Bigger pictures

Saw Imogen Heap live the other day, and as I was standing there, listening to the smooth sounds coming out of her musical talent I had a sensation. It was sort of like in V for Vendetta when Finch has been to Larkhill and tells his collegue "I suddenly had this feeling that everything was connected. It's like I could see the whole thing, one long chain of events that stretched all the way back before Larkhill. I felt like I could see everything that happened, and everything that is going to happen. It was like a perfect pattern, laid out in front of me." Not a perfect match, but for an instant it felt like it all had a meaning, and that all the shit I've gone through haven't really been for nothing, and if I just endure a bit longer it'll all make sense to me. It was just a feeling, so I'm not sure how wise it is to linger to long in thought upon it, but it cheered me up, and I really needed that. 

Loneliness

So, time has once again chosen to deal me the card of The Loner, and as such I must prevail. Nothing more than a lonely spirit in the halls of life, haunting them in a somewhat faint hope of being acknowledged one day. Some have called me names indicating that I am a sexual predator and worse, and how wrong they are in their assumptions. Sex, as it is, is a lovely activity, in which I have to admit I enjoy to partake in, but it is hardly anywhere close to the reason for my loneliness. Sex in itself is NOT what I seek, or miss. I shall not say far from it, for that would indicate an opinion I do not stand for, but it is but a small, yea, almost unimportant part of that which I miss. And what IS it indeed that I long for so much, so much that I have written so much about it without mentioning it once? I miss the comfort, the very presence of that other half. I miss the feeling of falling asleep; stepping into the abyss of sleep, together with a person that means the world to me..... and I fear, in the very depth of what is my heart, that I shall never have that sensation fully again. I fear with every fiber that is me, that that door is forever closed.

Theory of miserable!

It would seem my theory still holds water. I'm heartbroken, broke and ill, and I've already written about as much in 3 days as I have in the months I've been somewhat content. So here you have me, a broken, battered shell of a man, writing to the vast emptiness of internet. It's funny how useful this seemingly useless activity really is. This is in truth the only place where one can be asshole, saint, cunt and cock all at the same time.

"The internet, where men are men, women are men and children are FBI-agents" 

Error. Retry?

So, I've made some mistakes during my time. Many mistakes... Quite the amount. But what separates me from a lot of people, I now realize, is that I usually try to learn from it. Surely, there's a whole lot of people out there who learns from it as well, probably the majority of people even, but there are still too many people who manages to get by totally oblivious to their many faults. People who treat everyone around them horribly, and in the same breath as they act outrageously rude or downright obnoxious, they berate you for a meaningless detail. And such rotten personalities are so common that the regular man adjusts himself after it, makes room for it. A character trait so disgusting that it should have been stomped out ages ago, dictates how we are supposed to feel and act and we're fucking clapping along with it.....

Drunk and all that jazz

I cannot spell, or write anything remarkably coherent. But I will write this, as a warning to my fellow men..... or something.

You may be in the illusion of providing Indian food at 5 Am, but this is a lie. So there. In x hours I will have the pleasures of eating bacon + nan-bread. right.

I had a small debate today on the topic of christianity and science. With creationists. Because they're not batshit insane or anything. It occurred to me that such a level of denial impossibly can be healthy in the long run. There was reason to hope that this age where knowledge can be obtained with little effort, there wouldn't be anyone thinking that way. They are basically the people sitting by their computers with their pop-tarts or something like that, arguing fanatically that ALL science is bad. Are they completely unable to see the missing piece of logic in their life at this point? Or are they truly longing to return to the days when hunting and foraging was the bomb? I'll never get these people I fear, and it actually makes me a bit sad. In danger of sounding arrogant beyond belief it almost feels like they have a disease and I'm unable to cure it.

Long time

So it seems my promise from earlier this year is proving hard to keep. I am not too surprised really, but I had hoped I'd be able to update this blog frequently. But I haven't forgotten it completely, as this here post shows. Currently I'm suffering through the annual work-camp where I put up with living at my mother's place so that I can make some money to pay rent and all those things so vital to live. And this year, no different from the one before that, this is the very definition of boring. Only big difference is that I'm playing Starcraft and Magic instead of WoW. I am compelled to write something here about my actual person life, but I feel that would be somewhat wrong, so there you have something interesting to guess. Make up something nice and all that.

