Rogue Ninja

I have a Stephen Sondheim show (three s's!!!) in my head.

I have a PC.

I have no homework.

I have a gift!

Go down the alphabet one thing at a time and name somthing you have. I start with A, next person does B, etc. When you get to the end, just start over. And go: I have Anime.

Wow, what was with all the double posts? I think it's a cool idea, too. Maybe it was put on the backburner.

I had a lecture on synapses.

I saw my professor run into his stool. He gets really excited and starts walking around and tapping his feet. He has a stool that he sits on, but only for short periods of time, because he really can't stay still. Today it was in a different spot than usual, and he almost tripped on it.

It took Francisco three tries to write his personal statements for his application to Van Leeuwenhoek University. There was nothing really wrong with it the first time, except that it left out a lot of personal factors that would probably work to his advantage if they were mentioned. The second time these were there, but the tone was much too whiny and pathetic. The third time, he cut out the whining but left the personal stories. That time it made him sound like a stronger person, probably stronger than he really was. That time was perfect. It took Francisco three tries to pack for school. He had never been away from home that long before, his previous record having been the single week he spent in Mexico each year, so he wasn’t sure what or how much to pack. The first time he packed too many things. It wasn’t too many in that it could not all be transported to the school, but it was a lot of things he probably didn’t need, and what if he brought more stuff than his roommates? He’d look like someone who couldn’t handle being away from home. The second time he packed significantly less, and he had everything he needed, but the thought of showing up with practically nothing, like some kind of poor person, wasn’t one he was happy with, either. The third time he packed, he made sure he included things he did not necessarily need but could easily justify having. That time he was ready to go. It took Francisco three tries to make a friend. The first try had been a fellow Mexican boy in elementary school. He was tolerable enough when they played at recess, but one day he had insulted Paco’s mother. Paco had punched his lights out, resulting in a suspension and getting his own lights punched out by his father for getting trouble in school. “What will people think about how I’m raising you?” his father had asked between blows. Francisco wasn’t at that school much longer, and while he was there the other boy avoided him at all costs. The second try had been in middle school and was a black Cuban boy who preferred to speak in Spanish. Francisco could stand him well enough in classes, working on group assignments, but outside of class things were different. The other boy liked to talk about things Paco didn’t like hearing about. He ran the streets with a Cuban gang, and amazingly enough was not their youngest member. He spoke of their adventures with muggings and alcohol. Francisco listened unwillingly, never working up the nerve to just break off the contact with him. He was relieved when he changed schools again. The third try had not really been a try at all. It happened in college, because in high school Paco had been much too absorbed in school and work to bother with trivial acquaintances. This boy was Caucasian. German and Irish, or some such mix like that, and his name was Garret. Garret was something like the boy from middle school in that he liked to talk about things Francisco didn’t enjoy listening to, though he disliked them for different reasons. Garret’s words had implications about who Paco was, implications that Paco didn’t like, only because on some level he knew that they were true. Garret was also like the boy from elementary school, in that Francisco had on occasion hit him, though unlike the incident on the playground, he only hit him once and didn’t have to be restrained. It was also different in that Garret didn’t avoid him after the incidents. If anything, he pushed more, taking the blows, and every other denial of friendship Francisco threw at him, as signs that the friendship was growing. And in a way it was. He wasn’t sure if he got tired of fighting or if he recognized that Garret’s friendship was worth having, but eventually Paco gave in, and while he was slow giving Garret all the roles of a friend, he at least admitted him the title.

I want to hear them with a better recording engineer. The vocal layering kills a few moments.

Some things in life you can always count on. There were many things that Francisco could count on, and none of them were good. His father would always get drunk, his mother would never come home, and Mexico would always be dusty. It was unreal, that dust. Ever since Francisco could remember, he and his grandfather had made the trip down to Mexico each summer to stay with his grandfather's nephew. He had thought it through once, and determined what relation he himself held with Rojelio Jimenez, but he had promptly forgotten it. What he did remember was the dust. Every morning Rojelio's wife would sweep the kitchen. It took her hours, and yet there never seemed to be any less. It blew in through the windows, crept in under the doors, clung to your clothes when you walked outside and fell to the stone floor when you walked in. It was in your hair, on your skin, in your lungs. It was one of the many things Francisco hated about Mexico. One of the many things that left him longing to return to his home in the States. However, as soon as he was back home, he always found himself wishing for Mexico, because as long as Mexico remained dusty, his father would always get drunk and his mother would never come home. Note: Not all parts of Mexico are the same. It's just his experience that Mexico sucks. I personlly had a blast at San Felipe when I was... four. Just depends on where you go, and on what you like. So no offense meant.

I like, I like.

I've never read anything with a point of view like that. It pretty much broke my heart. The thing about astronomy was interesting. Something for him to hold on to, I guess. I really don't know a lot about autism.

Thanks for posting.

Louis: *thinks* Just don't don't look at her and you'll be fine. Girl: *thinks* He's cute. As soon as he looks at me I'm saying hi. Where are all the artits? Look who terrible I am. No one should be too embarrassed to post.

