I'll be honest with you

I want a little red wagon

Stack up my things in the order I would have them

Clenching the handle, get off my ass and drag them

Down the path that I choose

I'll be honest with you

I want raincoats and galoshes

To keep off the rain and keep dry from puddle sloshes

I'm safe from the storm, though you might suffer some losses

On the road that I choose

I'll be honest with you

I could really use a pancake

Perfectly buttered and syruped and hand-made

There's none left for you, and I think that is a damned shame

But this is the life that I choose

I'll be honest with you

I appreciate your kindness

For giving me things that I want and even blindness

To selfish instincts, and calling me “Your Highness”

Throughout this life that we'll lose

I'll be upfront with you

There's no easy way to say this

I've found a new wagon to carry the same wish

I laid upon you when I fancied your lame kiss

These are the wheels that I choose

We're frantic and true

But we're false and level-minded

The poetry's dim, but the sad truth's behind it

I want what I want, and you aren't allowed to mind it

Because lying's a game I can't lose

Family Living

Brothers begging me to stay sing a song I have to tune out

Stamp my feet into the clay until I'm gone away, new routes

Are enticing eyes and echoing the future into the past

Change is fast, and we become the souls that die in the slowest way

The last ditch is the only one I ever bother digging

Every new itch has passed before my brothers stop their begging

How can people all get along

When we're all too proud to sing each other's songs?

Why can't men just internalize the cost

Of living here at home among the lost?

Sisters loving me and holding me often do so with an ease

I rarely strap a boot on without thinking of one to please

Sacrificing self to someone else is not a simple task

Change is fast, and we become the souls that die in the slowest way

The last fence is the only one I ever stop to mend

Alas, the sisters that I love are those I'm so prone to offend

How can people get along

When we're all too proud to sing each other's songs?

Why can't men just recognize the price

Of turning a blind eye to sacrifice?

Parents scolding me along the way are electric to my bones

But time and time again I come back asking for a loan

For slicing my dreams up into bits I can sweep into the trash

Change is fast, and we become the souls that die in the slowest way

The first piece of me is the only thing I ever sold

And though my parents made me, we both came from the same mold

Attention, followers

This blog will continue to be an outlet of creative writing, but I've also got a tumblr page that will be more of an all-purpose weblog.

nickhibbeler.tumblr.com

Mortality in Question

When kids learn about death, they then ask a new question

And grownups give them an answer just to keep them from guessing

Because pressing the issue's something kids do best

They haven't figured out that life's about teaching to the test

Lest they worry like us, we say there's life after death

As we call it 'afterlife', it puts a chill in our breath

Still, don't expect the sad ones to accept your answer

It's simplicity grows in them like a burgeoning cancer

After life there comes death

& after death, we're all dead

But in between we like to keep our curiosities fed

Find our answers in books

Yeah, you know we're well read

While the here & know's absorbed by all the holes in your head

I was looking for clues, thinking back to the beginning

Back before my becoming, my original sinning

Coming close to the outcome, then further once again

Back to my negative years- I was an integer then

I recalled something odd about my preborn days

I just didn't exist- it was a necessary phase

Amazed at the fact, at least you'd think I was

But it went unexamined like my Twitter account does

A whole generation takes their questions to the net

& argue about answers 'til they die or forget

Now my poetry's a part of that, if you happen to read it

I turn the feedback option off because I don't really need it

Or tell me what you think- It won't change our destinies

Unless you're God & if you're God, all I want is rest in peace

The least of these have their answer in every morsel that is thrown

Every breath they get or have to breathe is enough to be known

After life there comes death

& after death, we're all dead meat

But in between we like to keep our curiosities discreet

Find our answers in each other

Yeah, you know we'll make end's meet

While the here & know's absorbed by every day you complete

My girlfriend's in another country and it makes me all gooey insi-hi-hi-hiiiide.

It's happened. My thick veneer of boyish charm has been worn down to rough and jagged moonlike surface, gathering dust and craters alone in outer space.

Nah, it's not that bad. I miss my bugglyboo, but there are plenty of things here in HANNIBAL, MISSOURI to keep me busy to the point of being all worn out. This, by the way, is my favorite treatment for depression. I get up and go to school, come home and exercise for an hour, eat and go to work. When I get home from work I might do homework (ha!), read for a bit and sleep lightly to the sounds of Hannibal daredevils peeling out not far from my window. If I weren't a Christian, I'd sniper them like Tom Berenger in the movie "Sniper 2" or Tom Berenger in the movies "Sniper 3" and "Sniper".

By the way, that reminds me- why do all my Christian friends like to use that passage about Jesus whipping money-lenders to justify all kinds of violence? "I don't like this wimpy version of Jesus." they say. I recall the scene from Talladega Nights where Jesus is imagined as a baby, a mischievous badger, and a winged spirit singing lead for Lynyrd Skynyrd. It's interesting that our deities look so different from one another (even when we call them by the same name and use the same book to try and figure out what they're all about). To some people, God looks like the God of the poor and downtrodden, on the side of social justice. To others, God looks like a military general, creating hurricanes to punish the gays and whispering into George W. Bush's ear to invade Iraq. God can be a Democrat to some, a Republican to others, and a Libertarian to crazy people. My point is this- monotheists believe in one God- theirs. I'm not telling you what to do with that information. Ignoring it is probably the most practical thing.

