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          |___________|\          Need a pimp?  Don't hesitate to call.
          |1800MARQUIS| |
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          | 1   2   3 | |         
          | 4   5   6 | |         
          | 7   8   9 | |
          | *   0   # | |
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          | JEFF-NET  | |
          |___________|_/
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      /___________/

December 30, 2005 - Friday
___________________

Being the Christmas season, I've just returned from church.

I didn't like the taste it gave me. . .

Seriously, and please hear me out before you judge me. I've been to the same church for many years, attending a Catholic high school, and all the while existed as a scumbag. I was a bad person; I remember sitting in the same pew with thoughts that my soul must be clean, even if I poked my brother next to me, simply because I lent 45 minutes of my attention to something I didn't care about. Earlier I looked around the crowd and thought, "How many of these people do bad shit in their free time and believe that they're not really doing anything wrong?" This is something I hadn't contemplated prior. I'm trying to get away from my previous speak of near-death—I thought it was cool at the time—but I've picked up a spiritual tone in my outlook, if you haven't noticed.

What's the difference with what I see now? I feel that Christianity is somehow false. Let me explain; I looked around at a room full of strangers, and I envisioned myself in past years who believed that I'd been ultimately forgiven for simply locating myself in a Holy environment. And I'd make nigger jokes in my head. And when church was over I'd give Justin many noogies and beat off to a HUSTLER. I looked around and saw people who are taught to believe that reading silly Hymn songs will result in a spiritual polishing. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

You know what's good. And you know what's bad. I say, let there be one commandment, "Doeth good shit." I think that wraps up any spiritual slant.

Christianity is the standard in this country; and just as Jane Doe majors in English, the standard family goes to this common church. I don't know what I am, spiritually, but I remember reading about a priest who'd "brushed up against death" and then found himself abandoning the church. That's where I am; I don't believe Christianity; and maybe I'm a little disappointed that it isn't all I was taught to believe. I don't think I'm a bad person, and I'll let you know, Christianity is still, certainly, a good thing; it has made the world a better place. But I can't respect its symbolism. Really, how are you a better person for having listened to a man speaking about Holy stuff? and all the while, thinking about sex—which is said to be a sin. Get real. Spiritually, wouldn't it make sense that ACTUALLY HELPING others instead of merely reading about Jesus makes the real difference? It's all symbolic, and I can't respect it.

It is my belief that you're as likely to get into Heaven as the Catholic man who reads the Bible, goes to church every Sunday, and receives communion—if you SIMPLY lead a good life. Really, religion doesn't "know" anything; should living as a gay or lesbian be a sin if you're doing good deeds in the world? And don't you think that it makes sense to actually DO good shit instead of hearing about it? Going to church is a chore; it is; I could be at the gym, reading a book, or cooking some food, but I'd be, instead, the audience to church hierarchy. This is getting vicious but I'll go with it—and the Catholic Church shows signs of decay with its criminality. I'm convinced that someone who doesn't believe in God but lives a very giving and loving life is much more likely to get into Heaven than a Joe Smith who goes every Sunday thinking he's erasing a seedy underbelly by chewing that wafer. Oh and this brings up Heaven; I digress; I'm getting bitter.

I'm at a crisis of faith.

And I've brought enough pain into the world. I've been a very bad boy who's caused many people to cry, and there's only me to blame. Yeah. I need to pay back my debt, and I entertain the thought of volunteering my efforts to a cause in years to come. Really, think about it; think about what I put my family through when I ask, "Can you understand that I feel in debt?" I'm in the hole, but I believe that it's completely a separate matter from religion.

I've developed new thoughts on sinning—maybe it's just me, but I frown upon the bogus social institutions set in place by religion. And, again, maybe it's just me, but I see no harm in premarital pleasure, refraining from prayer, and definitely nothing concerning diet. I roll my eyes at the Amish, but maybe there's some power to their self-imprisonment; you could laugh at a priest for living a life without pleasure, but he's the one who's more in control of himself. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the self-starvation endured by the Amish is only a "thank you" to Him. And maybe donating your time each Sunday is a symbolic bowing of your head. But the nitty-gritty of religion doesn't concern me. Here's what I think, make others happy and don't bring any hurt into the world. Simple.

