I used to have a pet fly. No. Really. I was in New York with my family visiting some relatives. We always stay at my grandparent's house when we're in New York. Unfortunately there is absolutely nothing to do in my grandparent's house other than wonder around looking at antique furniture while breathing in the sharp smell of...well, of the house. There is not other way to explain it. I was sitting by a window listening to the constant buzzing sound of a fly when I realized that this particular fly, which was right by my hand, was crippled. One of his wings was horribly bent. So instead of flying to get from one place to another, he would hop. I instantly bonded with the fly, named him Hoppy, and scooped him up. He would just sit on my hand and look around as I carried him. I would sit on the porch and set him down next to me and he would hop around...never too far away. I brought him all over the place since I obviously couldn't put him somewhere and expect to find him there later. I was very happy, seeing as to how this gave me something to do. Then when I was playing with Hoppy outside, my brother Chad flicked him off my hand into some bushes. I never saw Hoppy again.

What's this? What's with the title? WHERE'S THE HAVEN FOR THE MENTALLY INSANE!?! Don't panic. It's right here. Same as always. But for some reason I needed a change. Now I realize that this might be a slight problem since a few of you have linked to me, and that link says: "Haven for the Mentally Insane", but that will just have to change. Or not. Then it will just confuse people and be allot of fun. I am trying out some template changes too...so if you visit and see some funky stuff...don't be surprised. Then again, I don't have the slightest idea about html, so maybe I'll find someone to help me. But I thought a fair warning was in place. So...

welcome to 50fifty.com

They call her 'the walking lady', although I'm not too sure how she feels about that. It seems a good name as any for someone of this legendary stature. And as you might have guessed, she fits her description rather well. She is a lady, and she walks. Allot. In fact, that seems to be all anyone has ever seen her do. She just walks. Where to? Not sure. Why? Who knows. But speculations fly as to her origins and reasons. My brother once told me that his friends followed her to a large home one night. Not a run-down shack, paint peeling, windows cracked, and grass long dead...but a very nice home, which usually implies money. I am tempted to invalidate my brother's story since he once convinced me that the neighbors who lived across the street from us, but who we never saw, were in fact drug dealers who had a secret underground labyrinth so they could come and go as they please. But this story sounds a little more reasonable. My mom once walked by her and offered a friendly 'hello' to start a conversation, but the walking lady just strolled on by mumbling to herself as she always does. She seems to never change. Her longer than shoulder length gray and white hair is always matted and near dreadlocks. Her colorful blouse and flowing skirt the only clothes she ever wears. Her weathered and wrinkled skin, always the same deep color of brown, hides her true age. And she walks on. Day in, day out, and in any kind of weather. And if you ask anyone who lives around here if they have heard of the walking lady, a spark of recognition will leap to their eye.

I was just told that I had to update my page. So I guess I'll see how well I work under pressure.

First of all I would like to say that I am greatly disappointed at the result of my great contest idea. Nothing. Nada. Zero. That's how many e-mails I received as a result of it. I figure that this means one of two things: 1) Everyone believes in God, the Bible, and Christianity, or 2) Someone forgot to inform me that money no longer has any inherent value and playdough has taken over as the new currency. Other than that I can't think of any reason as to why nobody would challenge me to a battle of wits. And I am suddenly compelled to scream "You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia; and only slightly less well known is this: Never go in against a Sicilian, when death is on the line!"...only I'm not Sicilian, and nobody was brave enough to duel with me. (and I hope that you all know where that quote is from)

Every time I attempt to use the computer at night I am disrupted by little insects. You see, the room is completely dark except for the unusually bright screen of the computer. Little bugs see this and think...um, well they think whatever little bugs who like bright light think when they see a shining beacon amidst a dark sea of black. So I am merrily typing away when a small pest starts repeatedly beating itself against the screen as if trying to knock itself unconscious. So I squash it. This is why in the morning when my dad uses the computer he finds a large number of little greenish-brownish spots on the monitor.

And as if that wasn't off the topic enough for you, I can go further. I never realized this until a couple years ago, but my fingers are unusually flexible. I can bend them all back past the 90 degree point (to the back of my hand). This is, however, not too unusual. BUT, my pinky fingers are just like those little Chinese girls from Cirque Du Soleil who bend themselves into tiny little knots and make the whole audience squirm in their seats. I can bend them both back far enough to touch the back of my hand. I really wish I could show you all a picture of this, but alas...I can't. It's a great trick to show squeamish girls.

killed another bug

Speaking of my hands (HA...this time it's slightly on topic)...they hurt. Allot. I went to the driving range today since my dad has turned into some kind of golf maniac and he wanted a companion. After successfully making a fool of myself I realized I had 7 blisters on my right hand alone. I would have had just as many on my left, but I happened to have a golf glove. It is surprising how many things I cannot do that I once could do, all because of some fluid under my skin. And of course the next question you all have for me is...hey Grant, if I get a blister of my own, how can I treat it? Well I'm glad you asked:

--Use a sterilized needle or razor blade (to sterilize it, put the point or edge in a flame until it is red hot, or rinse it in alcohol).
--Wash the area thoroughly, then make a small hole and gently squeeze out the clear fluid.
--Apply a dab of hydrogen peroxide to help protect against infection.
--If the fluid is white or yellow, the blister is infected and needs medical attention.
--Do not remove the skin over a broken blister. The new skin underneath needs this protective cover.