By the way, ignoring important things is kind of how we stay not miserable. Somehow I manage have feelings other than elation and utter satisfaction even though I'm a rich white kid who can afford to do things like write for fun and pursue dreams because I don't have to work the land for 15 hours a day to not starve. In fact, sometimes I experience despair over my clearly awesome life and if I were a bit more wealthy, I'd probably pay another rich white person to try and figure out why I'm so sad when the secret might have something to do with the fact that I'm not running around in the wilderness using every iota of my homo sapien wiles to snare a wild beast and forage for berries and nuts. Seriously- we get our food out of cans and frozen bags, replace real sensory stimulation with shiny pixels flashing on all manner of flat screen and substitute real problems of survival with amateur, self-indulgent anthropological blog posts. I need to invent something that has nothing to do with words.

Sufjan Stevens - All Delighted People

At first I was confused as to why this was released as an EP when it weighs in at a hefty 59 minutes. Upon listening to it, it made more sense. "All Delighted People" is not a cohesive effort, but I'm interested in how it will foreshadow Stevens' next full-length work, "The Age of Adz" (CD coming October 12th). The aforementioned ep includes 8 tracks.

1. All Delighted People (Original Version) [11:38] - This is a big brassy, stringy, choir-y song that seems to crescendo and decrescendo over and over again in anthematic fashion. Sometimes it seems focused and the next minute a misguided guitar will cut through like a jigsaw. Stevens' voice seems a bit more confident here and it needs to be to contend with what seems like about 30 different ideas for a song that he smushed together in just under 12 minutes.

2. Enchanting Ghost [3:39] This is familiar territory, and it's damn good. He ditched the grandiose production he's been so fond of lately for this song that features a few strumming guitars, a banjo, an occasional piano and a harp playing chords in the background. It's a tight, well-written folk song and fittingly chilling at points.

3. Heirloom [2:55] A simple folk song that the Bob Dylan fan in me really loved. Guitars intertwine like on the last song (the harp is back too), but Sufjan's voice is doubled and echoed which really helps to buttress his naturally weak and trembling timbre. Another great song that is appropriately confident in itself.

4. From the Mouth of Gabriel [4:03] Occasionally, Stevens swaps out his traditional instruments for avant-garde synthesizing. In this song, they run into each other and seem to get along. His habit of exploring religious imagery with a personal dimension present as well. The juxtaposition of encountering an ancient messenger of God to the tune of a weak upright piano and heavily distorted, warbling synthesized brass is interesting, but fails to present a really great song like the last two tracks.

5. The Owl and the Tanager [6:38] This song opens up with a lonely piano (so lonely in fact, that you can hear the felt padding as Stevens' fingers strike each key). When his voice comes in, it echoes, further isolating the songwriter. Isolated he stays, and tells a story that is just vague enough to keep the listener wondering, but just explicit enough to convey a tragic and shameful feeling that is palpable beneath the ever lonely and building piano.

6. All Delighted People (Classic Rock Version) [8:07] This is exactly what it claims to be, though don't expect anything along the lines of The Who or Zeppelin. He starts off with the same banjo and leads into the same brass, but as soon as this version begins to crescendo, there's a lot more rock-based percussion and he leaves behind the strings for electric guitar. He also indulges his inexplicable affinity for rambling, aimless guitar solos (Captain Beefheart he is not). I personally don't enjoy this at all, but it comes with the territory and I expect it enough to put up with it. Overall, this version is worthy and seems a bit more victorious.

7. Arnika [5:13] "I'm tired of life, I'm tired of waiting for someone; I'm tired of prices, I'm tired of waiting for something" This cautious poem features limited, lumbering instrumentation, and each crescendo is quickly exhausted as the song continues. The music and words work together well here and the sample of what seems to be a rocking chair works well with the vocals in the background repeating "I'm goin', I'm goin', I'm goin'". Working together, these sounds paint a picture of an elderly individual waiting for death. Oh, and the cheap-sounding harps are back for the second half of this song.

8. Djohariah [17:02] The song that rounds out the hour is the most tedious, though I'm not sure it's meant to be popped in and listened to individually. The confused guitar pops it's head in throughout this groovy jam and really... just tires me out. This song builds and builds for about 5 and a half minutes before it changes pace and the chanting begins. "Djohari, Djohariah" for a minute and then back to the confused guitar solos, then back to the chanting, then at 11:43 the song starts. It's an ode to his sister (Djohariah Stevens), and it chronicles her struggles and importance as a mother. Good stuff once you get to it.

Overall, this is an encouraging ep for Sufjan Stevens because it hints at a whole new full-length album that will hopefully have some kind of conceptual and sonic cohesiveness like his past works have had. For five bucks, you'd be hard pressed to find a better hour of music. Pick it up- this rough work features some gems.

Post-F

Abandoned buildings

Stinking haze and rotten wood,

-the town was filthy

Stuck deep inside the waning flood

-and cut off at the knees

With people stuck to their top floors

-and praying for the sun

To dry their homes and set them free

-because the

Rain came down and the

-floods came up

The rain came down and the

-river came up

The water fell down and the

-sewers filled up

And oh, the sewers spilled their souls upon the street!

Where were the children?

Oh when the rain began to fall

-I heard them laughing

You know that little kids so small

-should not play in the rain

I hope to God they got inside

-before the powerlines

Were snapped and shocked what was alive

-oh God!

What will we do, wife?

Our crops all ruined by the flood;

-where is the carving knife?

That I might drain my farmer's blood

-don't try to stop me

'Cause we don't got no food to live

-I love you too, girl

But I've got nothing left to give

-because the

Rain came down and the

-floods came up

The rain came down and the

-river came up

The water poured down and the

-sewers filled up

And oh, the sewers spilled their guts upon the street!

This is a Godsend

This flood that soaked the town below

-I will be wealthy

With more work than I've ever known

-they'll need a carpenter

To build them shelves and doors and chairs

-they're calling for me

And I'll have charity to spare

-because the

Rain came down and the

-floods came up

The rain came down and the

-river came up

The water fell down and the

-sewers filled up

And oh, my pockets, they'll be filling up good too!