Happy happy happyha ppyhap pyhappyhap

It is true what I've said earlier about not having anything to write about when you're happy. I think this has to do with the fact that you spend so much more time doing the things that make you happy, that writing blogs like this just becomes a chore rather than a pleasure. This is not always true though, and by no means do I write this as a chore, ever. I believe this time in my life can be described as some of the happiest I've ever seen. For once all seems to be right in the world; I have the most fantastic girlfriend, my LP-player and related music-network are up and working perfectly and my flat is now almost as I wanted it from the start. In other words: things are starting to be as they should, according to me that is. To say it in the words of the man I long to become one day: The sun is out, I have a cold beer and a glass of scotch, [insert good band name here] is playing on the record player and I sit here with the love of my life, what have I got to complain about? Now as all these things are true now as well, I feel they have to have a few years of maturing before their full meaning come into effect. And when they do I'll be the single most happy man in this world.

LP-heaven

Got the LP-player today so now I'm mere moments away from being able to enjoy fantastic retro tunes. All I need now are two speakers I'm all set. So, yea, closing in fast here. On an unrelated note, I'm happy. Well, it's not completely unrelated, but it's not the main reason why I'm happy, the real reason being far more "red" than that. And, yes, happiness manifests through different colors. Take for an example black, black happiness being the feeling you get inside when someone gets hurt or you've gotten revenge. Blue is the happiness that relieves the pain, like Whisky happiness or self-pity, red is the happiness of love and compassion while white is the happiness of religion or other self-delusions. And so on and so forth. My point is that I feel in love, and it's a great feeling to have. Yea. 

Bad Music-Day

Today is obviously a Bad Music-Day. Now you might wonder what that is. That is the sort of day where you browse songs for ages before you maybe, if you're lucky, find one track that suits your mood. It's terribly annoying really, because you know the track that's about to start is one of your favorite songs, but you just can't make yourself to listen to it. If I could just get myself to listen to that song I'd be in a better mood, I'm sure, but it's as impossible to listen to as nails on a blackboard. So I hope this resolves soon. Maybe I shouldn't have slept for 10 hours...

March-trix revisited

So I remember myself writing something about hoping March would be good. Seems March became more than merely good. March was friggin' awesome! I've meet Her, and I think she's the one. She's the Juliet to my Romeo, the apple to my cinnamon, the Miao to my Mreow ^^So yet again my theory on how increase in happy feelings lead to decrease in blog-post proves right it may seem. But I'll try my best in writing occasionally nonetheless. My writings are after all a window into my soul. MMmmmmmmm souls *drools*

Falling

Never before have a step been so hard. But then again, never again have a misstep had such dire consequences. There is no bottom to be seen anymore, nor has it been for quite a while. I've reached the top now, with no ways other than back the way I came or over the edge. I close my eyes; despite the great view this is not a place to be because of the view, not just the view at least. There's the smells, the soft touch of wind on my skin; through my beard and hair, the exited heartbeats, the sweet symphony of the winds' many voices. I let myself enjoy each sensation as I work my way through all the distractions to the very core of my being; my heart. And as I beg for advice it just tells me one thing; "Open your eyes." So I do, and all the senses rush back over me as a flood of confusion before I can see what is going on. I'm falling already, and it suddenly hits me; I've been falling since I first set foot on this path. All the while my fear of falling had been working to cover up the fact that I was already falling, and all I ever had to do was ask my heart, from the very beginning. It feels kind of relieving, as well as scary, to know that all I can do now is wait and see what happens. 

Reality or perfect madness

So finally real-life came along and showed me that dreams indeed are inferior to the real deal. And how! Either that or I'm on the express train to wacky-land and my dreams have finally stepped in to take over. Either way around in very happy with what the last few days have decided to bring me. To such an extent that I'm a bit short of words to be truly honest. Don't know what I can say, don't know what I should say and least of all do I know if I must say anything. Maybe it's enough to say, I'm feeling good, world. Thank you so much! Yea that'll do, for now.

