Youngest of One

The Big Payoff:

When I got out of bed this morning at approximately 1:30 A.M., I knew that I had one task ahead of me for the day that would take priority over all other issues, such as continuing the story of "Paul's Diary."  I knew, from my long history of reading novels, that today would certainly be the day that I would finish reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  Whenever I pick up a book, my reading process always unfolds the same way.  I take it slow for a while, maybe a chapter or two a day.  Then, as a reach the middle, I find a faster and steadier pace, since by now I have a vested interest in the book.  Finally, there always comes a single day when I can tell by the diminished thickness held in my right hand that I am going to finish the book.  On that particular day, I read far more pages than I normally would, simply because I know that each one is bringing me so much closer to the end, and it feels like to put the book down at such a point in the story would be like pausing Back to the Future at the beginning of the scene portraying the night when lightning strikes the clock tower and saying, "You know what?  I think I'll pick this up later," or like pausing Donnie Darko once Donnie and his pals leave the Halloween party and saying, "This can wait until tomorrow."  Personally, I just couldn't do a thing like that.  Once I know that the end is almost in sight, I know that I have to see it as soon as possible, because it wouldn't leave my mind even if I did turn my eyes away.  Once I reached page seven hundred of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I could feel myself starting to get quite hungry.  However, I knew with utmost certainty that if I were to put the book aside and get something to eat then my mind would start reeling with the countless questions I had about the ending.  As soon as I finished the book, I handed it to my mother, who will be the next to read it.  Then I ate something from the local pizzeria.

I am not going to write a full review of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, for the sake of the folks out there who have not read the whole book yet.  I know that I would not have wanted some blogger spoiling the ending for me.  When I refer to all of the people who have not read this novel, I have one particular person in mind: my girlfriend, who is a true Harry Potter fan and was unfortunately separated from her copy of the book during her recent vacation.  Due to this time without the novel, she has only read approximately three hundred pages thus far, and she would definitely kill me (or do worse) if I were responsible for revealing any unknown detail about the book to her.  "I've waited ten years for this," she told me on the eve of the book's release, "and I don't want anyone ruining it for me."  Therefore, I will limit my comments about the book to one short, spoiler-free remark about my opinion regarding it.  I consider Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows to be far more entertaining than I had expected.  My expectations were somewhat lowered by the fifth and six books in the series, which both left me with the same feeling I had as I left the theater for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.  That feeling is best described in these words: "Well, that was all well and good, but now I've got a very long wait until the big payoff."  Of course, I ought to have realized that the final book (a.k.a. "the big payoff") would be spectacular since there has been so much leading up to every precise moment.  The most remarkable aspect of the Harry Potter series, in my opinion, is how amazingly well J.K. Rowling planned such an epic story with so many characters and so many conflicts.  But I am not going to say any more about that.

Right now, I am very tired, and I would like nothing more than for tomorrow to arrive as soon as possible, so I am going to bed.  Thanks for reading.

(Note: On the day after this entry was written, TypePad did something awful, causing me to lose what I was writing that night.  I was too tired to start over from the beginning, which explains why there is no entry for August 1st.  That is all.)

Time's Up. End Post.

Sorry For The Filler:

I haven't been able to figure out the next few days in "Paul's Diary" yet, and I don't have enough time to give it much thought tonight.  I haven't stepped outside my house all day, so it would be natural to ask why I haven't spent some time today planning tonight's blog entry.  My answer begins with the fact that I got out of bed at approximately 2:00 in the afternoon today, and it continues with the fact that I must have read at least one hundred pages of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows today.  I am not dedicated enough to be the sort of fan who read the whole novel within ten hours of purchasing it, but I can not deny that it is an entertaining page-turner that I hope to finish soon.