Post-A

His road to her was a wasteland of rubber tires and a sea of salty bottlecaps
He wrote to her every day without being sure she'd get his messages
Telephone wires were crossed and cut and the airwaves were halted by radiation
Malted bald eagles, remnants of a nation, brave and free
His love was part of the debris, but he didn't know it
Down by the docks, he sat and listened to a man singing river-town blues
He tossed a couple dollars to the man so he could repair the trumpet that he used
Rusted and bent, it sung out across the water and through the bare treetops
"Thank you," the trumpet man said and gathered up his worthless paper bills;
Artifacts of a time when a lot of nothing was worth something and people fought for it
He later took them to the old diner and gave them to the woman who lived there
She laughed at his lark and pretended to give him food as their stomachs rumbled
The man who'd lost love stumbled back to his apartment, weaving among the rubble
He finished off his box of crackers and boiled a cup of water
A rotten cigarette burned between his fingers and the ash fell among dust
He brushed off an old photo album and prayed, "Why? Why, God, why?"
God answered- as a barking dog in the distance
The chemical sunset filled his room with swirling purples and reds
He fell upon his cot and turned his head against the doom
A flower in the jungle bloomed but he didn't notice
His world was hopeless and he had lost focus
On a burnt earth it seemed like Death's door was all around him
Ambitions were scorched along with the place that he had found them
He wanted to get behind the wheel of a car, but hadn't seen one drive in years
Drying tears every morning from the stinging smog, he was a lone scavenger searching for enough to get along
"Enough to get along on down the road," he thought, but there was never enough
And all this stuff from another time was running out
And coming out of caves and sinkholes were wild animals to snatch his finds
Ravenous wolves and dogs of many kinds
He dipped his musty canteen into a secret spring he knew
And she seemed to know him too
She greeted him with clear water and a symphony of crickets
He crouched and crawled among the thickets, first to find and then to leave her
He told others of the spring, but they didn't believe- or perhaps they didn't care
They were calm in their despair and boiled river water
And then they gave it to their sons and their daughters and pretended it was milk
As the man struggled through the woods to get back to the road, he heard a voice
"Where'd you get that water?"
That water- that gift from the spring that kept him walking and let him remember what hope was
He turned to see a wild animal with stars on his shoulder and a cross on his gun
The man clutched his canteen and thought to run
The animals had charred the land and now they want the spring
To dig a hole and take control and make it their thing
He wouldn't
He couldn't give the spring away and spoil her truth
He had toiled through the roots to find her
They would bind her
He turned to flee the animal and leapt through the bush with what energy he had
Thunder sounded as the animal emptied his clip
The man stared at the cloudy pink sky, thought of his goodbye and took his last sip

Grooming

(An instant-messaging conversation)

What's the deal with Yasmin and Malakai?

What do you mean? They're friends.

No, I know that, it's just that they're always hanging out.

And why is that weird?

Well, because Yasmin is going out with Abimelech, but the only time she spends any time with Malakai is when Abimelech is not around.

He's grooming her.

Who's grooming her?

Malakai. Malakai is grooming Yasmin.

What the hell does that mean?

It means what it means.

"Grooming," what does "grooming" mean?

It means he's getting her ready in case she breaks up with Abimelech.

Getting her ready? You mean like he's trying to steal her or something?

No, it's a lot more passive than that. He's simply getting her on his side. Playing it real safe and making sure she feels comfortable talking to him.

Isn't that kind of insidious, I mean, plotting like that when Yasmin and Abimelech are an item?

I don't think so.

What do you mean you don't think so? You don't buy that "All's fair in love and war" business, do you?

Of course not. All's fair in love, but when it comes to war, there have to be conventions.

You know what I mean.

Yeah, I know what you're saying, but the thing about grooming is that, because Malakai's single, there's really nothing wrong with it even though it seems kind of sketchy.

Does Abimelech know?

Oh, I'm sure he does.

Then why doesn't he say anything about it?

Because he can't.

What do you mean, he can't?

If he says anything about it, he'll seem like a smothering boyfriend; overbearing and insecure.

It's a catch-22... So I guess he doesn't care?

I'd imagine he does, but he doesn't show it.

That's all that matters.

Now, you're getting it.

So if I see Yasmin with Malakai in a few years, I'll know how this thing went down.

Yep.

Wait a sec, does she know?

Know what?

That she's being groomed?

I have three theories on that.

Haha, I've got time.

Well, my first theory is simply that she doesn't know.

Boring.

I agree. Though I think, knowing Yasmin, it's pretty likely. She's seems like a trusting person and caring friend.

What else?

Another theory is that she suspects that Malakai may be grooming her, but opts to go on as if he isn't. It isn't fair to assume, after all.

But she likes the idea.

Well, that's another part of it. With this she can enjoy the excitement of being groomed without the guilt of allowing it because she refuses to allow herself to assume anything.

I think I could guess what the last theory is.

Go ahead.

Ok. She knows what's going on and allows it. This is as bad as flirting.

No it isn't.

How is it any better than flirting?

Where are the rings?

Don't answer my question with a question.

I'm just saying, where are the rings? This is just some petty drama. The real mess comes with marriage. Anything before that is little leagues.

How would you know?

Hey jackass, my parents got divorced.

Oh yeah, sorry.

It's alright. What I'm saying is that we're just college kids. Eventually Abimelech will have the chance to make his move.

What do you mean?

"All my single ladies, All my single ladies!"

Ah, the ring.

