it was me, not my sister, who had been injured. In fact, he was saddened I hadn't died, since that was a wish he'd been making ever since the day I was born. Those were his words. I heard them clear as day while lying in that bed. I think, maybe, he hoped I'd hear him and finally get the point.

How do you fight that kind of hatred and loathing? I was just a child. My father, the man who was suppose to protect me, wished me dead. I didn't understand what I'd done wrong. All I knew was I'd built my entire world out of winning his acceptance, and I understood at that moment my efforts were futile. All those years of enduring the physical beatings and mental torment were for naught. No prayer would save me. No amount of hope would change anything. My pain meant nothing. My feelings weren't relevant. It would be better if I hadn't been born.

I suddenly felt like a fool. I was too shocked to notice the tears forming in my eyes. I'd swore I'd never cry over them. That I'd never let them break me that way, but that's what I was. Broken. My heart died in my chest, growing cold and dead to everything around me. It still beat, but feeling was gone, ebbing away with each throbbing pulse. 'Why' was the only question in my head. It too, pounded through my body, over and over and over again, a frantic chant for answers I couldn't possibly fathom. I lay in my hospital bed, the darkness closing in around me, and I wept.

It took weeks to heal the wounds from my accident, but the ones on my heart still bled red. I lived in fear of my father, paranoid he would come and take me away to fulfill his wish. I knew those beatings he gave me were the closest he'd ever get to killing me, but I was still frightened. When I wasn't being afraid, the ache in my chest left me lethargic and irritable. No amount of medicine would sooth my sickness. Again and again I replayed my short life back in my head, wondering what I could have done to make that man hate me so. I was just a boy, yet I had a death sentence on my head.

The answers to my life were closer than I possibly realized. I happened on them one day while going through my mother's dresser. Beneath an old photo album I found several pictures, and as I stared at them, I laughed. It was a sick, garbled sound, perhaps more a cry. My hands trembled in rage as I stared down at a man whose face looked just like mine, yet I'd never met him before. I suddenly understood everything. I wasn't my father's child. That wasn't his face in the picture. I was the bastard son of that man staring back at me. We were so similar if was frightening. The pieces clicked so solidly into place, I reeled with the force of my new found knowledge.

I wasn't suppose to be born. Not of that union anyway. Perhaps never. No one bothered to tell me. They just hid it from me, letting me wonder why I'd been sentenced to a life of punishment. I understood then though, how looking at me could anger my father. I reminded him of my mother's wonton love affair that ended in an horrible accident. That accident being me, of course. I knew at that moment that my father would never allow me the comfort of his family.

I seethed in anger. I pulled it around me like a cloak of armor. I never asked to be born. I couldn't choose my parents. I glared at those photos and shook with fury. I'd done nothing to deserve the life I'd been given. Nothing other than taking my first breath into a world I didn't even want to be in. My mother was the one who should be punished for her infidelity, she and the sperm donor she'd gotten pregnant by. The more I thought about it, the more it pissed me off. People might assume my mother was being punished by watching me suffer, but I never felt that way. She pretended along with the rest of them, allowing that man I called a father to set me aside or beat me senseless. I was her whipping boy. It was her guilt that sat on my shoulders and I paid the price for it while she moved forward with her fabricated life.

The more I thought about how hopeless my life was, the more angry I got. I was done fighting them. I was suddenly tired of all the pain, both mentally and physically. I'd done everything in my power to make them want me, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Years of flusteration, confusion, and anger were unleashed. My life was hell because those ridiculous pretenders were too selfish to realize their idea of a perfect family was already shot to hell. They fed me false hopes to keep up their charade, even if it was tucking me away in the corner of our home. Why didn't they just give me away? If I was such an eye sore, why not at least give me the chance to have a decent life like the other children? I already knew that answer too. To give me up was to admit they weren't perfect.

I'd been cheated.

I cut the photos up. I cut them all up, even the ones of our phoney family. I sliced them and shredded them until they were nothing but pieces. With each cut, a piece of myself tore away too, my connection severing from them bit by bit. When I felt the tears burn my eyes, I reminded myself of the oath I swore, that I wouldn't cry for them, but it was pointless. I was too far gone, too fractured. I cut and cried, killing them over and over again while whatever was left of me died inside.