Concerning religion beep-bop-beep I will design a webpage and possibly author some content, all for resume sparkle. Frankly I don't care anything about religion, and I prefer sleeping late to feigning innocence at church. I'm mad that what I've learned isn't a perfect truth; I'm a little pissed that they fooled me; yes; I don't think I'm bad, but—this is just how I feel—I believe that reading the Bible and going to church doesn't make you a good person—if you don't engage in other good shit to go along with it. I don't think it makes me a bad person. I've said that I might be a little less religious before, and now I'm certain. There, you have me telling you, I think that going to church probably doesn't amount to anything if you don't really benefit yourself or others through it, or. . .

I'm at a crisis of faith but only because what I've been taught previously doesn't exactly go along with what I've now experienced. When I hear of someone "finding God" or the similar, maybe they've just been blessed with some goodness and are going along with some religion—the closest thing we know of. Then maybe what I feel is just a calling to do good shit for my debt. I don't want to offend anyone. I don't want to misconstrue myself as one of those people. Justin shall receive painful noogies, I plan to make an obscene amount of nigger jokes, and I await much joyous masturbation, BUT I will begin existing as a person who gives something back—a good boy—a God boy. George W. Bush, a man who represents power and evil but sat in the same churches. . .what I'm getting at is this, don't you think that somehow making a positive difference in the world is what really counts? Not just going through the motions! Gah—Chri—cripes!

I'd like to do something eventually where I could see some of the world, lend a hand to help the needy, and write about the experience. It won't be any time in the near future—no way—but I know what I have to do; it's a personal decision. Really, think about all the pain that I've caused the people I love. I know what I have to do. But it doesn't change the fact, Christianity strikes me as analogous to the McDonald's and Wal-Mart's and Coca-Cola's of the spiritual world. Look at me, I know I'm not a bad person; you can't give me any shit for badmouthing religion. I'm not a bad person, but I do frown upon religion. It isn't what it should be, and you can think what you want about me.

I'm not a bad person. I like to help people. I smile when you smile. I'm not a bad person.

December 27, 2005 - Tuesday
___________________

This article is about my own writing.

But first let me ask, what's with these away message artists?

I'm not pointing my finger at anyone—hi Alanna—I see a lot of people getting artsy with their away messages. Yes, I'll spy on people's away messages if I'm bored, I admit. You do it too, don't lie. I've seen a couple girls who play with font colors, use wacky wingdings, and generally play artiste with their away-text. It's simple. It's easy. Instead of typing "shower," someone chooses to add a little sparkle to their day with

something something shower rubber ducky.

I can't judge; I used to do it too. But what does a creative vibe like this say about me? I like to see it, the type of creativity we all enjoy: little scribbles, etc.

It's alright
to tell me
what you think
about me...

That's copied from an away message.

I once took an interest in computers—to the point where I risked much freedom—but I believe that "peck-peck-peck and gain access" interest has dried up, leaving room for this new "peck-peck-peck and express myself" love. I'd like to be a writer; I'd love to be; I'm doing what I can to see that I develop this interest, and while my parents are still covering my education. =P

=)

I remember back in high school watching a friend segue into cars or some stupid, shit subject after saying, "The brainiac kids, man, they're cooped up in a bedroom reading over a history book or something while we're really out in the world. We're getting what we should out of life while they're just pouring over books. The joke's on them." Those nerdy kids will be squeezing their wife's fake tits soon! And while I can see half an ounce of truth in that we're-actually-better sentiment, I feel that I'm apt to see greatness—DOING SOMETHING I LOVE—writing. I'll get a job to keep busy, yes, but when I'm sixty years old I'll only look back at my novel(s?) and smile. It's funny; it's got me thinking that this is what I was REborn to do.