Now you can all be safe when it comes to blisters.

killed another bug

Time to go. (I'm sorry for wasting your time)


p.s. killed another bug...only four tonight...inconceivable!

My sister kicks butt when it comes to dancing. I just came from one of her dance shows, and every time I see her dance I am blown away. I have no doubt that she could make it into Juilliard someday. Sorry, I just felt like bragging about her a little bit.

This dance show had a silent auction which, if you did not know, is where you walk around little tables where fruit baskets, candy filled baskets, vacation getaways, and other various things can be 'bought' for much lower than the price...usually. You write your name on a piece of paper and how much you are willing to pay for whatever the item may be. Then others have a chance to write their name down and outbid you. This sounds harmless, but let me tell you...it gets violent. Poaching is common, and often produces extreme paranoia. You just HAVE to have that basket of something useless that you could buy at the store but would rather receive like a prize, and that little old blue-haired lady keeps outbidding you just as you write your name down for the third, fourth, fifth time. People stand by the table, acting like they are sipping on a drink, and give the evil-eye to anyone who even approaches the table. Well I have been to my fair share of these auctions, although I might never go to one again. At the last one, my dad found a basket, or a trip, or an animal or something that he just couldn't live without. This auction was part of a VIP RSVP dinner where the main entertainment was that lady who did the voice of The Little Mermaid was going to sing. So right before this musical interlude to the evening, she eyed the same basket, or trip, or loaf of zucchini bread or whatever it was and decided she wanted it as her own. My dad said 'nuh uh girlfriend' as he ruthlessly outbid her every time. I think that everyone else was getting uncomfortable, loosening their ties, and staring into their drinks like they didn't know what was happening. "Maybe that guy doesn’t know who she is," one would say to the other. "Maybe he's trying to make a statement against Disney," another would mumble. It was just common knowledge that you let The Little Mermaid have whatever she wanted...since we all remember her fateful words, "I've got gadgets and gizmos aplenty/ I've got whozits and whatzits galore/ (You want thingamabobs? I got twenty)/ But who cares?/ No big deal/ I want more." She's greedy, obviously, and would not be satisfied unless her collection included this basket, or trip, or Swedish back massage or whatever it was. This brutal battle ended with my dad getting the basket, or trip, or signed picture of the president or whatever it was...and it's not MY fault if she wavered a little in her song that night.

Someone over at the Santa Clara Courts made a big mistake. They sent me a summons. That's right...they want me to sit in a court of law and listen to hours upon hours of pointless drivel and then discuss said hours of pointless drivel with others, mostly much older than I, and then decide the fate of some person unlucky enough to have to be in a court of law. This is merely a summons, and does not mean that I will be a juror for sure. Which is good. Then again...they pay you $15 a day to sit and listen to lawyers, which is more than I am making right now in my current position of joblessness. Maybe I will just ask to be a constant juror and that will be my job. A professional juror. Making a measly $15 a day. And deciding the doom of the unfortunate. Gosh I love power.

I'm reading the rest of the Lord of the Rings trilogy since I started it way before the movie came out and hadn't even finished off the Fellowship of the Ring yet. But in less than I week I polished off the rest of the 1st book...the 2nd book...and am halfway through the 3rd. And I would like to announce that I have been inspired. Some day I will name my kid’s names from LOTR. I mean...how much would little Mithrandir stand out in kindergarten? And wouldn't Sauron the Dark Lord strike fear into the other children...thereby insuring that he wouldn't be picked on?

So you can check out the Breakfast Epiphanies website and see a work in progress. I couldn't get the mp3's to work...but that is probably just because this computer sucks and has tons of problems. If you my fine friend can get it working...then you can hear some clips of the secret underground demo. And if you'd like a copy...I would be glad to send you one. The rest of the site will be continuously worked on until perfection. Nothing less. Or else Ed will be killed. I demand perfection.
_______________________________________________________
Oh...and I have a little experiment to try out. And though I often joke around on this website...I am very serious here. I am putting on a little contest of sorts. Anyone can play...and you really can't "lose" per se...or at least you don't lose anything but your dignity in your loss. But if you win...oh boy do you profit. Here are some rules and regulations:

--In an e-mail (to greemoose@hotmail.com) you prove that:

a)there is no God (of the Judeo-Christian belief system)
b)the Bible is false
c)Christianity is false

--And your reward...$100.

