To whom it may concern:

You may notice the last post possesses a drastically changed presentation than previous posts.  It was a little random indeed.  We here at Slaughter drop the S feel that it is nice to change gears a bit to spice things up.  Fiction is a way of doing just that.  It allows a certain ambiguity of the writer.  We here at Slaughter drop the S enjoy a bit of change and emphasize creative exercise with regards to all our contributors.  On a side note, this was the first instance that the writer has ever used narrative format for the speech of characters in a fictional work.  In this fact, we find that there was indeed creative stretching involved in the process of writing said post.  Language can be used to convey any number of thoughts, ideas, actions, and emotions.  In closing, the Slaughter, drop the S team would now like to wish you a wonderful day, but has decided that a winky-face more appropriately conveys the emotion desired. . .       ;)  We hope to continue serving our readers with enlightening and engaging posts for the betterment of our world.
Sincerely,
Slaughter, drop the S

The Crickets

When I woke, the sound of chirping was all I could hear.  The cicadas and their harsh piercing croak, and the crickets with their softer more subtle trilling.  The room in which we occupied was dimly lit.  I rolled over to wake Asan, only to find that, we were sleeping on the hard wooden floor.  To my utter surprise, there was nothing else.  There was nothing of the plush pillows, the mattress of down fit for a king, the rich wall hangings, not even the tiger skin throw was in it's proper place where once was the foot of the bed.  Not even crumbs from our sugar cookies and milk we gorged ourselves with last night remained.  The only object that had not scampered was a solitary candle flickering in defiance of the barren wasteland that once had been a bedroom.
"Asan. . ."
"Asan, wake up!"
"Hur?  mmpphh."
"It's gone, everything is gone."
"mmmrrmmm..."
"Wake up!"
He did not wake.

Coffee and a Sandwich

Here I am, sipping a medium pumkin spice latte, chomping down on a freshly prepared roast beef on sourdough, in an independently owned coffee joint about one block from the jupiter hotel where we slept last night.  The windows are fogged, the rain is slowly dusting the street.  A bicycle is parked outside.  It leans against the bike rack behind a newspaper dispenser marked "free". 
Inside, I see a slender young woman with a large black puffy coat with a ring of faux fur stitched to the hood.  Hair pulled up in some modification of the pony tail.  She must like black.  Everything she has on is a different shade of it.  Black boots, black tights, black puffy coat, with hair as close to black as one may get without being such.  It's cold outside.  I can't say that I blame her for wearing it.  The coat that is.  It must be the style.  Black goes with everything, and as long as it's raining why not wear black.  Not like anyone else cares.  It would make them hypocritical, you see.  Black chucks, black combat boots, black and grey striped sweater, black backpack, hot pink highlights in a mostly black mohawk, eclectic black goatee,  black skinny jeans donned in an air of normality.  Her name is called, she takes her specialty tea, she takes her leave. 
Leaves of wintering maples are everywhere.  Leaves on the road, leaves on the sidewalk, leaves crowd around the spokes of the bicycle like cold and soaking concert goers ready to mosh.  Who are we to stop them?  They are here because they are supposed to be.  Colored orange and yellow they fearlessly remain.  The trees are most impressive, though.  The green and mossy tendrils lurching toward the heavens in defiance of the cold.  Threadbare remnants of color still cling to their thin and wiry branches.  They stretch and grasp for something too far out of reach, a goal too lofty to obtain, too stubborn to give up.
I remain at a table, toasty beside a kenwood space heater, my latte long gone, my body satisfied, and my beautiful wife sitting across from me sipping her coke over the backdrop of soft jazz and an espresso machine trilling the air.  Portland, you are wonderful.

I Dream of French

I often dream about things that happen during the daytime, and last night we had a french speaking Pastor from Ouagadougou who spoke at youth group.  Having taken French in highschool, as well as a little in college, I picked up on random things He was saying before the translator translated.  This morning I awoke to a dream where I could not correctly pronounce the french word histoire.  I was repeating it over and over each with a different pronunciation, and none of them sounding right.  Talk about a nightmare.  Anyway, here is a link of the correct pronunciation of histoire.  Turns out I actually do know how to pronounce it.

Change in social status

Some of you may know, but I will be a married man in approximately 2 days.  This may be surprising to some, obvious to others, or irrelevant to the apathetic.  I am looking forward to it nonetheless.  The apartment is all set up and stuff, so theres not much to worry about after getting back to Toccoa, and I would like to just take this moment to thank anyone who has given or will give their time helping Jordyn during the process of our wedding.  A shout-out to all my groomsmen.  You guys rock.