Charades

So it's Sunday, or rather it was, at the time I started writing this. By now it's probably Monday already. And by the time you read this it might be some other day altogether, so let's just say it's Sunday for the record. I spared you all from a terrible drunken rambling last night. I know you might get to like them a bit but I wasn't really in the zone, you know, the Twilight Zone. Spooky! I was more in the coma-on-the-verge-of-collapse-zone. So I went to my bed, my big, empty bed, and drifted into a very hungry sleep... Seeing how I forgot to eat and all that. Like you do. Tried tidying up the place a bit this morning to compensate though. Failed a bit, but still looks better than it did yesterday. I wanted to write today, but my head went "Fuck Of" and that was the end of that. Might try again later on, if I can't sleep; an not to unlikely scenario considering the 3 cups of coffee I've ingested today. That and the difficulty presented in convincing your heart to calm the fuck down! It's beating again nowadays, and it really keeps one up long hours thinking. Darn that heart! It's the Tell-tale Heart, I swear. I've tried burying it underneath the floorboards but it just keeps on thumping along in its own pace, not even considering the fact that I might be too afraid of it still. The heart is after all the scoundrel of whom most often gets you into trouble, and then often trouble that can have no remotely happy ending.

Oh.... Well... I was planning a proper ending to this but there seems to have been a slight change in my plans... So yea

March

So I flipped the calendar and found March waiting there for me. No March is of course I look forward to mainly because of two things: Easter break from my classes, and the party occasion formerly known as my birthday. Both things are two fine thing which I hope I'm able to cherish as much as they deserve this year. B-day-plans include bbq, scotch and music. And friends of course. Easter I hope will follow the pattern: sleep, drink, eat, game, sleep again, repeat. If this goes at least somewhat according to plan I think I'll have a great month of March indeed. Other than that, has anything interesting things happened? Hmmmm, I don't really know. There might be some interesting things happening, but then again who am I to know. So I'll just cut this short right here. Until next time!

Whisky and My Immortal

Whisky and My Immortal on a Saturday night. That can only mean one thing: the blues are here again. It's usually like fighting of a looming madness, but not tonight, tonight I invited it in to keep me company. Maybe that is a sure sign the looming madness finally won? Maybe I'm finally so used to this that I'm too afraid of the alternative to really want anything else? That's a scary thought for sure, but what if...? It seems happiness is a Hollywood concept, created to sell movies to a mass whose need for hope is an endless pit. So I let the strong fluid play around in my mouth, burning my tongue as it passes over before it launches down my throat, leaving a trail of taste and numb sensations in its wake. And I convince myself I like it, because in fact I do. It has become a part of me through these years. And I like that. It sort of acknowledges the sense of sadness that haunts my soul on nights like this. It does nothing to really sooth it, just respects it for what it is and sits there like a friend as company. Put on some music that touches your soul as well, and the soul lets itself cry for a while; exorcising the demons so that it can go on for a little while longer. Looking at the stars you realize that you're not really small, it's just the universe that is to damned big...

Doodles in the quiet night

"She heard nothing in the dark ally besides her own steps, moving into the next ally quickly, yet she could feel it close in on her. Feeling how it tirelessly and determined hunted her down, she knew running was futile, but she wouldn't stop. So she forced her tired legs to keep running. The blocks around her became a gray blur in the night as her conscious mind needed to focus more and more on keeping the legs running. She could feel it so very close, gaining on her despite her efforts, almost drooling down her neck. The very thought of it made her shiver down her spine, so she ran further, passing an unknown barrier where she wasn't able to keep her mind together from the exhaustion, yet her feet obediently moved despite all logic. It is said that the body is capable of miracles when the situation calls for it, and though a miracle it was, it was obviously not enough, and three blocks down, she passed out. The last thought going through her brain as she passed into a semi-desperate last stand was that she'd bite and claw at her assailant for as long as there was life in her body.

Deputy Richards had been in the force several decades and seen a lot of nasty shit, but what met him that fateful Thursday morning was high up on the list of inhumane crime-sites. Some kid had stumbled upon a "sleeping lady" outside the cemetery uptown, right next to where his favorite Starbucks used to be before they replaced it with some fancy coffee-shop shit. "Ecologically brewed my ass," he thought as he reflected upon that memory before joining up with the rest of the guys behind the rope. The lady in question lay with her back against the low stone wall that lined the cemetery. She was still alive, but only barely and the paramedics had just began emergency treating her before they could rush her off to the paramedics. He failed to get a really good glimpse of her but from what he could see she was all torn up; several nasty bite-marks, really deep scratches, teeth missing, one eye poked out, limbs in nasty angles and lastly, and abdomen seemingly torn asunder. It was a medical miracle that she was still alive he concluded after seeing her condition. As the last bits of noise and unquiet removed itself from the place he assumed his normal pose; sitting on his heels, scratching the stubble he'd forgotten to shave off this morning. There was something about the crime-scene he couldn't puzzle out; there seemed to be a lot of victim all about the place: shoes, her purse, blood-pools, torn pieces of clothing and all such, yet he couldn't see a single trace of whoever, or whatever, made her such a mess. This wasn't a mere hit and run, this bastard had covered up his tracks real good. He could already feel it in his guts that the crime-scene investigation would turn up useless.