Claudia was arrested for drunk driving

Voted.

Thank you. Here's a bit about him in college. It's kind of rambly. Click click clack went Garret’s keyboard as Francisco lay on his bunk, and somewhere outside there were sirens. Out in the hall giddy Caucasian girls with loud, high-pitched voices talked about some boy who lived on the third floor. There was no way their voices were just that loud. They had to be a few doors down from each other, too lazy to move closer, yet with enough energy to raise their voices in both volume and pitch. There was a steady beeping sound as Jimmy pressed buttons on his cell phone, sending a text message. Every once in a while he’d cough. Damn smoker. Former smoker, Francisco should have been able to say, since Jimmy was supposed to have quit before school even started, but there was no way that guy had quit. Not completely. Just like the floor was never completely quiet, not even now, at two AM on a Wednesday night. He supposed he could complain. Tell Garret to get the hell off his computer, and tell Jimmy that whatever slut-faced whore he was texting could wait until the sun was up. No, he couldn’t do that. He was usually the one on the computer while Garret was looking for silence, and for all Francisco knew, Jimmy could be texting his basketball coach. The sirens had already passed, so maybe if he could just get the white girls to quiet down, he could sleep. No, he couldn’t do that either. The room was dark and the hallway bright, so stepping out, he’d be squinting like a kid in the back of the class. He was wearing his “fag boxers,” too. The rainbow heart ones that were on sale for a buck at the student store and that Jimmy constantly made fun of. No shirt, either, and he wasn’t quite sure where his hat was. He usually wasn’t one to care about how he looked or what people thought of him, but these girls were shouting down the hall at each other about that boy on the third floor, who had apparently dropped a thong when he was carrying his laundry. He didn’t need the topic of their conversation to ever be that creepy Mexican guy who doesn’t talk to people but tells them off at two in the morning wearing nothing but gay-man underwear, and what the hell was up with those scars on his chest? Francisco turned onto his stomach and groaned into his pillow. It was going to be a very short night, and tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

Maybe if I draw someone other than Louis people whill actually comment.

Haha. I went to the Nick Lachey concert just to go to the concert and now I'm in love with him. I'd say random concert-going is a good thing.

I'm glad you like him. I love my characters. Here's another piece. It was his grandfather Arturo who first called him Paco, or rather at first, Paquito. No one in his family called him by his full name, his mother instead calling him hijo, son, and his father calling him every Spanish word for boy. Niño. Muchacho. Chavalo. His grandfather could have followed the trend and called him nieto, but he wanted his grandson to be addressed in a way that allowed him a personality and a place outside of his role in the family. Arturo felt that the name Francisco was too harsh for such a small boy and opted instead to call him Paquito. It was just as long in terms of syllables, but was much less severe. As the child grew, Arturo decided, the suffix meaning "little" would be dropped, and he’d cease to be Paquito the boy and become Paco the man. Arturo hoped to God that Paco would be a good man. That his failure with his own son would not result in his son’s failure with his grandson. So far it seemed that Arturo had little to worry about. Paco had done well in high school and was now attending a fairly prestigious private university on a full-ride scholarship. He had a decent job which he worked whenever he was home, and more importantly than that, he had dreams, goals, and plans for the future. Still, despite how well he was doing for himself, the young man was not happy, and Arturo could see that. Every since he was very young, Paquito had borne a sadness in his eyes that he tried to hide with weak smiles. He hid it better now, with angry looks instead of attempts at happy ones, but Arturo knew it was still there. He wished he could do something to take it away, but it was not in his power, or even in his son’s. It was in Paco himself.

I write about him a lot. He's actually the speaker in the last thing I posted. I dont' write from his point of view very often. I jump around when writing about him. Sometimes he'll be a kid and soemtime's he'll be in college. I rarely write about him in high school for some reason.

I want to see them live. I hear Landing In London is amazing live. It's my favorite song by them, too.

I don’t watch scary movies anymore. I like to be able to sleep at night. I like being able to get up in the middle of the night if I need to use the restroom. I like being able to stay home alone without jumping at every sound, shadow, or movement out of the corner of my eye. I like not being afraid. It’s not that scary movies are actually scary. It’s all cheap tricks: loud noises and frantic camera moves. Scary movies aren’t really scary, but some of the images are. The creepy children, the ghostly apparitions, the masked murderers. I don’t think they’re sneaking around my house, but just seeing the images in my head is enough to put me on edge. You’d think someone like me wouldn’t be afraid of something like that. You’d think that I’d be immune to it, since I know what’s really worthy of fear. Failure. Tomorrow. The man asleep in the other room, bottle within reach. And worse than even that, becoming that man. I already have enough to be afraid of, and that’s why I don’t watch scary movies anymore.

1) I'm 15 pounds underweight 2) When it comes to writing I am a feedback whore 3) When I was a kid, I wnated to be a boy 4) I wish I could speak another language fluently, but I don't practice my Spanish 5) I can't write female main characters