"The One Ring".

What if she says "no"?

Then, we've cut through the bull, haven't we?

I guess we have.

Winter

Long Winter

Ice is

Broken glass on the ground

Cold cuts deep and sharp

Skins cracks

Winter days won over by gray

Sunshine is

Elusive and deceitful

Our winter will be hard

A day of tough dirt and

Frozen mud

Snow layers, scrape

Hard work pays off

Long-distance

I hinted at her

My winter cat scurries

And splintered casket

A withered basket

Of fruits, bad figs

Mad wigs worn by lovers

Worn by smothering

Torn up mothers who

Scorn all others

My body shivers and

Quivers as quick

While livers made sick pass

Whiskey and brandy and barley-wine

Hardly is there time enough to

Fill you in

In fact, it might kill you and

Do you in

Screw you in solid

Tight, bud squalid

Pallid, but flush

Distant, but touching and

Reaching and blushing,

Rushing and creaking and

Speaking and crushing

Across a distance and

Strung up by wires

Tiring fireside chats hiding liars

A flat man and woman who,

Lit by their faces,

Run stationary races

Stable places

Horses run, faceless

A shotgun hospital is baseless

Longer distance erases

2nd Journal for 2010: Workouts

I've been hitting the gym lately. Not to get in shape; I think anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I'm already very much "in shape". Working out can be about going from bad to good (which is something I would encourage you all to take part in), but for those of us who are already good it must be said that it is a worthwhile endeavor to perfect a good thing, or even polish a perfect thing.

Thanks to a decision that, a few years ago, made my tuition go from a number so big that I don't remember what it is to a number that I haven't looked at or heard spoken, the institution of higher learning that I attend now includes a membership to the Hannibal YMCA. I didn't ask for it, but I decided that I might as well start using this thing I'm paying some amount of money for. As often as possible, I drive on over to the YMCA (I don't feel as though I know it well enough to start calling it by its nickname, "Y") and shuffle through a locker-room full of wet, naked old men (who seem to spontaneously generate out of such conditions), change into my loose-fitting exercise gear and commence chiseling granite. The tools with which I attempt this feat are humble, but varied. With free weights, levers, pully things, and all kinds of weird looking chairs I task myself with reaching pinnacles of fitness that glorify the creator.

Though I am just now taking full advantage of my membership, I'm no stranger to workout equipment. In high school I took one semester of Weight Training and a semester of Advanced Weight Training. Both courses were taught by a football coach who seemed to be bitter about losing his hair. Honestly, his attitude may have had something to do with the fact that no one showed him any respect, but for my part I can guarantee I would have listened to him more if he had a decent head of hair. These classes taught me a little bit about weight training and a lot about "Jailbreak"; a variation on the Dodgeball convention that allowed for more players and more ways to reenter the game once eliminated. In retrospect, the title "Jailbreak" turned out to be an unfortunately accurate predictor of many futures belonging to those enrolled. Not in that any of the students I'm thinking of ever actually broke out of a prison; they are definitely still locked up.

My experience now is much more sophisticated. As an educated college man only months away from my graduation in December, my approach to "gym-ing" has become a fine-tuned personal science. Using audio, visual, and emotive aids, I've been able to maximize the effectiveness of my exercise time. I've thought about writing an exercise manual for those of you out there who want to look as good as me, but frankly I just don't have the time. What I'll do instead is list some of the techniques that have been treating me so well at the gym. In this way I'll be doing my part in America's healthcare crisis and our country's struggle to reclaim the title of "Most beautiful people" back from Argentina.

Workouts

Twitter-Crunches: 140 crunches, keep count with cell phone in hand by tweeting each crunch

Unemployment lifts: For every job you interview and don't receive, go back to the interviewer's office and lift their desk above your head. Who knows? This may end up getting you the job.

The Native American Guilt-Cycle: (for white people only) Set an exercise bike to its highest difficulty setting and bring mp3 player with headphones. While pedaling, listen to "Song of Crazy Horse" by J.D. Blackfoot. The song is over 20 minutes long and provides a history of the US Government's treatment of Native Americans. This provides ample workout time and you should be fueled by your righteous anger toward paleface and his empty promises.

Harry Potter pull-ups: For every Hogwarts professor you can name from the Harry Potter canon, do one pull-up. This makes sense because the more you know about Harry Potter, the more you probably need to work out.

Keyboard push-ups: Place your computer keyboard on the ground. Putting your hands at home position, begin push-ups. This isn't clever or meaningful, but I just want to see how it effects those with ergonomic arrangements differently.

I promise I'll come up with more, but I really must be going because it's late and I heard that if you don't get enough rest, you'll never bulk up and be more satisfied with your self image so you can go at least one day without spitting at a mirror.

If you have any tips, please share!

1st Journal for 2010

I'm terrible at guessing and I guess I always will be. Every day I guess what the lottery numbers will be and I've never gotten it right. Last time was even worse because, though I guessed that I could afford two lottery tickets and a blue slush-pop, it turns out that the guy who works behind the counter now is Rick Yates; someone who I owe an amount of money that I can't remember.

I tried to participate in an office football pool once. Not only did I lose my five dollars, but one of the guys came up to me and started taunting me, "You can't play if you don't work here!", "How did you get past the alarm system?" I get it man, but don't discriminate against me because of my bad luck. I mean honestly, I'd have better odds at the Kentucky Raffle than the Kentucky Derby, but too bad I don't get a shot at either because the fates caused me to be born in Missouri.