I'm sorry, but I have a hard time finding a deep respect for people who just do what they've been hired for, mostly, in life; the people who appear in some Wall St. type movie and simply make a lot of money, spend time at nightclubs, and drive nice cars; they're the antithesis of myself. Me, I'm improving my writing as much as possible because I can offer some of myself to the world, directly affecting people with so little as text. You've seen that I write a shitload; I'm sorry, but I need to write this much in order to improve my words. I'm working, now, to improve my chances of one day SIMPLY typing and pouring myself onto pages. Funny, I think about that and the image of a girl comes to mind with her saying, "The story, character, etc. is exactly how I feel. That song or whatever is, just, just speaks from my soul." That makes me sick and the reason is this, you do have a fucking way of expressing yourself other than latching onto a mere representation. Think of a retard, Corky, he'd give Becca a hug and say a few lines from a song instead of offering something original. That's what I fucking see a lot of you doing. Earlier tonight, by chance, a leathery relative had purchased another relative a card with sweet words, and this little—small but still significant—action caused someone to say, "You see, that's really how he feels. That's really him on the inside. Those are the words coming from his soul." If you can't feel higher than that we can't be close friends. Really, I don't have any trouble saying that; when I think of simple, I think of someone who can only express themselves through their possessions; the clothes they wear; the car they drive. I don't think I'm a bad person, but that's something new. And it's the reason I write.

I've started with some collegiate-level English where I'm working on my sentence structure at moment. Each sentence is unique; there's a lot more to it than you'd think. I've noticed that with ANYTHING I read I analyze how the author structures his sentences. That and I'm using semicolons when called for, fairly often. I once found difficulty with comma usage, and I believe this shows the overall improvement to my words. I'm doing what I can to see that I'll make a little scratch off of this hobby. Really, I just sit here and type shit, basic as daydreaming, and all the while I'm listening to the latest songs booming through my XM stereo setup, watching pornographic films when I feel the urge, and tapping at this keyboard to create something that you enjoy. If I can make money while doing something so simple as this, great! I'm proud to have so many people who care to read what I have to say.

With writing I can pick up on any hobby or habit of life; I research whatever it is that I write about and gain an understanding of the unimportant details with many objects through doing it. I've gained a transsexual share of makeup procedures, a better understanding of feminine contraception, and an enormous vocabulary with a quest for pretty language; all from my queer little short-stories, and only thus far. I find myself researching the various topics I'd like to touch upon through the internet. You wouldn't believe the details that we're missing out on. For you the details of the eye socket don't matter, but to someone like me, someone who's using this stuff as lingo, the inner workings of our ocular anatomy are important. But it goes further than that; the details and complexities I've learned with nutrition (thanks GNC) are along the same lines as, say, the standard depths to car repair, scuba diving, etc.; whatever it is I'm looking into; that's heavy. And it's the reason I dig this hobby. I'm able to pick apart the nitty-gritty details of whatever I feel like, and that I'd never see otherwise.

I've also been improving myself at the gym, same as years ago, to Herculean extents. I think about the productive everything that I do, and I smile. Really, I'm setting myself up with work for my church, helping around the house, and volunteering at ECM; I prepare for greatness. Basically I'm voicing that I'm on my way to somewhere special. I'm happy and doing what I can with all that I have when you thought that my car accident, from now over a year ago, would just set me back. What's the point of this; I'm trying to prove that I'm very alright.

=)

Merry Christmas!

Rather, "Happy Holidays" for political correctness —you're welcome !

December 23, 2005 - Friday
_____________________

A mysterious duo has registered on the home turf that is my internet forum. A, "D-Delay," and an, "UNK," have signed up for accounts on my beloved system.

I am being invaded! These two persons, who've probably expected to remain anonymous, haven't revealed their intentions. I didn't expect any tomfoolery when I created this message board, but, alas, I am mistaken. UNK began to tease me soon after the board went up, and I shall unmask this villain as a first order of business. Who is he?

A long trail of clues points this gumshoe in the right direction!

1. You first posted from host190.155.212.246.conversent.net

You frequent the computers of a school or business; this Conversent business isn't an ISP (AOL, Charter, etc.). If I remember correctly, your first post said something like, "We're here for you Jeff." I was dumbfounded! But you did give me a clue—that tone of speech communicates that you're an elder; you're willing to be quote-unquote there for me. I envision you shaking in your boots with beads of sweat pouring from your forehead as you read this!

2. Your following posts resolve as from 66-189-65-63.dhcp.oxfr.ma.charter.com

A ha! a local fellow. I know of only one man from this ho-hum, hillbilly area who is so kind as to read my shit. I know of one man who shares in my screen-staring existence, who I've heard website compliments from in the past. He's said something like, "You have too much time, Jeff." And I expect that when he reads this it will be proven without a doubt.