Also, Jordyn bought me a new macbook pro.  It came yesterday.  13 inch, small enough to carry around, decent processor, 4 gigs o ram.  I am currently looking into the options for playing my music.  Part of my music library is in wma format due to windows media player.  Thanks microsoft, but nobody likes your proprietary audio format.  You too Apple.  Free the music, man. . .

So, not only am I now an official mac owner, I will in 51 hours join the ranks of the married.  Today is a good day.

A blog entry

Here it is.  Another day, another blog entry.  I am now working as a full time mooch.  Yet another job opening is being filled without calling, interviewing, or even pretending I exist.  This is old.  Somebody just pretend I exist, please.

I sit here and wait for the coffee to steep.

It is finished now.  Jordo bought some mellow joy coffee and it is excellent.  Brings me back a few years.  Back when Josh Deck was a roommate of mine.  My "senior" year.  Who is counting anyway?  The Christmas that was spent with Charles and Joel, the Band of Brothers marathon with Bobby, the occasional pwnage of halo with John and Jon, the huge parties with every imaginable food and every imaginable person in attendance.  Presley house, you have given me quite fond memories. 

If I were feeling creative, I would write a post.

There.  I started a post.  That wasn't so bad now that I have it going.  Well what is there to talk about.  Perhaps a fictional account, or an imaginative creation.  Futility is portrayed today.  Alas, the coffee shop is closing.  Futility.

I have two pillows now.  One memory foam, and one medium density synthetic fiber pillow.  Looking forward to lunch tomorrow.  Blue pillow cases.  Good stuff.  Here is a little poem I would like to share with you all about my pillows: 

Pillows, you are the best.  Restore my sleeping in my bed.  If you don't, . . . I just wasted $24.95. 

Man, there are a lot of people in this basement right now.

A new school year brings about a whole different crew to the cave of manliness known as "the basement".  It has seen many a person pass through on the journey of life.  Currently watching "Troll 2" on the projector in the back room, while a chill three of us are computing in the den, Hankin at his desk, with Alex and I relaxing and listening to our favorite electronica via earbuds. 
I can't imagine anything better; except maybe if a certain redhead were here chilling beside me.

Ode to a younger ben

When I was in fifth grade, I was a spaz.  Looking back on that year I remember thinking "since every girl is the devil and my yearbook is clearly my property, it is only logical that every girl in my class receive mustaches of varying severity.  Even now, one may flip through my Big A Elementary yearbook and view this pristine relic of my misplaced aggression.  I now think back on that time and realize that, perhaps I was the one deserving a poorly drawn fumanchu and not my fellow feminine classmate.  Honestly, there was only one girl in that group that I had any case at all against, and it was that I was once slapped on the arm for no apparent reason.  Of course she was a girl, and it didn't hurt that bad, but it was the principle of the thing.  At the time that slap may as well have been a brick to the forehead.

I also had some funny ticks back then as well.  I'm not saying that I looked like I rode the short bus, but given a lineup of my peers it wouldn't have been a stretch of the imagination.  It is a surprise that I resemble anything I do now.  On many occasion I was prone to a fit of ambidextrous arm flailing, producing a series of loud snapping noises that pierced the air with the alacrity of an overly exited puppy.  The effect was twofold.  I held within my grasp the ability to simultaneously entertain and also to grate the nerves of anyone unfortunate enough to be in the same room.  The real reason I did it, however, was that I liked the way it sounded.  Ah, to be young again.

Some thoughts

It's the little things that mean the most in our lives. This is not surprising. The majority of our lives are spent on them. If I had a dollar for every time I cleared my throat, took a breath, or tapped a rhythm out with my foot, it would constitute the majority of my income. Not that my income is anything to be proud of.
Even something as little as the sound of shoelaces being tightened or a dream remembered has an impact on who we are. Who we are: Our essence. The existence of our being. Components cleverly combined to a function. Such a strange concept.

On a lighter note, there's an awesome website I have found: www.dillyeo.com
The mecca of geek, on a budget. That remote controlled dart launcher is epic.

A new start to things

Well, here it is.  The blog you've all been waiting for.  I now own this small section of the universe.  A place for my random quips, a few anecdotes, and never a dull moment.  I look forward to a wonderfully full and awfully awesome blog-life. I invite you to join me.