You might think someone like me is pretty bitter about their position in life. I'm not. I know that there have to be losers if there are going to be winners, but I'd like to meet these winners. Who are all these mega-successful guys who are getting all the positive vibes I clearly lack? I mean, I've got some theories as to who they might be. A couple weeks ago, on the subway, I saw this guy picking on his guitar. His fingers were flying and strumming against the strings with seemingly no rhyme or reason and what came out was beautiful music. Now I've done the exact same thing with a guitar in my lap and it doesn't sound like music at all. As soon as I start picking everyone gets real mad at me. How am I supposed to get any better if I can't practice? And how am I supposed to practice if you don't let me use your guitar?

Another recipient of my good luck must be these jokesters I've seen at the bar. These jokesters are always joking around, telling their jokes to women; it's gross. Hey, look at me, I'm so clever because I can lighten the mood with this joke. What they don't know is that they're walking a tightrope with these girls. They're balancing on a razor's edge of comedy that could land them in deep trouble; I should know. They may be ignorant of this fact because they got lucky with their joke. It may have resulted in their getting a girl's number or even taking her home, but it doesn't always work that way. I can't count how many times I've told a joke to a girl who ended up slapping me. But Nick, maybe you should stop using dirty jokes. You're missing the point!! The jokes I'm telling are the exact same jokes I've heard those jokesters tell time and time again. But Nick, maybe you're telling these jokes to the wrong women. Wrong again! When I tell these jokes, I'm often telling them to the same women who laughed so readily at the jokesters. Huh-haw-haw-huh! There seems to be no way to predict when you'll get what reaction because I've tried every day of the week, which by the way, just gets you banned from a bar.

Basically, I just wanted to admit that I'm coming to terms with my bad luck. I used to have hope that if I held out long enough something good would happen, but that hope has been shattered. I don't even bother guessing at the lottery anymore; I've switched to just picking numbers at random. The good news is that I found a great job that pays in cash. I'm usually just delivering packages to people behind buildings and everyone I come into contact with is pretty nice. My boss is hilarious and always poking fun at me. First time I met him, he said, "If you go and tell anyone about what you're doing, I'll kill you." Haha, "Understood, boss!"

Down with the Sickness

Getting sick can be an incredibly trying experience, both mentally and physically. I’ve always been fairly susceptible to falling ill and it tends to happen almost every month. The kind of thing I’m talking about here are stomach viruses, the occasional flu and of course, the malady to which no cure has or will ever be found, the common cold. As a result of this regularity, I’ve been able to study my typical response in an attempt to make it more efficient and advantageous to my health.

Usually things get kicked off with the sore throat. I like to think of this as “the egg period” because I’m waiting to see what eventual indisposition will poke its beak out from my initial sore-throatedness. I also like to call this “the egg period” because, in an effort to somehow rescue my health from falling overboard, I throw it a lifesaver of healthy egg-breakfasts. Unfortunately, by the time I’ve entered the egg period, my health has usually already walked the plank. I haven’t figured out what my health did to get such a sentence, but I’m already mixing metaphors so I think it best not to delve into those waters.

During the egg period I’m usually wracking my brain in a futile attempt to determine the root of my condition. Was it the dirty rail I touched in the train station? The leftovers I ate from under my seat on the train? Maybe it was that hobo I made out with to make my mom laugh. It really is a waste of time pondering these things, especially considering the fact that I always take the bus. It would be nice to know exactly how I’ve received the germs in question, but the answer is as muddled as the clogged-up basin that I always rinse my hands in.

What happens next is what I call “the sluggish period”. No matter what symptoms I begin to experience, my typical frenzied pace is curbed significantly. For instance, instead of flipping through the channels like I usually do, I just go ahead and sit through the commercials. I do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my listlessness keeps me from reaching for the remote at every 60-second break. Secondly, there’s a slim chance a miracle drug may be advertised that speaks directly to my needs. Suffering from sore throat, back ache and mild fever? Yes, I would nod. Then try Xackalax; it’s free, comes with ice cream, and it’s guaranteed to work.

Another reason I call this “the sluggish period” is that, at this point, any discomfort I may be feeling can be easily alleviated through the use of medical marijuana. I prefer a mellow Indica blend smoked through a bowl. Brownies can be nice, but may come back to haunt you if you develop an upset stomach. Interestingly, I’ve found that in the absence of medical marijuana during the sluggish period, normal marijuana works just as good.

At the end of the sluggish period is when things get tricky. The next period is called “the grasshopper period” because grasshoppers are green, just like the trickiest creature on earth, the leprechaun. Here, my affliction can clear up without a problem, or take one of many drastic turns for the worst. Such a turn will almost always lead me to the toilet. And whether I’m perched upon the bowl like Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”, or grasping the bowl with the kind of anguish represented in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”, it’s sure to be a long and painful process like Mick Jackson’s “The Bodyguard”, starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston.

Frankly, if I’m going to be spending time with my round porcelain friend, I’d just as soon be vomiting than anything else. Though, there’s a sort of “ripped-off” feeling I get when pukey-sick. What’s the point of all this torture if I didn’t get to finish off everyone’s rum bottles? Instead of cursing the bitch that drove me to drinking, I’m cursing friend that drove me to the movies (I know they don’t disinfect the seats between screenings). Whatever my business happens to be in the bathroom, my mantra is always the same: out with the bad. I used to spend a lot of this time talking to Jesus, but now his mom refuses to clean the bathroom until after I get better.

From here on out, it’s pretty much wash, rinse, repeat until I’m back to normal. I have a special toothbrush for when I’m sick that I’ll sometimes give to guests as a prank. The final period I simply call, “the cleanup”. This is the period between my recovery and the redeployment of my maid squad. The cleanup usually entails a lot of hose water and incense. Raymond, my pet raccoon who comes in through a hole he chewed in the back door, does a good job of cleaning up a lot of my food mess. When I see him dutifully munching up my litter, I’m especially glad that germs can’t be passed between species, or else he’d be in all kinds of trouble. I think about all of the stuff I could have gotten done if I had remained healthy. I’m sure that a much bigger portion of my model train collection would be properly detailed if I didn’t get sick so often.