But, first, more proof!

3. As I originally suspected, and from your "username" alone, you are an uncle.

I suspect that you, sir—and I know as fact that you are a male, I know, because let's face it, women don't know anything about computers, or as I hear from my mom, "That typewriter screen thingy that you watch all of your girlfriends on." Anyways women aren't designed to use computer machines.

I've taken an interest in this Freud character; the three letter U-N-K alludes to UNK-LE. Yes, from so little as your first, mysterious post, I concluded that you were an uncle. And only one of my uncles takes part in the screen-staring I know of: my Uncle Andy!

So, yes, you are my uncle Andy, a man whose pool is filled with my salty piss.

You are the brother to your sister; my mother; the woman whose feet I rub with Jasmine lotion and exotic oils, whose dishes I clean with Dawn dishliquid and a S.O.S sponges, and whose presence I reward with many bear-hugs.

For anyone who is not my Uncle Andy, let this serve as a call to donate dollars in the cause of the Public Broadcasting Network, PBS, WGBH, Channel 2. I once watched their fine program, Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego; I'm certain that I've gained many gumshoe tricks of the trade while watching this fine series, and I should let you know that I've certainly become flustered watching their do-wop, "international vocal sensation," Rockapella.

But more detective work remains; another gambit has invaded my premises!

A man—we covered that—known only as D-Delay has also registered an account on my web board, leaving a Freudian clue. Again the naming convention reveals more than you'd think; the 'D' repetition tells us something. D. . .Delay. . .Dipshit. . .Dumbass. . .Dickwad. . .Damn Deliquent. . .Derek! Yes, again, with so little as the "nickname" suspicion, I have unmasked a villain. And to be sure I looked through his information; I saw that he's registered from a familiar Yahoo! email address.

CASE CLOSED! I've seen victory in uncovering the truth. *crowd applauds* My sleuth leaves no stone unturned, my investigation techniques will solve any mystery, and my stone-cold interrogation breaks many balls. You've seen a textual adventure here, and I hope you've picked up a thing or two from my cunning. If you're in need of a Dick Tracy, call my offices.

December 21, 2005 - Wednesday
_____________________

I am a man.

I am a man whose playful antics are smiled upon and whose generosity is always appreciated.
I am a man with polite compliments laying on his tongue, who routinely picks up the tab.

I am a man of sex appeal.
I am a man of burly muscle, of clean shaven, kissable cuteness.

I am a man of definite aspirations in life. I am a man with plans.
I am a man of humor, of understanding, and of faith—exactly what the ladies are looking for.

I am a man who is good with roses; willing to deliver a box of chocolates; who is always there to lend an ear.

I am a man of caring. I am a man of greatness. I am a man.

December 16, 2005 - Friday
_____________________

I've taken a look at all the motor vehicles out there, reflecting upon the ones that I consider special. I've thought about the cars that have meant something to me over the years, and I now present to you the car machines that are—realistically—important to me.

FORD MUSTANG – Fox Body

I saw one of these today: wide tires, loud exhaust, and most importantly a lot of style. I hope to own one of these "bad boys" eventually, where I can shatter my initial gentle-man impression by pushing the throttle and blowing up women's skits on the sidewalk. I'd like to one day own a car with attitude; exactly that; gas guzzler with spunk. I prefer the dirty Joe Dirt image to that of Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver in my vehicles. And while I'm trying to get away from speaking with belongings—like I see so many of my peers doing—there's something to be said about man's connection with vehicles. I haven't gone off the deep end! I will only continue to keep my cars clean and well fed.

SCION Tc

A girl I once dated would become wet at the sight of this sedan's elegant appearance. It's slow. It says nothing of, "man on the loose." It's something a Mathematics Major would drive. But it doesn't change the fact, it is sexy. I shall pilot one of these when I return to the road; just the reason why my head spins when I see one. It's stunningly handsome from every angle. I envision myself cruising in style with my hair perfectly coiffed, teeth shining remarkably white, face clean shaven, and biceps bulging with sheer power. Street racing is not my style, but elegance is exactly the Marquis trademark.