Honestly, having done absolutely nothing worth mentioning today, I don't have much else to say right now, so I guess the best that I can do is to just keep writing until 3:00 A.M., at which point the designated half-hour will be over.  I must admit that I am being occasionally interrupted by text messages, and I can not break the habit of checking my email every time I take a break between sentences.  Not only that, but I've also got into the habit of constantly refreshing my Twitter page as well.  By the way, I welcome all of you to read my Twitter page, if you'd like, and to become my new Twitter pal if you have a page of your own.  I wonder if compulsive refreshing is some sort of disease.  Maybe it's an epidemic.  Do any of you abuse your Refresh button?  I'm sure that if my refresh button was an actual, three-dimensional button, then it would certainly be worn out and broken by now.  I've even gotten into the habit of refreshing the DeviantArt home page as well, just to see the newest artwork.  It must be an illness.  Oops, it's 3:00 A.M.

Time's Up. End Post.

Paul's Diary, Part Two:

November 9th, 2008:  I was right about all the free food I would get now that no one ever acknowledges me.  Unfortunately, this unexplainable pandemic has finally spread to my landlord, who must have been very confused when he realized that one of his apartments was full of stuff that belonged to a tenant whom he probably cannot even remember.  He must have come to this realization while I was out stealing a week's worth of groceries, and so he did what anyone else would have done.  He emptied the apartment, left all of my belongings outside on the curb to be picked up as garbage, and changed the locks on the door.  Aside from a few valuables that the landlord must have kept for himself, everything I own is laid out in front of me here amongst the piles of stuffed black plastic bags.  I'd like to take it all with me, but I don't have anywhere to store it.  I can't get into my home anymore, and I can't get a new place because nobody will even speak to me.  I'm sitting on my reclining chair next to the street, trying to gather everything important and portable into a single plastic bag.  What I really need right now is a long stick and a handkerchief where I can bundle all my belongings and mosey on down the railroad tracks with my whole life balanced on my shoulder.  At least I won't starve to death.

November 11th, 2008:  The closest thing I have to a home now is a bench in the 86th Street train station.  I've got no problem entering and exiting, since there's no one who can tell me to stop jumping over the turnstile.  Sure, the whole platform smells like urine, but it's better than sitting out on the sidewalk, where it's likely that I'll get kicked by all the passersby who can't acknowledge me.  I thought of staying in Central Park, where at least I wouldn't feel suffocated and uncomfortable.  However, winter is really starting to settle in, and I don't have a coat thick enough to keep me warm.  I suppose I could steal one, but I'd better steal some other items while I'm at it.  I should make a list: coat, hat, gloves, earmuffs, snow pants, maybe a ski mask.  I've always thought that ski masks would be so practical for those really cold days, but I never wore one because it's just not socially acceptable.  I guess I don't have to be worried about what other people might accept anymore.  Also, it's sure to be a long winter if I'm going to be perpetually ignored throughout it.  So, it can't hurt to pick up a ski mask.  It would be nice to have some extra comfort, too.  I wonder if I can fit a mattress down here onto the platform.  At the very least, I'll swipe a few pillows next time I'm above ground.

November 13th, 2008:  I can't stand it.  I'm just as invisible as every other homeless person in this godforsaken city.  I was riding on a number six train today, not because I had anywhere to go but because I had nothing better to do and I was tired of looking at the same advertisements and the same floor tiles and the same rats.  At 68th Street, some kid boarded the train.  He must've been a high school student, either getting a terrible education or getting a great one and not caring about it.  His headphones were feeding music into his ears so loudly that everyone else could hear the redundant hip-hop beats and obnoxious, aggressive lyrics.  His eyes were closed, and his lips were moving with the lyrics.  He didn't even realize that all eyes in the train car were on him.  Everyone was staring at him because he was disturbing their calm.  I started screaming obscenities at every man, woman, and child in my presence.  I jumped up and down and even threatened to throw myself onto the tracks, but no one said a word in protest and no one averted their eyes from that arrogant kid with the loud headphones.  I had so much contempt for him, attracting so much attention without even trying.  The contempt rose from my gut to my esophagus.  I spat at him.  It landed right below his right eye.  He looked up, disgusted and outraged.  I felt his cold, vicious stare.  He was looking right at me.  As he stepped forward, I thought that somehow I had finally broken the curse.  Then, he passed right by me and sucker-punched the man in the suit who was standing behind me.  I realized two things today.  The first is that I can't expect to be acknowledged by anyone.  The second is that, as a result I have a very strange, unique influence on the world around me.