Hope was gone from my life. I had no direction, no plan. My entire being had been wrapped around winning over my family, and that had been torn from me. My existence was pointless, as far as I was concerned, so I busied myself by doing whatever the hell I wanted. My family wasn't happy that I'd changed the rules, but I made it clear I didn't give a damn what they thought. Fair was fair, right? I wasn't pretending anymore. I knew what my life was, and I'd make due with what was left of it. If I tarnished their so called fairy tale family, well, so be it. I wasn't a part of it anyway.

My grades plummeted. I dyed my hair blonde and ran with gangs. I stayed out all night and got into fights. I became the child from hell. I gave them what they wanted. I showed them what my "tainted" blood was capable of. My father tried to stop me more times than I cared to count. He threatened to kick me out. I didn't come home for a week. He tried to call the cops. I got myself arrested anyway. He tried to beat me, but now that I wasn't a little child, I was harder to hold down and could fight back. I felt pretty liberated when I realized he couldn't raise his hand to me they way he used to. I made sure their lives were as hellish as mine, that they paid for what they put me through. I wanted their perfection to be destroyed, just as my hope had been.

I thought it made me happy. I told myself I was doing what I wanted. I put up shields around myself, never letting anyone get to close to me. I refused to be a victim again, but what I never realized was I never stopped being a victim. There was a hole in my heart. An inert stillness. The emptiness hurt, urging me to fill it with what it needed most, love, acceptance, respect. I couldn't give that, so I turned to drugs. Lots of drugs. I drown the pain with pills and booze until my body was so numb I could have been shot a dozen times and not felt a thing. Still, the ache lingered, never going away. Day by day, it gnawed at me, my soul rotting away while I still breathed.

Dope allowed me to leave my parents home for good. I sold it on the street, turning a pretty coin. I rarely returned home, though my sister and mother persisted that I come back. I told them to fuck off. I wanted no part of their charade. I wasn't anyone's dancing monkey. My sister seemed to understand even less than my mother, but then again, she always was a naive girl. Despite myself, I still felt a slight attachment to her. She was the only one in that house that even attempted to pretend I had feelings of my own. She was awkward and often said the wrong things, but she meant well. When I learned she was to get married, I took my mother's advice and decided to congratulate her. Oddly, I remembered the music box I buried years ago, and out of guilt, I dug it up and took to her.

My good intentions, along with the final thread that attached itself to my family shattered on her floor that night. Perhaps it was the shock of learning she knew all along that I was a bastard child, or maybe it was the hint of pity in her voice, but I exploded in a fit of rage. I was so jaded. So cynical. I never stopped to think for a second that perhaps my sister was indeed, just a foolish girl who tried hard to be kind to her unfortunate brother. I saw her niceties as an extension to my mother and father's facade. I saw her friendship as a betrayal. I wanted to hurt her. Make her feel my pain. I'm not sure what I would have done if my father hadn't have rushed up to the room, but I left that house and never looked back, leaving my family and the beautiful music box in shambles.

When my father lay dying in the hospital, I sat dying in my apartment, surrounded by my pills and booze. I was wasting away from the inside out, consumed by my own self-loathing and disgust. I'd told myself again and again I didn't care, nothing mattered. In my head, I'd convinced myself that it was the truth, but in reality, I'd just given up fighting. I was living to die, barely existing. My biggest fear, being forgotten, had become a very tangible reality. No one would notice if I vanished. My life didn't matter to anyone, not even myself. The only way to protect myself was to not care, to lie to myself again and again. It was all I had left.

A friend told me to go home, to go visit my father one last time. He said I'd regret it if I didn't, but I couldn't move if I wanted to. I was too stoned, too hurt to even try. Besides, what was a little more regret added to my life? My entire being was based on the regret of my mother's love affair and myself being born. I sat in my room, drinking and smoking while my father slipped away. I hid behind my addiction, running from my fears. Maybe if I'd faced him one last time, I could have let go of my anger and loathing, but I was to afraid to try. I couldn't bear anymore failure, anymore disappointment.

I didn't go to the funeral. I didn't owe the old man a damn thing, but more so, I didn't want to see what I couldn't, wouldn't have. No one would cry for me. No one would stand over my grave and mourn my loss. No one would remember a loser like me.