HONDA S2000

The japo ricer coupe pins you to the seat with a 9k RPM limit, and the RWD works so smooth through the 5-speed gearbox. I've always seen this—impractical two seater—in a dreamy light. I, just as many men, hope to own a small pocket rocket like this. But not a Miata because those are for fags!

TOYOTA COROLLA WAGON

This was my first car; a vehicle where enough juvenile behavior took place so that I can look back—at this wagon—and smile. "Nice wagon, Jeff." … "Yeah but it's a stick-shift!" It sparked my love for the control of a racy transmission and brought along with it contempt for underpowered throttles everywhere. Some notable memories are:
a) Returning a wagon-full of the sexiest girls my age, who I knew of anyway, back to their homes after police broke up a party.
b) Looking down from a St. John's window and onto the car where it had been lifted onto a bordering curb. I got a lot of shit for having driven a wagon to school.
c) Learning how to kick the ass end out; exploring the carnival ride that is "the e-brake slide."

ACURA INTEGRA TYPE-R

When I was in high school, the majority of students viewed any Acura Integra in a wishful light; jealous of the few who were so privileged and able to rev that ricey engine. The car shines with simplicity, and it looks good doing it. It's small. It's light. And you bet your ass it's quick, not to mention agile.

Enter R. Acura blesses few vehicles with this holy letter of Japanese imports; tuning the suspension for catlike reflexes and giving the engine a much needed bump in vroom-vroom beans. Black, white, and yellow are the only colors these Type R's are available in, and heads spin everywhere, "Look, there's one!" Also it is said, "If it ain't a Type R, it ain't a fast car," and this sentiment is dear to the hearts of those who find equilibrium in looks and speed, concerning how a car should speak for its owner.

BMW M COUPE

Assuming my first book sells well, I shall purchase one of these strange yet beautiful machines. I've driven a wagon to high school and received much shit for it, right, well I'm looking to break that mold of, "hop in the back" with a refined two-seater providing only enough space for the beautiful Kristen Johnson and I. They're sexy machines as well.

And while I may refrain from fast and / or furious driving, I hope to turn heads with both respectable parking manners and the unconventional appearance that this hatchback offers. And while I'm on my way to this eventual book signing, I plan to smile knowing that a storm of pistons lay idle awaiting a tap of my foot to the pedal.

SIDE NOTE

I've flipped through one of the many, many, and many car magazines I've collected over the years—such a shame—and I see pictures of the featured and modified cars with their owner standing there presenting what they've created. Err, "bought." Merely paid for and then paid more money to have modified. Blech.

What the shit is this shit? There I see a nothing scumbag; proud; like he's done something; when he's flaunting nothing of personal achievement! Yeah. His dad made a lot of money. But what did he do? Nothing. Your reaction is to say, "You're just jealous," but I feel no envy; I'm surprised how blind I once was—and you are—to this sort of thing. I'm disgusted with how I took pride in an elevated pedestal, all because my dad paid a lot of money to buy me something fast. Anyways this kid looks like a pussy with baggy clothing. A personal strength speaks louder than, "Don't I look tough when I stand next to this nice car?" Hold that thought.

I see a shitload of my peers doing this, and it makes me sick. What I do respect; I remember Jim Cassidy; his parents didn't have much money; he didn't have the nicest toys; but he did put on a disgusting amount of muscle; envied for what he is; people jealous of him as a person. *rabble rabble rabble* What I'm getting at is this; I see too many people, toooo many people speaking with their dollars. It's precisely why I don't like this that I see in many minorities. Hey you, people like Victor.

Continuing this tangent, I just watched some videos of the Scion tC in street races with other cars, and I feel disgusted for having once taken pleasure in "being an automotive enthusiast with driving skill" and "hitting apexes and nailing shifts." Really, I feel sick for having felt pleasure in SIMPLY accelerating quicker than others. It's simply that, "going faster." Not the snazzy, romantic language we give street racing, "nailing shifts" and "going full throttle." There's nothing about driving fast or enjoying automobiles that you must "put your heart into" or the equivalent. Really, you think, no duh Jeff, but this is something new to me. I see someone proud of their street racing history; I think, that's all you can fucking do? Just sit there and drive good? And this is how you spend your free time? Just fucking driving around and talking about cars?