Although it tends to be an ordeal, I really don’t mind getting sick. It gives me a chance to reflect on my own health and appreciate those times when I can function as an independent adult in society. It also gives me a great opportunity to guilt my grandma into bringing me a Vanilla Milkshake. “Just leave it by the raccoon hole, grandma. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Halloween Monster Story

As the chef pried open a fresh crate of bananas, he noticed something odd about it. First of all, bananas didn't usually come in crates, so right off he knew something was wrong. Also, a large bat flew out of the crate, carrying a severed head.

The chef proceeded to stack the glowing, green bananas in their usual spot. Immediately, students began flooding the cafeteria to get a taste of the freak fruit.

Surprisingly, everyone loved the bananas. They were the most popular food item at breakfast. By lunch time though, the chef started noticing strange behavior in the students.

"Get me more bananas, Chef Tim!" said a burly, hairy, toothy girl.

"We're all out." Chef Tim replied.

"Look harder!" the girl shouted, in between unpleasant monkey noises.

Chef Tim looked around and noticed some very primitive behavior. Students were jumping up down, hanging from chandeliers, and picking lice off of each other to eat. Anyone who had eaten bananas (which was pretty much everyone) was turning into big, stinky apes. Their features were animal-like. Chef Tim felt like Charlton Heston.

Rushing back into the kitchen, Chef Tim alerted lunch lady Bertha of the emergency. "The kids are all going ape out there! It's a madhouse!"

Lunch lady Bertha turned around. Her teeth were yellow and her lips were covered in drool. Unsightly body and facial hair stuck out all over. She breathed heavily.

"Oh no, it got you too!" said Chef Tim, "You ate the green bananas!"

"What are you talking about?" Bertha grunted, "I hate bananas!"

"Oh..." Chef Tim backed away slowly, "Sorry..."

Back in the cafeteria, plates were being thrown, the floor was covered in soda, and the warm apple crisp had been violated several times over. Chef Tim knew he had to do something.

He went back into the storage where the mysterious crate waited. In it, conveniently sat a small note. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Because he was distracted by that bat.

The note read, "These bananas are evil. Don't feed them to anyone. If you do though, just recite this incantation: BALAWALANAK..."

Suddenly, a monkey child snatched the paper from him and ran back into the cafeteria.

Chef Tim tried to throw his most stale bread at the monkey child to slow it down, but to no avail. The monkeys were too quick for him for now, but he had a plan.

Immediately, Chef Tim started cooking up as many flapjacks as he could. Being a school chef, he had plenty of opium on hand and cooked it right into the flapjacks. When he knew he had enough, he shoveled the flapjacks into a shopping cart that he stole from Walmart and reentered the cafeteria. Like frisbees, he hurled the opium cakes at every devolved student within sight. They eagerly gobbled up the cakes.

Carefully stepping over the now-sleeping monkeys, Chef Tim successfully located the note and pried it from the clutches of the monkey child. Lifting it up, he recited the incantation, "BALAWALANAKTOFALA!"

Like Disney magic, all the hairy, apelike students transformed back into normal, filth-covered human students.

"That was pretty cool, eh Rex?" Tim asked his previously unmentioned talking-dog companion.

Rex answered with his old catch-phrase that has endeared him with countless children, "Yoooouu BETCHA!"

Earning Sleep

Usually, I don't mind a housefly. In the summer, when they are most prevalent, they are only a minor annoyance; A bother done away with by waving a hand, as if I had all the power of a king. But as I sat up in my bed, my neck supported by an awkwardly folded pillow, the fly that buzzed around my room captured the bulk of my attention with its performance. It was the quiet and solitude that the fly had broken. I'm sure countless insects and spiders had successfully crept in and thwarted my pure loneliness in the past, but they had done so with subtlety enough to keep the Giant unstirred and blissfully ignorant of his guests. I must admit that the thought that it is so hard to escape the world of life and survival perturbs me to some degree. There is always something not far off that would see your end to further their's.

The concentration of my read would not be broken by a passive stalker, but the buzzing fiend that left haphazard and imaginary dash-marks in its wake as it flew about the unstirred air of my room. The volume of its unattractive buzzing was directly linked to the distance it kept from me. If this distance was halved, the sound was doubled. Such a change was easily noticed in my self-induced, yet somewhat broken meditative state. Soon after becoming aware of this unwanted cad of an insect, it became the second party in the room, thereby ruining my linear thought process.

The linear thought process is the one thing that I absolutely must maintain to achieve any meaningful level of cognitive retention of reading materials. I blame the fragility of this process to all those damn video games I played as a kid. It's when my linear thought is disrupted that I end up writing something, the subject of which can usually be found at the branching of my thoughts and is rarely interesting to anyone but myself (though this particular digression is of distinctively fuzzy and faint importance, even compared with houseflies).

After a series of paths taken by the fly, many of which brought it to every cardinal direction in relation to myself, its buzzing faded. My composure rocked, I began expecting to hear the sound again. So expectant was I that the soft hum of electricity within the house started sounding incredibly insectish. I feared that the fly was just waiting for the right time to play a trick on me; To ambush me and crawl under my skin to lay its eggs, or maybe jump up and spit in my eye. The fear had hatched ugly, writhing maggots, intent on foiling any line of productive or useful thought.