End Post.

Paul's Diary, Part One:

November 1st, 2008:  Something strange happened today.  No one spoke to me.  I greeted some of my pals at work, and not a single one of them said a word back to me.  I thought it was just a practical joke.  I figured that my manager probably paid everyone else to ignore me for the whole day, just to confuse me or get on my nerves.  He's funny and inventive like that.  I remember one time when he glued some quarters to the floor, and all day customers were trying to pick them up.  All the other stock boys and I had a good laugh about it.  It got much weirder when I got home, though.  I must have called six different pizza places, trying to get a pie delivered, but nobody ever answered the phone.  Did I forget to pay the phone bill?  Would I be able to make those calls if I did?  Eventually I settled for eating the Hot Pockets in the freezer.  I'm going to bed.  Tomorrow's another day, right?

November 3rd, 2008:  I'm sure of one thing.  I'm not deaf.  I can still hear all sorts of sounds.  I hear cars driving by, I hear the sounds of the television set, and I can even hear other people's voices when they are talking to each other.  But no one has talked to me in the past three days.  If this is someone's idea of a prank, then I don't think it's funny, but they sure are showing dedication.  I followed Emmett all day, hollering at him and doing jumping jacks around him, but he didn't even glance at me.  I even knocked over everything he shelved, but some brat kid got blamed for it instead of me.  It turned out that the kid was trying to shoplift, so I guess he got what he deserved, even though he was initially framed.  No one ever answers the phone when I try to call them, not even my family.  Not only that, but I've noticed that this strange phenomenon has spread to my television as well.  Most programs are normal, where I can hear everything, including the voices.  But during public service announcements I can't hear a single word they're talking about.  I don't mind that much, since I never really gave a hoot about their concerns, but it still strikes me as very odd.

November 6th, 2008:  I showed up for work today, but there was no sign that I ever worked there before.  My vest, my name tag, and even my time card were nowhere to be found.  "I guess it's quitting time," I screamed at my manager, hoping that he would give up the charade once I threatened to quit.  He didn't even flinch.  Now I seriously doubt that this is just some prank.  Maybe I'm actually dead, and no one is talking to me because I'm a ghost.  That doesn't seem likely, though, because I can't think of a single thing that might have killed me last week.  The last time that anybody spoke to me was at Harriet's Halloween Party, which was loads of fun but not in a fatal sort of way.  Sure, I knocked back a few beers, but not enough to kill me.  As a matter of fact, I'm sure that I didn't die at that party because Emmett gave me a ride home himself.  No one would give a ride home to a ghost.  I'm trying not to let this get to my head.  I have to look on the bright side.  Now that I have no job, I've got way more time to spend at home watching television.  Plus, I'm not going to starve any time soon, since nobody can tell me not to take their food.  That'll be the true test of this weird hex.  If I'm really undetectable, then thievery will have me set for life.

(Time's Up. To Be Continued. End Post.)

Thirty Things:

It is already 2:30 A.M., and I can't think coherently enough to bring you a well composed entry.  Therefore, in accordance with my new thirty minute rule, I have decided to provide you with one new thought for each minute.

Minute One:  While I am reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I get the strange feeling that I will be reading this book for the rest of my life.  I'm enjoying it a lot, but I'm a slow reader.

Minute Two:  Someone recently offered to send me free stuff just because of something I blogged about once.  I don't want to mention specific details until I get the stuff.  Then I'll tell you all about it.