CONCLUSION

I must retake the driver's test to re-receive my license as result of the head injury. I'm a wayyysss off from driving. *Jeffrey frowns* Anyways, my desire to tie up the laces on my driving shoes is there, but now the only reason I look forward to sitting my tooshie in the driver's seat is because I'm on my way to a sweetie whore's house, nightclub, or pool hall—not because I'll want to "make crisp shifts" or the disgusting equivalent.

Getting away from that, I'm confident of my driving abilities. Rather amateurish but perhaps useful, I've begun playing racing games on my six foot projector screen through X-Box. I'd like to think that my abilities to carve up the track and / or shoot up bad guys will carry into real-world driving abilities. Something else, I've got an interesting bet with my friend Derek; can his agile vehicle run the course that is Henshaw St. at 64 MPH and see the finish line? He claims his new Mitsubishi Evolution MR is capable of it, but we'll see. . .

There. Those are the cars I consider special. Those are the cars I hope to own one day, but I'm not willing to sacrifice so much of my life as I once was, simply to own a car. And I believe it's understandable why cars aren't so important to me! I don't have to explain myself. I'll leave it at that.

December 11, 2005 - Sunday
_____________________

Artie Lange: Comedian Extraordinaire, Overweight Alcoholic, Howard Stern Show Commentator

I once looked up to this fat stand-up comedian, Artie Lange, "He's got it made!" Whether lauding Jack Daniels and Club Soda beverages ("Jack and Water") or savoring Philly Cheese-Steak sandwiches, I took a liking to this man's in-your-face refinement and off color humor. He's fat. He drinks too much. And he makes this hedonism work in his favor. He looks good being lazy. This man, good with his words, often botches comedy show routines with sippy-sippy antics and uses imprecision as staple of his act.

If you enjoy the inactivity of drinking while picking apart life's foibles, you'll enjoy Lange's presence. If you enjoy laying on the couch with clogged arteries and a soothing buzz, you'll find asset in Lange's comparability. And if you feel proud while watching another fumble in life, you'll take pleasure in pitying this fool. Lastly, criminals may feel an equality since Lange's LAPD chase; resulting with a "Possession of cocaine" charge. The unsavory mêlée ended our fat Italian's spree with Mad TV but launched him into a fulltime position with The Howard Stern Show; Lange began to play position for the good-as-dead Jackie "The Jokeman" Martling with Stern each morning.

You can catch Artie Lange on The Howard Stern Show each morning.

December 7, 2005 - Thursday
_____________________

Greetings! It's your lucky day; I shall offer you my golden advice with Fitness Ideals. Many, many people have aided me through the past year, and I'd like to repay any debt. Here, I offer you my fitness knowledge; that is, how to get in shape—mainly gain muscle—at the gym. I've withered away 40 lbs. on The Stomach Tube Diet, but I now sport a fair share of respectable muscle thanks to my inner motivation combined with the knowledge that I've gained at GNC—which I now share with you. I can't motivate you, but I here offer my proven advice for how to become physically fit. Please print this out and leave it around the house. If this doesn't help your wife's fat ass, nothing will!

Enjoy, Fitness Ideals

December 4, 2005 - Sunday
______________________

What is it that I hate?

I've told you how I have a sick amount of hatred stirring inside me, understandably, for having wasted so much potential and along with it tossing every last piece of my life out of its orbit. This isn't easy. But I only have the anger pushing me forward; accomplishing what I can; making better of myself with all that I have.

Anyways back to evil. To be more precise, I hate the people who are blind to perspective—and there are a lot of you out there. I hate the people who tremble at the thought of their car having been keyed; who I once was. "My life is over! I can't believe they're sold out." Anything similar to that me-me-me-the-consumer standpoint disgusts yours truly and brings with it a temper towards the stereotypical males who drool over gold teeth, rims, and jewelry. Die; we don't need you. And while I have that hatred, I wish that, perhaps, an asteroid nearly collides with Earth, allowing us to recognize all that we have never accomplished with the ultimate perspective: we're going to die; something I now fully recognize. You aren't able to fully see that you won't be here one day in the same sense as I do. I'm able to feel the importance of, "At least I'm here." after what I've been through, and few have that. You'll astonish me if you're able to say, "It's great to be here. I'm so thankful to be alive." and really mean it, as I do.