--Just take on one or all of the topics, send me the e-mail which I will then post on my website, and wait for my reply. If you can use logic, reason, and evidence to prove any of those to me, and my rebuttal does not show the fallacy of the argument...then I will send you $100. I have money saved up if you are wondering about how I'm always complaining about not having a job and then wondering where I will get the money from. SO...please tell everyone that you know who might be interested in this. I would love to get lots of responses.
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His eyes dilated, letting in more of the scarce light that cascaded over her eyes and silhouetted her body. The tears caught some light, creating little convex worlds that slid down her face. He wondered when the headache would go away. This wasn't one of his migraines. This was something much worse.

"So, my sister..." Johnathan began in vain attempt at conversation. At smalltalk. At pillowtalk. At useless nothing. "...she uh, graduated from college."

Sniffling was all that came in reply.

"But she's kinda afraid of being done...she doesn't know what she wants to do next. She feels kinda lost." He trailed off realizing this hit much to close to home. Better to talk about the weather. Politics. Sex even. Anything but the future. "Speaking of college," he began again, until he realized that the tears had yet to cease. He never knew how to handle these situations. Maybe if he acted like it wasn't happening it would go away. "Listen...I need a drink."

Walking away from where she was sitting, Johnathan poured the first hard liquor he could find into a glass. He sighed heavily and felt a warm tear of his own slide down his cheek. He could remember when Leah had been nothing more than that popular girl. Now she was nothing more than that depressed girl. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the light which spilled out into the hallway, bright as the sun in the nearly pitch black apartment. Looking into the mirror he hardly recognized the face that looked back at him. He nearly expected that face to start talking to him. "Idiot. Nothing but a brainless idiot." He smashed his hand into the glass in a half-hearted fist.

"Johnathan?" Leah called his name softly. She almost preferred having him there to hold, even as silent as he was. The silence was brutal. Exhausting. Constant. For all she knew he had heard her call and was once more ignoring her.

Just ignore it he thought to himself as he cleaned the blood from the mirror.

Just ignore him she thought as new tears welled in her eyes.

Leah laid down and closed her eyes. Things will be ok in the morning, she thought furtively. Things will be ok in the morning

What is it that makes me who I am?

-an obesessive need to bite my lip or nails even when it leaves me bleeding. I am often doing something with my mouth...which makes me think that if I ever picked up smoking...I would be a chain smoker to the extreme

-a desire to people watch to try and understand others better. I love to examine other's mannerisms when they don't realize that anyone is looking their way

-the slight bobbing motion I make with my head when I talk as if to emphasize certain words. I can't use italics or underlining when I talk...so inadvertantly using my head seems like the next best thing

-the way I lean forward when I walk like I'm wearing a heavy backpack. or like I am going somewhere in a hurry even though I am not walking fast. I lead with my shoulders

-an obsessive need to crack my knuckles over and over. on my two hands alone I can get 22 pops. plus I crack my toes, knees, back, and neck. and much like the way I am often doing something with my mouth...I am always doing something with my hands. so even after no more cracking is possible...I will bend my fingers around in strange ways as if I will find a hidden joint to obtain a pop from.

-a desire to be rebellious in small ways that don't matter. stealing signs. stealing key cards. staying out 15 minutes longer than my parents want me out.

-an introverted nature. I like to listen. I like to hear other's conversations more than I like to be the conversationalist.

-a tendencey towards things artistic. making movies. drawing. painting. molding. dancing. singing. playing instruments. you get the idea.

-a desire to be loved. and who doesn't have this?

-a desire to be left alone. the yang to my yin of wanting constant companionship. sometimes I just want to be left alone.

-modesty to the extreme. I hate locker rooms

-faith in God is something that should be an integral part of everything I do. I'm workin' on it

But somehow I don't think that any of these things really describes who I am. Just as a personality trait can change...these things might be fleeting. I wonder if all these things...along with other habits, traits and flaws...would be enough for someone to recognize me. Or if there is some light in people's eyes...some life to their words...something else that brings recognition to the familiar.