Minute Three:  My dog is making noises in his sleep.  Whenever my mom hears this, she usually wakes him up and asks if he was having a bad dream.  I wonder if dogs really dream, and whether they can separate those dreams from reality.

Minute Four:  I watched two episodes of Pee-Wee's Playhouse earlier today.  In the first episode, the secret word was "help."  In the next one, the secret word was "good."

Minute Five:  I would not want to work at my local Taco Bell / KFC restaurant, because everyone who works there is hated by the customers due to slow service.

Minute Six:  I've noticed that Firefox's automatic Spell Check provides red lines under acronyms as if they are real words.  This annoys me more than it ought to.

Minute Seven:  Someday, I want people to yell at me and write hateful messages to me because of some cliffhanger in a story that I will have written for them.

Minute Eight:  Whenever I'm feeling sad or lonely, I usually think of Balticon, and that cheers me up.

Minute Nine:  I am upset that very few people use the word "Ahoy" in our modern society.  I will make it my mission to reintroduce "Ahoy" to our common vocabulary.

Minute Ten:  Two days ago, I was writing, and I was stopped in my tracks by the word "awkward."  I had never thought about it before, but suddenly the spelling of that word seems so strange to me.  "A 'w' and then a 'k' and then another 'w'?" I thought.  "That just can't be right.

Minute Eleven:  This summer, Flight of the Conchords on HBO and Dexter on Showtime have become two of my favorite shows.

Minute Twelve:  If I were watching television right now, I would either be watching Futurama on Adult Swim or Psych on USA.

Minute Thirteen:  Today at Taco Bell, I ordered both quesadillas and taquitos.  Only later did I realize that I had simply ordered the same food in two different shapes.

Minute Fourteen:  I have only played Guitar Hero 2 once in my life.  The only song that I could get through was "Killing in the Name of" on Easy mode.  That song rocks, but they censored for the game.  Also, you are only required to use three of the five buttons on Easy mode.

Minute Fifteen:  Only ten days left until I see Muse live in concert at Madison Square Garden.  I am prepared for a night that I will remember for the rest of my life or until I become senile.

Minute Sixteen:  Earlier today I said that I am a senior, and my cousin told me that I'm not.  "If you drop out of school now, would you still be a senior?"  I suppose I can wait until September to be a senior.

Minute Seventeen:  Earlier tonight, an image popped into my head in which someone had been killed with a sword in a rather creative way.  I look forward to writing this idea into a work of fiction soon.

Minute Eighteen:  Earlier today I joking told my best friend Brian that my girlfriend is on vacation in Transylvania.  He replied, "Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.  Transylvania?  People don't actually go there."  I laughed and then wondered if anyone actually does.

Minute Nineteen:  Some people have told me that I should get a Facebook account.  I would prefer not to.  The internet has already consumed so much of my soul already.  I don't want to give up any more of it.

Minute Twenty:  I love notebooks.  Please continue to give me notebooks as gifts, as many people often do.  I need to get better at filling them with words, though.

Minute Twenty-One:  I have been told that I look good while wearing glasses, but nonetheless I am glad that I have good eyesight, because I am sure that I would lose or break my own glasses if I had a pair.

Minute Twenty-Two:  Several things simultaneously woke me up this morning.  I distinctly remember three of them.  One was a text message being received by my cellular phone.  The second was the sound of the shower being activated in the bathroom on the other side of my wall.  The last was the fact that it was way too cold in my room.

Minute Twenty-Three:  I spent hours today sitting in my cousin's attic on a pile of cardboard boxes and pillows.  Although it was not as comfortable as an actual chair, I was still happy.

Minute Twenty-Four:  This entry should have been completed a while ago, but things like email distracted me.  I should have expected that to happen.

Minute Twenty-Five:  I went to the bank earlier today.  I like the smell of the bank.  I think it must be the smell of money and comfortable chairs in a well air-conditioned space.