Five days had passed and Richards had gotten nothing out of the case other than the bitter feeling of being right about the crime-scene. Nothing, not even a speck of dust, told him where to look or what to look for. He was at the hospital now, pacing through the hallway anxious to get some piece of progress; any piece of semi-valuable information really. He'd come sooner but the doctors wouldn't let him near her until she was called a little further back from the brink of death. Apparently she'd woken up today, catatonic, but awake. He stepped into her room somewhat brutish, he'd never been one for the careful ways of hospitals. What met him was a woman whose good looks only could be guessed from the small patches on her body that was somewhat in close shape to what they'd been prior to the attack. The rest was closer to a Frankensteinian wet-dream. She stared blankly ahead murmuring a string of close to inaudible sounds, not even noticing his presence. Or if she noticed it she at least failed to acknowledge it at all. Doctor Winston, an old friend of the Deputy stepped into the room. "Sad view ain't it. Poor girl has been like this since dawn." Doctor Winston was a man who'd dealt with cases like these for a long time, luckily, so he'd secured every last bit of detail he could record about her wounds and even recorded her babbling for later review. He was not one who'd let lack of evidence be the freedom to any gruesome criminal out there if he could help it, and this was what Richards had hoped for. Among all the papers, pictures and the recordings there had to be at least one little speck of information he could use.

At the end of the seventh day Richards had been through all he'd gotten from Winston, making sure that the tooth-marks had been sent to analysis, the skin-samples they'd found under her fingernails was sent to DNA-profiling and cleaning up the recording of her mumbling. The first two would take some time before any results would come back, but the tape was in his hands and ready for repeated listening now. It would describe a shadow with a sea of fangs and a voice like a dead city. Then she'd tell of the eyes that burnt her soul and tore open reality as they mercilessly consumed all they could cast their gaze on. Lastly she'd recite a poem about a city of maces whereas the only way out was the wrong way. In between she'd repeat a word, or sound, that seemed total gibberish. It was as if she wanted to tell him something, but every time she did it came out wrong and distorted. Clearly the incident had taken this poor womans mind. He'd listen to the tape over and over throughout that entire night, only stopping to put on a new pot of coffee and all the time swearing he'd take whatever had robbed this woman of her life like that.

It was a particularly ghastly April morning when Richards stumbled into his office. The case of the mauled woman hadn't moved forward and inch since he'd gotten the tape and all they now did was waiting for the test-results to come back. They should have been there ages ago but some jackass had fucked up and hauled out the wait at least another week. Richards hadn't had any real sleep since the start of this case and it showed as an ungroomed  to the extent of plain nasty Deputy hauled his exhausted limbs to the office. Upon lifting his eyes to his desk he saw what he'd been waiting for; two brown envelopes addressed to him personally. He ripped them both open and skimmed the documents until the part he actually gave a fuck about. His heart missed a beat and he sat down, this time reading through the entire documents, slowly, twice. His mind ground to a halt a second and as it started back up again he found himself manipulating the audio file; changing pitch, backmasking it and adjusting the speed. He couldn't believe it even as the truth churned through his ears like a painful grindstone of truth.

A name, a womans name; her own name."

Feeling fit and ready for rumbling.

Today I've gone cross-country skiing for hours, made myself perhaps the best toasts I've ever tasted and are now heading towards my favorite brown pub to grab myself some brews and chat with the other students who usually resides there. I'm feeling great and with the taste of sundried tomatoes and mustard in my mouth I think this'll be a great night. And where the heck am I going with this one might wonder. Well, as it so happens I woke up today feeling really shit. I'd slept 7 hours or so, but it felt like 3, and my entire being was in a state of grump and zombie. It was in fact so bad for so long that I considered just going to bed again and skip the entire day. But as you might read it turned out the exact opposite. And, unknown to me in this writing moment, who knows, it might turn out even better, and I sincerely doubt it'll be worse than just sleeping in and messing up my sleeping patterns again. Maybe next time I write it'll be about the elusive, yet fantastic ant-queen. I know eventual theoretical readers might not give I damn, but I'd like that very much :P Gotta run, don't wanna be late for the best night in a good while.