At a picnic, set upon by a gang of flies, I would have no problem hearing the cry of the warrior. I'd brandish my long, plastic, flatish blade with which to bring an untimely and gruesome death to the outmatched and miniscule monsters plaguing our plates of potatoes and ham. But the idea of an army makes sense. Some would even sell the idea as noble. A lone wanderer however; A "Jack the Ripper" of the bug kingdom could certainly haunt my read as ignobly as anything under the sun.

I reached with quiet trepidation for the entomology textbook, which the fates had placed so conveniently near to my side, hoping to procure from it some advantageous nugget of knowledge regarding my enemy. The common housefly (Musca domestica) only lives for an average of two weeks as a fly. Attrition was the obvious answer. I could be certain, with all the confidence that science could bestow, that the beast would be dead within this relatively short period of time. There was no doubt in my mind that the fat reserves I had built up within the past few years at college, coupled with the pallet of Ice Mountain bottled water I had "temporarily" placed near my bed only four hours earlier would sustain me during this deadly chess match.

It was harder than I thought to wait out the fly. My checkmate would come after roughly fourteen days of motionless thought and appreciation for my adversary. I received bed sores and came down with minor scurvy due to the lack of Vitamin C. But reading in peace, and greeting slumber with certainty has never felt so good.

The Summer of Pickle Sandwiches

When this summer got underway, I was in a bit of a pickle. The kind of pickle that is sandwiched firmly between two pieces of bread that somehow symbolize laziness. I had just completed the most apathetic and lackluster semester of my college career, and I had done absolutely nothing to secure for myself a job to help ease my financial situation which can only be described as Chrysler-esque. I had relied on parental bailouts and infusions of cash loans to support my travel in the fall semester and bad habits in the spring. Waking up to my precarious situation, I felt guilt, anxiety, and hunger. Hunger for a job, and hunger for a pickle sandwich. Immediately, I began to find for myself chores to justify my existence on a daily basis, as well as a few hours here and there dedicated to applying for jobs delivering pizza. My seemingly helpless situation bogged me down and even caused a few days of real depression; the kind of depression that just boils up inside of you, urging you to do something with your life because you have no money to buy alcohol to drown it in. My Mother (who will be subsequently referred to as "Ma") saw this and it troubled, or at least annoyed her. "Why don't you apply for one of those medical studies." She suggested. I had thought of it, but refrained because I wanted to leave my schedule open for a job. As soon as I figured out my hours, I'd be able to fit a medical study around my work schedule. [Point of Information: These "medical studies" I'm referring to are amazing little opportunities that Cetero Research offers. Basically they give you a drug, take some blood from you, and give you money. It's important to note that there is almost no work involved in this process, and lots of money. I'd say it's low risk, which it is, but you're probably a superstitious jerk, so I won't waste my time.] Ma had come a long way from opposing my participation in such studies to now wholeheartedly endorsing them as a means of income. I am certain that this kind of resignation and apathy is what keeps any good family together. I explained why I hadn't signed up for any studies, but what met with Ma's cold, hard, and immovable logic: "You won't make any more working a part time job than you would doing one of those studies." I was tempted. But also worried about a potential secondary problem with signing up for a study without any other prospects lined up. That problem would turn out to be one that didn't really exist, except in my wildest imagination. You see, I was concerned that without real employment--a job that tagged me as an "associate, employee, or partner"--I would not find true satisfaction. That somehow, the title of "volunteer" would make any money I received from that position a little less satisfying. Because, you see, when I found out that I would most likely be participating in a study that paid $1,180 over the course of two weekend stays, I made a rough appropriation of the funds in my mind and figured out that this sum of money is pretty nice for me right now, and I would most likely line up another study after this one was over. What washed over me wasn't some feeling of emptiness, but one of relief and satisfaction. So I'm sitting around reading, playing video games, cleaning up here and there, and maybe riding my bike across town later... whatever. It's awesome. When I'm hungry, I tell the dog to bring me a bagel. When I'm tired, I sleep; wherever, on the couch, on the toilet, or perhaps just standing over a running lawnmower. What's most important is that I don't feel like a broke loser; just a single loser who lives with his parents, which, if I may speak so freely, is a pretty decadent lifestyle. Pickle sandwiches are a great metaphor. And even though that's a lie, and they aren't a great metaphor, I'll still slap some kosher dill spears on wheat bread and call it breakfast. Because even though pickles have almost no nutritional value, they taste good, so stop being such a drag, man.

Trying

A wolf walks past a birch tree in the snow

His fur is silver with the morning dew

And as he passes by, my slinking foe

Is drawn in by the scent of my hot stew

I long have had it cooking by this fire

So that I might fill up and warm my soul

He licks his teeth in hopes he will acquire

The meal that slowly cooks above these coals

I slowly reach for rifle by my side

So that I might then slay approaching beast

My hand lifts up the cover of cow-hide

The wolf continues lusting for his feast

Intently, creeping gently, getting close

My nerves are steady as I raise my gun

Though ignorant, I guess that my wolf knows

His days of stalking prey will soon be done

A shot rings out and breaks the silent morn

The wolf falls limp upon the waiting frost

I never, from the day that I was born

Have paid, for any breakfast, such a cost

Most people call me Ugly...

My mother calls me Sean.

Most people call my mother ugly.

I don't really know a better word

To summarize my existence,

As if that was something worth doing.

As if making things easy to understand

Really ever resulted in understanding.

I usually don't do this.

I usually don't cut out my piece.

Assuming it might fit

Might be foolish.

I'm not loud.

I lack the necessary audacity.

I've spoken out of turn before

Only to remember the look

On people's faces.

It broke their symmetry.