Minute Twenty-Six:  My mother's cellular phone just rang, and it nearly scared the skeleton out of me.  Who the heck would call at an hour so late that technically it's early the next day?

Minute Twenty-Seven:  It has been too long since I have eaten sushi, and that is strange because it seems like lately a new sushi restaurant pops up every day in my neighborhood.

Minute Twenty-Eight:  If I must be killed by a weapon, then I would wish to be killed by a crossbow.  A poison-tipped arrow would probably be more pleasant than bleeding to death due to a wound caused by a regular arrow.

Minute Twenty-Nine:  Ever since that darned phone rang, I can't shake the feeling that I'm in some sort of horror movie.  As long as I don't answer the phone, then I can still live longer than seven days, right?

Minute Thirty:  I shut off that phone's ringer so that it won't scare me again.  I must go to bed.  Thanks for reading.

Time's Up. End Post.

Extreme Discomfort Bordering On Pain:

Yesterday, I went to the dentist for a routine cleaning, and everything seemed wrong.  In truth, nothing was wrong.  I still have not had a single cavity in my life, and my dentist said that I have "great teeth."  Nevertheless, everything seemed different, and I distinctly remember thinking to myself as I sat in that big chair, "Wow.  This is much worse than I remember it."  There were no jungle themed decorations surrounding me, there was a lot more recognizable scraping involved in the process, and at no point was I asked what flavor I wanted.  In the past, I was always given the opportunity to choose from a wide selection including but not limited to grape, watermelon, bubble gum, mint, and berry.  (I always chose berry.)  This time, that question was never raised, and instead everything tasted either excessively minty or just like fluoride, neither of which are good tastes, in my opinion.

The woman who cleaned my teeth treated me just as nicely as I've been treated in previous years.  However, once I actually opened my mouth for the cleaning, suddenly she didn't seem so nice and sympathetic.  She told me that the alarming changes all happened because I am "an adult now" and therefore I was receiving "an adult cleaning."  Lying in that elongated chair and staring at the bright light hanging above my face, I felt that I finally knew what it meant to be an adult: extreme discomfort bordering on pain.  I wanted to be coddled.  I wanted to taste berry.  I wanted to watch Finding Nemo. 

But instead of being able to look outward to children's programming on a television screen, I was forced to look inward into my own demented thoughts, made darker and drearier by this strenuous situation.  What are my odds of escape if this woman starts torturing me?  Are there straps on this chair to bind uncooperative patients?  Are my teeth really exposed parts of my skull?  Aren't bones strictly supposed to be on the inside of humans?  Isn't it a terribly bad thing if part of my skeleton ever sees the light of day?  Is she ever going to give me the chance to rinse and spit again?  Turning seventeen was a bad idea after all.  I don't want to grow up.  I'm a Toys 'R' Us kid.  Leave me alone.  I have great teeth, I swear.

Today, I have spent all day reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so I am afraid that I have neither the time nor the energy to write any more for you tonight.  Thanks for reading.

Time's Up. End Post.

Pointy Party Hats:

There are moments in the life of every creative writer when an idea hits them and it genuinely feels like an impact.  Such a moment is usually followed by either a long gasp, some awkward but joyful dancing, or repeated cursing of oneself for not having thought of the idea sooner.  I have heard a few writers compare this feeling to being hit by a ton of bricks.  I have two problems with this analogy.  The first is that the phrase "ton of bricks" seems cliché and has thereby lost meaning to some degree.  The second is that the thought of being hit by a ton of bricks is most closely associated with unimaginable pain, and therefore the analogy fails to capture the singular kind of joy that always accompanies such moments.  Naturally, I have set out to create a more fitting simile for this moment that is otherwise hard to describe.  Such a simile must reflect the feelings of impact, surprise, and happiness that arise as a result of these small epiphanies in each writer's life.  Consequently, I feel that each moment in which a writer has such an idea is like being slapped across the face as you enter your own surprise party.  The slap indicates impact, the party signifies happiness, and the surprise illustrates the surprise.  This would be helped if you would please imagine all of your closest friends shouting, "SURPRISE!"  In such an analogy, all of your closest friends collectively represent the new idea.