I should have listened to my friend. He warned me that regret would tear me apart if I kept running, that the price for not fighting would be heavy. If I'd known I was to die at the age of seventeen, I may have heeded his advice, but no one expects to die that young. I thought I wasn't afraid of death, that I would welcome it. It would mean my pitiful existence would finally come to an end and my suffering would be finished, but as I lay bleeding, dying on the grass in the woods behind some park, I felt afraid. Terrified. I knew I was going to die. It hurt so badly, but I thought of all the things I should have done in my life and saw how utterly ridiculous I'd been. My worst nightmare was coming true. I'd disappear from the world, leaving behind nothing worth remembering.

I thought of that music box, shattered and destroyed upon my sister's floor. I recalled the night I buried it, dropping it into the shallow ground as it played its sad song. Even as I pushed the soil over the top of it, it continued to play, crying out to me as I damned it to be forgotten. Would I end up like that? Buried in a shallow grave in some remote wood where no one would find me. Would they look for me? Would anyone know I was missing? The thought terrified me as I gasped upon the ground, my blood feeding the grasses beneath me. My tears, the one's I swore I'd never weep, leaked from my eyes like rain.

I didn't want to die. What about my life? What about all the things I dreamed about doing as a child? I had hopes, wants, and needs. I'd just forgotten about them, buried them beneath a mound of emotional shit that was too deep to shovel. I wanted someone to help me in that moment, to comfort me while I lay afraid and breathing my last breath. No, that's not right, I'd been wanting someone to rescue me my entire life. I'd cried out for help, knowing in my heart that I was too weak to keep fighting on my own. No one heard me, or if they did, they ignored me.

When did I stop believing? When did I stop fighting? I thought being rebellious and doing what I wanted was the way to fight back the unfairness that was my life. In truth, I was just running. Running and running and running. I told myself I didn't care about any of it, that the past couldn't touch me, but I was stuck there, in the past. I never left it. Around and around we chased one another until only in death did it catch up to me, and I understood how afraid I was.

Warm hands touched me, holding close. I could feel a heart beat against my cheek, and my fear waned a bit. A soft voice, soothing and gentle told me to look into the light and not be afraid. "Trust your own strength," it said to me. Those were the last words I heard as a living being. They haunted me in death, as I roamed the netherworld in search of redemption, but I felt something move inside me for the first time in many years. I tucked it away, that niggling feeling, always buried but just barely beneath the surface.

I carried my cross through the realm just beyond hell, longing for peace but never quite finding it. I died with too many regrets, too many things left unfinished, just as my friend had warned me. I was barred from Heaven, yet unfit for Hell, but as in life I proceeded in death, telling myself it didn't matter. If that was so, why did I feel so determined? Why did it anger me when I laid eyes upon the very one who slew me? I was sent to guide him, to lead him to his own demise. In return, I was promised salvation, a ticket to the pearly gates above, but when he looked at me with those eyes, so sad and mournful like my own, I couldn't bring myself to betray him.

His determination, his immense will to fight against the odds intrigued me. Didn't he know that it was useless? I watched him bare his teeth at the forsaken destiny he was borne into and I was struck in awe. Why? Why did he fight? Where did his strength come from? I'd spent my entire life struggling against my own existence, just as he had, but he still moved with a force I couldn't even begin to imagine. Defeat wasn't something he was willing to admit, not until he gave everything he had. He spoke of possibilities and wasted efforts never truly being meaningless. I didn't understand. I couldn't comprehend. What power animated him? Why didn't he understand that death and life were one in the very same? Nothing mattered, trying too hard for something impossible was stupid, a waste of energy, futile.

I told myself it was his naivety that angered me, his blindness to the truth, but it was me who was blind. Me who was weak. Me who was a fool. "I pity you," he said, those soulful eyes burning deep inside me. "You rotted while you were alive and don't even realize it." The words struck me like a sword. I realized why I was so lost, not just in death, but also in life. I'd been such an idiot. Such a fool. My anger turned inward, ravaging me from deep inside. Old fears rose inside me. Fears of being forgotten, of being alone, of being nothing, threatened my soul with eternal darkness and I felt them consume me. I couldn't run away. I didn't want to suffer anymore. I didn't want to be afraid, but I was weak. Weak like a newborn kitten. I'd always been that way. I didn't know what it was to be strong.