Ugliness isn't an appearance

Or even a status.

It's a decision.

As a young boy I decided

To be ugly.

I made it before I could

Take it back and

Lack the tools to

Turn back time.

I came into this world Sean

And will leave it so.

But I dwell here Ugly.

Knowing God lives for me

So that I may sigh lightly.

This in stead of a deep sigh.

The kind that makes Ugly

Despair at mystery,

Tear at the fabric of what

They think is real.

Feel for a world that

Doesn't keep in it uncertainty.

I am Ugly.

Ugly does twist at himself.

He twists at his face and

What lies behind it.

He smoulders in spite and

Despite of himself.

Twisting and smouldering

Bending and burning

Make a sight more ugly than before.

A sound that screeches,

A stench that is putrid.

I am Sean.

Sean does look outward.

He sets his heart to task and

Is battered back at times.

He builds his strength

Despite his weaknesses.

Looking and building

Growing and learning

Make a man just as Ugly as before.

A friend that betrays,

A lover that fails.

My works are like refuse

As they've been in my pocket.

Understand that I've said little

As you expected I might.

Forget it.

Self-indulgence with no

Self to indulge upon.

I beg the reader to forsake all here

Save one request.

I am Ugly.

Please call me Sean.

What I Want On My Tombstone

Studies have shown that people in their early twenties don't often take the time to stop and think about their own mortality. Those same studies also suggest that when the temporary nature of life is thought of, 78% of those respondents had recently listened to "Time" by Pink Floyd. Taking this to heart, I began thinking about ways I could leave behind a lasting legacy--something that will carry a message to future generations. What was a rock-solid, block-lettered way I could pass on that message? A tombstone, of course. More than anything else, a tombstone would effectively communicate a pointed message to future generations--and one of my choosing. In order for me to build a legacy, some have urged me to commit my life to charitable causes. Others have suggested having many children with wives and girlfriends, and passing on the sacred traditions of honor and family that are the bedrock of our civilization. In my own personal experience, I've tried, as much as possible, to convince those around me to do things for me so that I will be remembered as a leader. However, all of these tactics are contingent on me achieving actual goals. The beauty of the tombstone is this: I get to choose one simple message that family members and creepy cemetery-walkers will be forced to read. That message will be etched in stone, regardless of my life's achievements. I could be a shoeless tramp, a seedy ne'er-do-well, or even a high school gym teacher--it doesn't matter--this message will stand. And because I plan to carry some serious financial debt into the grave, I'll make sure to have my tombstone carved out long before I breathe my last.

This said, I've been pondering what witty phrase, or dirty double-entendre I want forever chiseled a few feet above my dead body. It has to be something short and to the point--in that way, unavoidable. The reader will be finished before they can stop themselves. For instance, most of the people who began reading this blog expecting something of real substance had the opportunity to turn their attention to something else a long time ago. If you're still reading, you're definitely enough of a sucker to stick it out till the end. All things considered, here are my possible answers:

(Tombstone will read: Nicholas Hibbeler 1987-2012)

"Here lies the President of Super-America."

"Please do not use this tombstone as a stage for puppet shows."

"I'm right behind you."

"Being dead is like having sex with Medusa."

"This corpse has a plot, unlike that joke of a movie, Signs."

"I should've used the AC less."

"Captain of the USS Enterprise."

"Time capsule. Please open 2042."

"Beauty is only skin-deep, but smarts are only brain-deep."

"He hated his children."

"Self-aware nose-picker."

"Hermit Crab enthusiast and shell decorator."

"He swam like 12 minutes after eating."

"Resurrection reward: the best chicken pasta you've ever had."

"You should have had sex with him while you could."

"He used aluminium-based deodorant."

"Died not knowing why snow-boarding was cooler than skiing."

"If you're going to pour out liquor, please be seasonally conscious."

"Rigor Mortis: the full-body stiffy."

"If I come back as a zombie, don't dismember my good side."

"Gave good karma to many by owing them cash."

"Set my iPod to shuffle."

Goodtime Activist

I have a problem with people

Who point out the modern evils

Whether pointing at a steeple

Or at their governmental weasles

But, please don't misunderstand

Because I think dissent is healthy

But dissent is never spent

And comfort belongs to the wealthy

Selfish politics are being pushed

And sold to the consumer

Where the glory is the person, not the cause

Let's see how many buttons

And t-shirts we can sell

Before they find that our statistics have been flawed

So your candidate won

But there's a war going on

No, there's several and they're clawing at your soul

See, we've broken into teams

To forget about the issues

And there's nothing left to fill the gaping hole

Sold to the highest bidder!

We're back in the swing of dreams

I'm so damned inspired

That I'll join your scene

Fiends for distractions

Actions speak softly

Words scream the loudest

When they're meaningless and costly

Often, I cry at night

Because I have nothing to cry about

Sometimes I die of fright

When no one seems to hear me out

Let's start a pie fight

World hunger, we'll forget about

Turn off the night light

And go to sleep without a sound

That's what they want from you

To lay down and take it

And if you want climax

You'll just have to fake it

Because sex is so fun when you're completely dishonest

And America's been fucked by the best

They wear lapel pins just to prove that they're modest

But beg you to rip off their vest

Chest exposed

Wardrobe malfunction

But don't disrupt their prayer luncheon

Here, munchkin!

Snack on this for a while

Daddy's got to make the trial

We're serving up death sentences and doing it in style

So keep on paying your taxes

Because I swear if you don't that we won't stay our axes

I swear if you don't that we won't check our faxes

Then can we sound mute?

I swear, when your mouth is shut, you look so cute

But I'll give you an excuse

And a little horn to toot

And every four years you can blow it