Although no one has ever held a surprise party for me in reality, nevertheless I have been lucky enough to be slapped across the face by a few screaming ideas in my short lifetime.  Unfortunately, my brain must have run out of cake and those pointy party hats that I like so much, since it has been a long while since I have had such a golden idea.  Sometimes I worry that perhaps I haven't had any epiphanies lately because I have been trying too hard to come up with one.  There is one particular story in my head, tentatively named "Death Wish," that has occupied most of my creative thinking in the past few weeks.  What started as a few pages of flash fiction two years ago recently started developing into a much longer idea that may or may not turn out to be the utterly crappy novella or novel that I am obligated to write in my youth.  I know that every writer's background is different, and there are some that are lucky enough to write great novels without any previous novel-writing experience.  Also, I cannot pretend to know what the future holds for me, since that is just one of many superpowers that I only dream of having.  Nonetheless, I sincerely believe that while I am still young I have to write at least one awful novella or novel that someday I will look back on and either laugh or feel shame.  "Death Wish" may give me that chance, but I have never planned such a lengthy story before.  Therefore, I am taking extreme measures.

I have filled a few pages in my favorite Moleskine notebook with some essential details about "Death Wish," but it would be extremely helpful to have a slap in the face upon entering a surprise party in my head in order to understand what direction the story must go toward next.  Earlier tonight, I got an idea not about the story itself but about how to develop the story and understand it better.  Using post-it notes, some tape, and a marker, I've started to create a family tree in my bedroom for the characters whom I have already create for this story.  With only six names currently in the tree, I hope that it will grow some new branches in the near future.  Furthermore, two people openly laughed at me today when I told them about this fictional family tree, and I'm not sure what my parents will think about it.  (Don't worry.  The marker doesn't show up on the wall.  I've already checked.)  Still, it is somewhat helpful to have a space on my bedroom wall where I can stare at these names and focus on the events of the story, both decided and undecided.  Maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll find a clue hiding in the family tree that will give me the plot details I need to really understand "Death Wish."  For now, I'm going to put on my thinking cap and play the waiting game.

End Post.

Belly Of The Beast:

