i write things that are funny

I wrote this awhile ago because I am creative and funny. Laugh at how funny I am. Do it.

My Macbook: An Internal Monologue

One day I discovered a file deep in my hard drive. Turns out my Macbook keeps a real time commentary of my online activity and judges me hard. I guess even technology itself knows it’s relied on too much.

Oh hey, it’s been awhile – if by awhile you mean twenty minutes. You’re going to “work” now, right? I give you 92 minutes before you even go to the U of C website to find out what your assignment is. Btw, if I look through your cached history I can tell you it’s due tomorrow and you need five sources. Good luck with that.

You are planning on writing that tonight, yes? Because if you are I don’t think articles like, ‘The best sex I ever had’ or ‘Mind of Man: Why you should date a nerd,” will help. Where the hell did this website come from anyways? Oh, I know, John DeVore writes some pretty hilarious stuff, but that’s no excuse – you’re reading about celebrities, hair, sex and deleting the history afterwards? Pathetic. At least own your vices.

You’re not even having sex. How do I know? Oh I know. I wouldn’t have so much company day-in and day-out if you were up to anything else.

Command-T. So it begins. In the next half hour you’ll have approximately 7 tabs open: Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, GoogleNews, The Frisky, Instapundit, and The Huffington Post. Not to mention various applications like Word, iTunes and Preview. You are so disorganized. I’m like an e-version of your room.

You switch between all these tabs so frequently, too. I’m not sure if you noticed, but nobody has e-mailed you since two minutes ago when you last checked it. And I’m glad you think it’s important to inform the world of current events, but if they wanted that they would go to a news site, not Facebook. Quit spamming people’s feed with the latest on Barack Obama, health care and tax reform. Don’t you have some party pictures to post?

Lol, oh right. You don’t go to parties. I mean, I’m glad you seem to enjoy me so much, but honestly – stop being so clingy! I need my space. You just constantly drain my energy and I think it would be good if we spent some time apart. It’s not me, it’s you.

Conscious

He was happy – there was no doubt about that. What was there not to be happy about? He never thought twice about it until he noticed she was listening. He was caught off-guard in mid-sentence – why did he hesitate? He was conscious of his breathing – he was conscious of everything now. All she was doing was standing there, waiting for him to finish his sentence like the rest of the people he was telling his story to. He re-worded what he was about to say and continued. To him Epicureanism had only one fault - conviction in the presence of anyone resembling a Stoic. Thankfully, Stoics didn’t frequent parties.

Notebook Poems

I’m quite an amatuer, but can’t go anywhere unless you start somewhere, right? My goal is to eventually be able to write poems with more rules, like sonnets. Stuff like this will have to do for now…neither have titles yet.

Though it takes a thousand words to be admired;
One ill syllable leaves a man undesired.
One hundred smiles, bright and bold
May by one disdainful look unfold.
Ten thousand steps of poise and grace
Are tarnished by one stride poor in taste.
A man cannot outlive one false move
Among myriads of men quick to prove
Him forever condemned, till he grow old.
Though One higher, whose heart not so cold
Longs to forgive and quell righteous fury
Than leave him subject to a merciless jury

-

Jack Ryan + Poetry = ?

So, I haven’t started reading The Hunt for Red October yet, -I’ve started Paradise Lost (post to come…whenever) and have been busy with school – but I watched the movie tonight because I needed to chill and it’s one I simply cannot get bored of.

Also (and this does tie into the first paragraph…oh yes) I’ve really been getting into poetry. John Donne and Robert Burns are of note. John Donne seems really bold and sincere (“Death, thou shalt die”) and I just love the Scottish words from Burns. And Auld Lang Syne… is seriously such a great poem! I love it!

So, if you read enough poetry (or are an angsty teen, of course), you feel compelled to try writing some of your own. And so I have. As I said, I was watching The Hunt for Red October…

The Canvas

Her brushstrokes had just the right efficacy on the canvas to express what she desired. She paused, stepped back and was satisfied with how her work was coming along. Her studio was not extensive, but then one of the beauties of art was being able to create a lot out of very little.

And therein was her pride, the ability to be content with little while others would have the world and nothing less. The minimalism of her lifestyle made way for grander things to fill her heart and become her goals. She would not settle for the banality others associated with simplicity, but instead sought an inundation of adventure, love, grace, and other invisible things more worthy of possession.

The Watermill

I wrote this again when I was supposed to be working on something else. Blah blah blah. I lack conciseness.

—

Perhaps her only fault was being too amiable, he thought, falsely. She had a great deal more faults than were readily apparent, and her own awareness of these faults gave her the restraint needed to not let flattery overcome her. She fell in love with everyone and then got upset when they fell in love with her. She was not insecure, but still saw the bad in herself before she saw the good, while in others she often saw the good before she saw any bad.

She had many plans and so much time, yet lacked efficiency. So her plans impressed him, but was dissatisfied herself because she never seemed to put the water to the mill swiftly enough. As she grew older, though, the equation that efficiency equals success became less an abstract formula than a practical application and she sought more initiative to make her dreams realities.

Gray

A random composition that I wrote last night while I was supposed to be writing abot Macbeth, lol.

There was something about him; some secret inside that perhaps even he was oblivious to.  It was something that any woman could see and wanted to draw out and remedy, to take away the clouds in his eyes. The gray was so regular to him that he soon began to ignore and forget it was there – and so there was this naive anullment to the darkness that was inside of him. To the untrained eye he would seem shallow, only because to look deeper he would find clouds too hard to dissolve.

And so the clouds stayed, undissipated, while he attempted to paint over them with the colors of ignorance and oblivion. But what he did not realize was that the brightest and purest colors only came through once the clouds disbanded to reveal the rainbow. 

His simpleness charmed her, the darkness intrigued her. She loved what she did not know of him, and sympathized with what she did. She knew she could not make him happy – truly happy; and while she could put light in his gray eyes, they would still be gray.