Concluding a $1959.20 bi-monthly Botox treatment, I spoke with a woman who stayed with me throughout the beginning of my Fairlawn stay—and keep in mind, this is after an entire month on a stomach tube in the ICU!—a woman who spoon fed me with baby food. I think about that; I imagine an infant-like me, being spoon-fed with my parents—my own parents—watching me, their 22 year-old college student, and looking for a smile, "Oh look, he likes the banana flavor!" It makes me sick, and I can hate myself for having felt a cold sweat when my WRX was keyed. I thought my life was over because of a few scratches. I promise you, if I ever witness a peer bitching and whining about a personal belonging having been damaged, and again I promise you this, I will become violent with the person, all with the message of, "Now what's important to you; what's important to you with your smashed nose, looking up at me?"

I had my shit so easy. I ripped out my girlfriend's backbone and had her trained to obey Father. I had my parents fooled with a message of, "This is the best that I can do." They thought I was working at my potential, and so did I. And all I can do now is apologize. I'm sorry. I had myself fooled; I didn't know that I was capable of so much. I thought I was doing everything that needed to be done. Look at me; this is what I do with my free time; writing for my webpage—improving my words—while I used to read about the latest $70k car that I'll never drive. I've spun my life around for the better, and it's exactly why I'm not upset. Maybe even a little joyous. No one forced me to drink so much or drive so fast. I drove in said manner at my own whim; something you might consider *gasp* suicide. I could say my cute little line, "It is, but it isn't" about having done this to myself. But, no; my car accident WAS TRULY AN ACCIDENT. I shimmered at the thought of death, and I promise you, my accident was a legitimate mistake. It doesn't change the fact; I'm the fool who bought a six-pack of Sparkz, who then got bottom-line sloshed—I left some notes on a Keno card in my bag that faded out to illegitimate chicken scratch, literally—at some bar, and who lastly proceeded to stomp on the accelerator. You might say it runs close, but I won't feel that.

It might appear as though I only ramble on and on and on about my crash—from now over a year ago—but this is the wrap-up. Everything you see here now will be gone, and I shall begin my webpage from scratch once 2006 arrives; a clean slate for a new beginning. I'm sure it appears as if I'll never get past my car accident. And while that is partly true, you won't have to read this angst much longer. You and a metric fuck-ton of people read whatever I type, la la la la la, and I choose this productive hobby as an alternative to watching television and stupid shit. This is my television. I have enough to report from and you take an interest in; I've simply ensured that I leave nothing out. I enjoy the fact that I can report from a disaster experience; from brain damage; you love it.

A noble cousin commented, "You're my hero," which I will always remind him of. And given the circumstances of what I've risen above, yeah I can see that. Doesn't change the fact; I'll have a difficult time with school—if I even finish with the Bachelor's. I'm very unsure of where I'm going in life. I'll take some classes I'm most interested in, but I'm not fully sure of which degree, even, I'm shooting for. I've told you that I don't care about "the finer things in life," but that isn't exactly true. I drool over Ferrari. I quiver when I see Movado. Believe me, I'm not sitting here, pecking away, moaning, "God is love," while rubbing a wet seal that is my belly, no. Realistically I don't know what I should do with my life; having this huge, huge, and huger event placed upon me suddenly has changed my interests, and it's making me wonder if where I'm headed is where I should be going. It makes me question how I can diverge from the techie seminar for the better; with all that I see now.

The Bachelor's Degree: the standard educational height of American, middle-class families. I'm not sure if I'll *gasp* attain it. I'm not sure if I'm willing to spend so much of my time, my life—and waste some of my opportunity to be out and into the world—for that piece of paper. I'm really torn. There's Computer Science, the technical and logical field, but I'm not sure if I should let my as-it-were predictions continue. And then there's English, the artsy-fartsy field, seeing as how I've taken a great liking to my words. I'm torn.

I'll go over array material to include searching & sorting.