The Flirt

I was at this place yesterday where I met a beautiful and interesting girl. Now, I wasn't really aiming for anything special, just some good conversation, but at some point this smooth a*hole dumps down in my seat while I'm getting drinks and start hitting on her shamelessly hard. And what could I do to get my interesting conversation back? Nothing, because I am not really any good at flirting at all, and I'm not exactly the one to start a drunken fight either. So I just sat there, watching this guy try hard to get this girl the rest of the night, instead of having a good time. And true enough, while he didn't even end up with a name and I ended up with a lunch date later on I still feel somewhat cheated of a night of interest. And do I blame the sleezeball? Of course I do, but I also blame my lack of flirting skills. Maybe if I'd flirted with her she'd given him the good ol' finger and I'd be a conversational partner richer. Someone teach me flirting!

Insanity Diety

Ancient world had deities for almost everything imaginable. Hel is the Goddess for insanity in the ancient norse mythology, and also death and disease. In ancient times insanity was a horrible thing. Now things have changed, maybe to the worse, maybe to the better. Either way around it's now the only known cure for the everyday madness. That in itself is both insane and perfectly logical at the same time, for truly, who could live this life without a little insanity to trim the edges of reality into a more agreeable reality where things are far from as grim as they could be. This being said there are probably plenty of people out there who are able to do just that. I am not however among those, I am mad as a hatter, and yet not. It is no longer an insanity if you are able to determine exactly what is wrong with your view of the world, for the second you realize that this view is wrong you are cured of said insanity as you no longer hold a wrong view. Unless of course you see your errors perfectly clear as wrong, but refuse to realize it; preferring to keep said insanity rather than stepping into the real world. More often than not I think insanities should be left alone. Better being blind than depressed at any given time right? And all this of course is just pure rubbish, written to satisfy my own insanity of course.

Magicy Fairytale thing

The super fantastic happiness that is music. Ain't nothing quite like it. Writing is so much easier if you have some tunes ringing throughout the place. So now words are put down on several places at once, as if there were no worries at all. And it's interesting to see a universe step out of the dark areas of the brain. It's the great "what if" and i love it. The author is not always just a teller of stories, sometimes he's the shaper of entire worlds, a god among his creations. Impossibilities on earth might not only be possible on that distant reality in your mind, it may even be plausible. This is the Disney magic, this is where true love and epic events come from. This is the very pinnacle of a persons dreams.

Writing Unblock

Post like mad, the end is nigh! Only two more years untill the magical year of 2012 that is promised to be 2000 all over again with its apocalypse and death and destrucion. Cuz the Mayans said so and they were smart beyong belief. So I post more and more so that I at least get to live on in this eternal new entity that is the interwebs. Or not. Truth be told I have no real idea why I've written more this half month than I've done in ages. Maybe I'm fucked, maybe I'm unfucked, maybe I'm overfucked. Whatever the reason I do enjoy it though. As any person mad enough to read all my rabble might have noticed I seldom write for any particular reason, some times I don't even make ANY sense at all. I write for writing itself. It feels good just to write something, put words on whatever floats around in the goop called my brain at any given time. It doesn't have to make sense, it doesn't have to be smart, or sensitive, or remotely close to reader friendly. This being said I do actually appreciate anyone reading this very much, and though I think you must be mad to find interest in my writings it warms my heart whenever someone reads it. So I continue, until the day I'm kicked off the interwebs or the world ends, whatever comes first. This is my sorry for last years' poor posting and a vague, though not completely hollow, promise to shape up and become a better person. And now that the writing block has lifted and I've realized that I'll just write whatever it might just be that I can fulfill that promise ^^

Emotions

As the last post was about feelings and emotions, so is this. I went to see Avatar today with a bunch, and as the movie unfolds I get swept along into this romantic (sub?)plot that is mandatory for these kinds of movie. And as so many times before I am fed this story about how two people (or Na'vi or whatever) endure unimaginable hardships to end up together. Love. The grandest emotion of them all. The queen of sensations; none above, none beside. And I start to love her; the object of the main persons' love. I start to feel what he's feeling, like a true empath and I get lovesick as the movie reaches its climax and they get each other. Lovesick because I got to feel the feeling of love, but don't have anyone to channel it to, or anyone channeling it to me. So I get emotional and bitter, and I wish for nothing but a glass of whisky and that feeling that once again managed to tease me out of apathy just to elude me. But I have neither Whisky nor love, so instead I brew myself a pot of coffee and prepares for a night of writing emo-poetry that no-one (luckily) get to read, ever. I know channeling the spirits of the goth-kids of South Park will do me no good, but I'd rather spend a night feeling sorry for myself than spend a night trying to quell all feeling with apathy again. Tomorrow I'll buy a bottle of good Whisky and a cigar. I promise.