    "Oh, good.  You're finally awake," Martin said to his only companion.
    "M-Martin?" Ryan said, not yet fully conscious.  "What are you doing in my room?"
    "We're not in your room," Martin said loudly, his words echoing around them.  "Wake up.  Look around you."
    "Why are my clothes all soggy?  Did I wet the bed?" Ryan asked, still half-dreaming.
    "Wake up!" Martin demanded.  "You're not in bed, and you probably didn't pee yourself.  I hope."
    "Then where the hell are we?" Ryan said, opening his eyes and then rubbing them to clear his vision.
    "We're in the belly of the beast," Martin said, frowning.  "Literally.  Too literally."
    "What belly?  What beast?  And why am I soaking wet?" Ryan said, growing impatient.
    "You're soaking wet because you're stewing in digestive fluid," Martin sighed.  "It's a miracle that we're even still alive, though that won't last very long in here."
    "You mean to tell me that we are seriously inside of a stomach?  Like, we were swallowed whole?" Ryan asked, reluctant to believe such a ridiculous notion.
    "You always were a heavy sleeper, probably the laziest tenant I've ever known." Martin said with a humorless smirk.  "Still, I never would have guessed that you'd sleep through a morning like that, what with the dragon storming into town and all."
    "Dragon?" Ryan gasped.  "Isn't Mortarbrook supposed to have protection against that sort of disaster?  I thought that the king funded a team of wizards for that very purpose."
    "Yeah, the Fortification Experts in Magic Agency," Martin sneered.  "They didn't respond quickly enough.  I didn't see a single one of their faces, but I saw a hell of a lot of destruction.  My whole building was being reduced to rubble when the dragon starting chowing down on all the residents."
    "Then what about my neighbors?" Ryan said, his voice quick with confusion and fear.  "What happened to everyone else in the building?"
    "Maybe some of them survived.  Most of them were crushed, I would assume." Martin said with traces of remorse.  "If you can get up, then have a look around.  Maybe some of the other tenants are here, too, probably chewed up.  But if your legs are anything like mine, then they've already started to get digested, in which case I would not recommend trying to get up."
    Ryan shrieked as he looked down at his own legs floating on the surface of the green, bubbling liquid that kept them afloat in the enormous, gray chamber.  Ryan's hamstring muscles were exposed in the areas of his legs were the skin had melted away.
    "Gross, isn't it?" Martin said, having witnessed the same sight on his own body.
    "No kidding," Ryan said, breathing in short, accelerated bursts.  "I guess we're not going to get out of here alive."
    "I've thought about that." Martin said, furrowing his brow.  "I figure that one of three things could happen.  The first is that we'll be fully digested and die in the same agonizing way that we are undergoing now.  The second is that the wizards out there might actually get off their asses and rip this dragon to shreds, which could allow us to escape alive.  I'm not counting on that, though.  I've never trusted the king's lousy agencies."
    "And the third possibility?" Ryan asked.
    "The dragon will try to swallow the old Mortarbrook Clock Tower in a single bite, activating the gag reflex that will send us rushing out to safety on a gigantic wave of dragon vomit," Martin said, rolling his eyes back into his head.
    "We're doomed," Ryan said.

(Time's Up. End Post.)

Wubbles The Devourer:

    We nourished it solely with water, but it was never fed.  It had a job to do, which would require it to be very hungry.  It had a mighty large meal ahead of it.

    In all of the texts and records, it is known by the name Biologic Defense Project #0037B.  At base, however, we have all codenamed it Wubbles the Devourer.  The title "Devourer" was given to it because all our lives depend on its ability to ingest a copious amount.  The nickname "Wubbles" came about during Take Your Daughter to Work Day, when Agent Donaldson brought his toddler Christina to the base.  She saw it and tried to say "lovable."  It was the cutest gosh-darned thing that any of us had ever seen, and so the name stuck.

    For decades our world has been threatened by a strange entity known only as the Void, an expanding area of nothingness that grows larger with each moon and nebula that it consumes in its nigh unstoppable path through outer space.  Our scientists predict that the Void will be entering our inner space within the next three months unless we act quickly.

    At first, the Void was thought to be an unfathomably powerful black hole, which itself already presents an anomaly in astronomical study.  However, a breakthrough was made when a voyage to examine the void revealed something that no one could have ever expected: teeth.  The astronaut, Elliot Innis, bravely set out on this expedition alone, and therefore he was the only casualty of the journey.  Footage of his final moments of life--mostly screaming and thrashing while being eaten by the Void, at which point the feed died--is now the top rated and most viewed video on YouTube.  Before the horrible shrieking began, he calmly reported seeing hundreds of sets of teeth on the edge of the Void.  Then, he was sucked into the monstrosity, and now a statue in his honor stands in the center of his hometown of Butte, Montana.

    This reported sighting of teeth confirmed what several conspiracy theorists, all of whom were either committed or executed, had believed from the beginning.  The Void is actually an organism rather than a black hole.  "And since it is an organism," President O'Grady famously said in a State of the Union address, "it can be killed."