There's a line from an email I received last year where we were discussed how variables are classified into arrays pertaining to the line-by-line code of computer programs. Please. Partly the reason I drank so heavily was the realization that I'm unable to continue with such logical knowledge. Computer science, computer SCIENCE. I began this computer habit with medium-level computer hacking, which I thought would simply translate as experience and result with a high-paying job. Nooope.

At this moment I know plenty of shit; confident I'm able to make it just fine in the world—as is. My mom mentioned to me, "Not many people with a head injury are able to live alone," to which I replied, "You're not fooling me that easy!" I know I'd do just fine on my own; I'm not fully recovered yet! My prestigious high school fundamentals and minority-laden college trimmings put me ahead of many in the game. I know I'll do fine, and you bet your ass I can't wait to see it.

It's all going to take a whillleeeeee though. My hopes of scooting a whore's ass out of the apartment side door aren't realistic for quite a whillleee. *shakes fist*

Again, thank you for reading what I have to say. And I hope you're coming away from this with something; maybe how you can possibly cope with disaster in your own life. I want you to keep the thought of all that I endure—while "staying positive"—in your head the next time that you're whining like a bitch with a skinned knee from car scratches or the equivalent. What I do would break you, and I'm out to make you look lazy with all that I do well. What I do would break you, and while you could tell me, "I never drive drunk," please keep in mind, you may perhaps become involved with a third-party sending your car off the road. You may perhaps simply slip in some snow. I doubt you'll ever experience a quarter of what I've face; of what I've overcome. You don't know what I do, and I want you to ponder all that I've endured while you're crying like a pussy because your car has a dent. What I do would fucking break you to pieces. You would have given up; you can't do this.

I'm sorry to have placed hateful words on your screen, but I deserve your respect. Any who've overcome something tremendous can perhaps relate to my sentiment. A girl I know, a Kristen by chance; she knows a man my age who is mostly paralyzed from the neck down after a motorcycle accident, who exhibits similar characteristics to what I've exhibited, and who also shows an indifference towards the 'tragedy' he's faced. Neither of us truly regret our accidents which have occurred with only ourselves at fault, and I believe it's because of all the perspective we've been given to view life with. We showed a disregard for our own lives and have received exactly what we've been in need of.

I was tired and crazy and rushed, and every time I boarded a plane, I wanted the plane to crash. I envied people dying of cancer. I hated my life. I was tired and bored with my job and my furniture, and I couldn’t see any way to change things.
Only end them.
I felt trapped.
I was too complete.
I was too perfect.
I wanted a way out of my tiny life. Single-serving butter and cramped airline seat role in the world.

I showed a blatant ignorance toward my own safety, and this should tell you, I felt a burning sensation inside of me that cried out for something—notably a drink—to add simply whatever to my life; to send a static sensation that would come along and sweep away the anxious outlook I once had, replacing it with "something is better than nothing." I hated my life. Regarding my parents, I knew that I could go to them for help and that they were willing to bend over backwards to make me truly happy. And regarding Allyson, she knew enough to keep her damn mouth shut. Everything now though, I love my life. Ask me about my weight training. Ask me about my writing. Ask me about my plans for the future. Ask me about my date for an upcoming ECM Christmas Party. You could be jealous of my vibrant outlook; the realization that I'm capable of a great life; my desire to influence. You wish you had a taste of this divine grip on reality.

I'm trying to get away from the hatred speak. There's really something extraordinary to this that I experience. There's really something to be said about my positively vibrant view encompassing all that life is and should be. I love my life. I love my plans for the future. And maybe I've been blessed. And maybe I have been.

December 3, 2005 - Saturday
_______________________

I browsed this website's options and came upon an interesting opportunity, a message board.

I created a message board; unsure of its outcome I said, "WELCOME!"

And I was astonished when a stampede didn't ensue. I created a couple threads of my own interest. Behold,

Jeffrey offers Comedy

and

Praise for Jeffrey Marquis

. . .time passes. . .

I soon realized that I, maybe, shouldn't have demanded so much from so little; you; the able bodied souls who can't compete with this extraordinary productivity I showcase.

I said, "GOODBYE!" to my followers.

I waved farewell to my duty as moderator but look back on those fine 48 hours with a proud feeling in my heart.

. . . continue with November!