Dreamscape

My mind is slipping. Each morning I sleep 3 or 4 hours longer than planned, or healthy, and during those hours I have the weirdest dreams. Just this morning I had a dream that started off with a picnic or festival or something with a lot of the kids I grew up with, now all imaginary grown up. My childhood "love" had gotten herself a baby before she'd had an accident that had given her a brain damage and left her totally unpredictable and really insane. I had to look after her and her baby child reliving all the feelings i had as a kid. I woke up after she'd been taken away by the childhood bully but drifted right into another dream. In this dream I tore down every facade of every building in something that was supposed to be the main street in Oslo for Michael Jackson, who had bought it from the goverment and planned to use it for his comeback. But this wasn't the same Michael Jackson that died this summer, this was a Michael from another dimension who was still black and really down to earth. After we'd torn it all down we went to eat in a weird restaurant where a guy was harrassing this woman, and it all started a brawl, where my brother, who'd help me tear down facades became pissed of and declared that he'd never want anything more to do with Michael Jackson and left without getting paid. I also left, but was supposed to return the next day to do some finishing touches. Flying homewards I saw all the buildings I'd torn down facades on covered in paper and thought it to be one of the more spectacular sights I've ever seen. This dream ended after I'd landed on a bridge, cuz my arms were tired from the flying, but the bridge had also been reduced, so I had to help a bunch of people climb it. 

Yet, it isn't the dreams in themselves that I find disturbing, it's how they somewhat seems more real than reality that's so freaky. The feelings and sensations feel more real, even after I wake up, than their awake equivalents. Further it sometimes takes hours before I'm able to determine if something was real or just a dream. It's like the walls between dreams and awake is thinning out and they're seeping into each other. And most freaky of all; I'm not sure if I dislike it.

As a sort ending: If you ever wake up from a dream by pinching yourself, you're sure to be dreaming. Pinching yourself in a dream doesn't make you wake up.

Social Suicide

Last post was a good example of the point in that post; a potential social suicide but nonetheless a truth as that was a thought that hit my mind and caused an internal debate....

New Years Rambling

New Year and new questions. Seeing how I remain single, that alone raises several. How, when, who? But I still lead a good life, so such worries remain just worries rather than obsessions or troubling depressions, like I can observe in news. I do want a cat though, to keep me company, and keep me from becoming too lonely on the gray days. But cats are living things too, and as of yet I'm not sure if I should take care of one. Knowing myself, I will hate being tied down to the apartment too much. But then again, who knows? Really? Which brings me to a topic I wondered a lot about the other day. Someone told me, Your former girlfriends are all a bit weird, what's up with you and strange women that end up hurting you? And I thought about this, long and well. I have not given the answer, but I think I came up with it in my head. I do not see a female fit to be a companion in life out of how strange she is, truly, such a thing is somewhat suicidal in the end. Neither do I wish to get hurt, I certainly hope at least. Yet still again I find myself in the situation where I do something to someone and ends up getting mindboggled in the end, again. And it has indeed to do with my very person, as it seems the non-strange part of the opposite sex detest me. I suppose I am the oddity for the rest of the world to point and giggle at while they continue leading their lives of what is seen, by me, as something somewhat boring. Why spend a lot of time lying about everything and everyone to each other when all you have to do is tell the truth? Well, obviously it's because nobody wants to hear the truth. I hear this all of the time as I'm told to shut up and stop telling the stories of my life; but why I could never fathom. They happened after all, I was there, and most of them aren't really about me doing anything wrong; they usually encompass that parts of my life where I get the privilege to witness something completely absurd and, yet again fully in my opinion, somewhat hilarious. If a story of a thing that has happened has to be lied about, why did that story happen in the first place? Why lie about something that could bring truth? What are we to learn if all the great stories are left untold by people too morally upstrung to accept that they did in fact happen? Maybe man is happier left unknowing, but certainly he is not left smarter, unless again the pursuit of happiness is the same as being smart....

And having said all this I would like to point out that I do not indeed agree fully with that statement given, not nearly all have been bad for me, or even remotely close.