    The question of how exactly to kill it has plagued our top scientists ever since.  Explosions, their first effort, produced no result.  Poisoning, their second attempt, was no more successful in killing the beast, though research shows that it may have slowed its progress by a fraction of a second.  Ultimately, the old axiom instructing us to "fight fire with fire" has showed the most promise.  In order to defeat such a huge and ingurgitating enemy as the Void, we must produce a weapon bigger and hungrier.  Hammurabi would be proud.  An eye for an eye, he handed down to his people.  A devourer for a devourer, in this case.  And, of course, no organism can be more trusted to eat and obey than a gigantic, genetically engineered bunny rabbit, namely Wubbles.

(Time's Up. End Post.)

Where All Those Stories Came From:

I saw the film Transformers yesterday.  While I was in the theater, I considered it to be quite entertaining.  Now, during my time outside of the theater, I have realized that the more I think about Transformers, the less I actually like Transformers.  I cannot deny that it is a visually stunning film, and that is a great quality.  Also, it was good for a few laughs, and I genuinely felt attached to Optimus Prime.  Furthermore, Shia LaBeouf is fantastic at what he does.  Nevertheless, in retrospect, I cannot help but feel that the bad outweighs the good in this movie.  Many of the scenes dragged on to the point that I was exhausted by them, and several details of the plot seemed downright unnecessary, especially the hacker played by Anthony Anderson.  I don't have a ratings scale for movies, but perhaps I should come up with one.

Anyway, I had a much better time at the movie theater recently when I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.  While this film may not have my favorite of the franchise's four directors to date, it showed a lot of promise nonetheless.  The casting was extraordinary, especially for the roles of Dolores Umbridge and Luna Lovegood.  The visual effects of this film live up to the high standards set by its predecessors, and I only wish that I could have seen the 3-D version being presented in IMAX theaters.  Though the third film (Prisoner of Azkaban) is still my favorite in the series, Order of the Phoenix certainly ranks as a close second, so I highly recommend seeing it.

This brings us to the next topic of the latest and final Harry Potter book, which was delivered to my house yesterday while I was out seeing Transformers.  On my way home I received a call from my mother, who informed me that the book was in her hands and that she was already skimming through it to read all of "the juicy parts," as she called them.  I nearly hung up the phone right then and there, since I have already made all the necessary efforts to avoid any spoilers.  She was kind enough to keep all of that juicy information to herself, thankfully.  If I have learned one thing from the release of this book, it is this: I am not obsessed with Harry Potter.  I know that for sure now because I have been exposed to some people who are genuinely obsessed with Harry Potter.  I can name at least three people whom I know who have already finished reading the book as well as two more people who own multiple copies.  My own girlfriend knew the exact number of pages in this final book instantaneously off the top of her head.  That was an unexpected surprise.

Personally, I have not even started reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows yet.  Unfortunately, when it was released into the wild (which was made wild by all of the rabid fans), I was already in the middle of reading a science fiction novel entitled Neuromancer, written in the 1980's by William Gibson.  I borrowed this book from my pal G.I. Joe, the same friend who invited me to see Transformers yesterday.  Of course, this invitation created the perfect opportunity to return his book, but I was so lazy that I only finished reading it much later that night.  I can confidently say that there were some parts  of Neuromancer that I truly liked, while there were other parts during which I had no idea what was going on but I still like it a lot.  I first set out to read this book because Joe recommended it so highly and because I had heard that the premise was far ahead of its time.  In fact, my English teacher, who first acquainted me with the book, told our class that with this novel William Gibson invented the term "cyberspace."  If you like stories like The Matrix (specifically the first film, because no one can blame you if you hate the other two), then you will really enjoy Neuromancer, which ought to give you a better idea of where all those stories came from.

I have only a few minutes left in my half-hour.  I must say that most of all I am surprised by just how many sentences and ideas I have been able to write in only thirty minutes.  Indeed, I am growing more confident in this process by the minute.  You may notice that in the future I may use each thirty minute block for some form of fiction rather than a post like this one.  Keep in mind, though, that each of these thirty-minute entries is just an experiment, so there's no telling how unfinished such a project might turn out.  My time is up.  Thanks for reading.

End Post.