He saved me, somewhere inside that dark place, without even noticing. I watched him, and that feeling I tucked away wiggled to the surface. His mission, his perseverance sparked something inside me, an understanding of how wrong I was and how right he'd been. I couldn't continue on the way I was. I had to make my soul worth something, so I threw it away. I threw it all away for him. I gave him my life of pain and sorrow. I fed his own soul with my anger and disappointment. I let him consume and take all that was left of me, even if it meant I would no longer exist. At least I was worth more in death than I'd been in life. For once, I knew what it felt like to be needed, to be worth something. For the first time in years, my heart beat in my chest and life poured through my soul.

The man who killed my mortal body was the very man who saved my soul. In a selfless act, he came for me and took me from the darkness of my own creation. Together we watched the scenes of my life and when my hopelessness nearly consumed me once again, he told me to fight. Fight with the strength he knew I had. A weaker person couldn't move of their own power, and while I lived, I'd carved a place for myself in the world. I didn't matter if the choices I'd made were bad ones, but at least I made choices. An effete mind wouldn't have the courage to move down any path, even the wrong one.

It was too late to change the wrongs I made in life, but there was time to rectify my death. I thought about his words and knew I didn't want to sit for eternity in darkness. I didn't want to vanish. That had always been my worst fear, and I'd always managed to hold the reality of it at bay. I did it with my own strength. My own power.

My shackles fell away and I stumbled into his arms. I was confused, disoriented, and unsure of what had just happened. I didn't feel much different, I still held a sliver of doubt. His words were pretty, full of the hope I'd long discarded. I looked at him through frightened eyes, not certain of what to do, but he just smiled gently. There was a knowledge in his eyes, an understanding I'd longed to see for so many years. "Someone is waiting for you," he said to me.

I found myself inside a home, much like the one I'd grown up in as a child. I saw my sister, her pretty hands frozen to her embroidery, like a beautiful statue. She couldn't see or hear me, and for that I was relieved. After all I'd done, I was certain she wouldn't wish to face me, and frankly, I couldn't blame her. I'd done such horrible things. I'd want to forget me too.

I couldn't contain my gasp when I spied the music box I shattered sitting on a small table next to her chair. She'd glued all the pieces together, like a jigsaw puzzle. In the center sat the photographs I'd torn, also mended with clear tape. Our family smiled back at use with crooked awkward smiles. An untouched, almost perfect picture of herself and me sat next to the box. The corners were worn, as if it had been handled often and I felt a pang deep in my chest. What a fool I'd been. What a blind, selfish fool.

My sister pieced our family back together, holding dear each tattered and torn shred of us. I always thought her to be naive and thoughtless, but I knew then that out of all of us, she was perhaps the most wise and the most strong. She couldn't choose between us, we were all important to her. She loved each one of us, regardless of our faults. Her kindness, which I mistook for pity, was perhaps her way of protecting me from the horror of my life. She was trying to reassure me, to let me know that I mattered to her. I never noticed. I was too busy hating myself and everyone around me.

As I looked at her, I had to smile. She'd never forgotten me. Even after my death, she still made the effort to remember me, to think of me. The thought made tears well in my eyes. My dear sister knew that my biggest fear was vanishing before their eyes, being lost and unremembered. She kept me alive in her heart and that was all I needed to know. I'd come full circle and now I understood how wrong I'd been. I could die a happy man, knowing that she would always keep me close to her.

***This story was inspired by the story of Katou Yue, a character in the series "Angel Sanctuary". Those who haven't read it most likely won't understand many of the references to Katou's friends or his life in general. I left out references to names and specific events on purpose, as I felt they had no place in this first person telling of Katou's story. Also, those who have finished "Angel Sanctuary" will know that I didn't include any events after Katou's rebirth at Yggdrasil, though I did consider it. ***

Happy New Year!

Just wanted to wish everyone the best for 2005. Right now, I'm surrounded by books I'm reading and two video games. Time consuming, time consuming. I'm working on my assorted projects off and on. No worries.

Next time, I'll have something interesting to talk about! Till then, ta ta!