I recently applied to Blockbuster Video to see if I couldn't get myself some free rentals...and a job. Instead of handing me a piece of paper, the guy pointed me to an electronic application machine. I sat down at a little booth and started 'filling out' this electronic application. I thought that maybe it was a joke, and there would be hidden cameras all around, but now I realize that they do this because anyone who survives the application wihtout throwing the machine through the window deserves to be hired. First of all, it had a keyboard. A very tiny keyboard. You realize that you have to fill out things like your address, so you start to type...like on a regular keyboard. But then you keep making typos because this keyboard is about 1/3 a real keyboard's size; so it mocks you relentlessly as you feel that you have suddenly lost your ability to type. Then you realize that you have to fill out things like your past work experience...so obviously they expect you to have your past job's address and phone number memorized. I just made the numbers up, hoping Blockbuster doesn't actually try and call my past boss...otherwise they'll be ready to talk to the owner of Espresso Garden and they'll hear: "Hi...you've reached the home of Cindy and Johnathan Ramsey...we're not home right now...leave a message after the beep." Then, best of all, I had to answer a series of about 50 questions. Here are some of the actual questions:

1) When arguing, I often swear:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

2) Slow people make me very angry:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

3) People often dislike me:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

4) Most people are stupid:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

I hope they weren't monitoring me because I was literally laughing out loud at some of their questions. Who in their right mind would put that slow people make them angry? Or that they swear often? So I went through all the trouble to write some of my own questions for Blockbuster to use on future applications:

1) I like to steal from my employer:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

2) I want to be hired just to tell people how much
Blockbuster sucks:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

3) I often kill when I am angry:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

4) I am prone to random acts of indecent exposure:

a)strongly agree
b)agree
c)disagree
d)strongly disagree

In other job related news, Starbucks is testing to see how long they can string me along with, "You are the most likely job candidate", and "You will know very very soon", before I go berserk and maim someone. All other possible jobs have given me the right to burn down their buildings by not even calling me back. They should have looked under "Additional Comments" where they would have seen my warning, scrawled in child-like handwriting, "pleese higher me or i will be forsed to burn down your bilding and take all your wurkers hostige...reely...i mean it."

I laid there with my head on my pillow...as usual, and felt the cold steel under my bare arms, chest, and legs, feeling the riveted bolts digging into my hip...not as usual. It suddenly became clear to me that I was not laying down, as I had suspected, but was indeed standing up, leaning against the wall, head holding the pillow in place. It was dark. The kind of dark where you can trick yourself into believing that your eyes are closed, even though you know they are not. I reached out and touched the cold steel all around me. Four corners. Like a box. 'Like I coffin,' I thought to myself. I slowly kneeled down and felt around towards the bottom on my makeshift bed and felt a small opening. About 2'x2', just enough to squeeze through. I went into this hole feet first...because God knows I don't want to meet up head first with something unpleasant. I inched my way about 10 feet in, and felt another opening in the floor. About 2'x2'. I soon found myself hanging from the edge of this ledge, on purpose mind you, and dangling in this silent pitch-black world. I let go, with the hopes of feeling something solid under my feet in a matter of seconds. After about 10 seconds all I could think was, 'I'm going to die...I'm going to die...I'm going to die...this is it...I just committed suicide.' Falling...falling...I kept my eyes clenched shut...the way you do when you are expecting something really bad is about to happen...even though shutting my eyes made no difference. In fact, if anything, closing my eyes made things brighter...you know the way you can press your fingers to your eyes and see lights, flashes, shapes...even that was better than the nothingness I had begun to get used to. Out of nowhere I hit water in what seemed a perfect swan dive. I guess my sense of direction had gotten completely out of whack and I was falling head first. I came to the surface thinking, 'Ok, so now I wish I had hit cement instead.' One of my biggest fears is being in murky water, not knowing what is in the water, and feeling something touch my foot, or grab on to my ankle. I frantically swam until I felt more steel walling, slick from the water my splashdown sprayed all over. I placed one palm on the wall and awkwardly swam in some direction...I don't know which...it didn't matter. With fatigue came thoughts of wishing some huge fish would swim up and eat me...or pull me under. I just wanted out. Out. Out. Out of breath I found myself laying there with my head under my pillow...as usual. No cold steel against my skin. I sighed a sigh of relief as I removed the pillow from my head and it was dark. The kind of dark where you can trick yourself into believing that your eyes are closed, even though you know they are not.

I can only imagine what the little bird was thinking, because I will never know why it had the strange urge to explore our house. There I am at the computer when I hear a rush of fluttering and flapping and turn to see a golf ball sized bird hovering in the living room. He hurredly made his way into the kitchen and my only thought was that he would see the huge window and fly straight into it, thinking he had found freedom. Luckily he merely got trapped behind the curtain. So this little bird which was stuck on a window sill and couldn't get enough room to flap his wings to fly turned and saw this monsterous human walking towards him with a white garbage bag. He probably wasn't too happy with the scenario he had gotten himself into. I was going to try and get him into the bag to let him loose outside, but this just ended in failure after failure. So I reached in quick, cupped the bird in my hands, and walked outside. I opened my hands and he sat there for a split second, looked at me, then flew incredibly fast out of my hand chirping loudly. That bird is going to go back to his friends and tell them how he was abducted by this strange creature...and he will probably be laughed at and told that he has too much free time on his hands.

::

People say that hitting a few balls at the golf range helps them to relax and wind down. Not me. I went today with my dad and found the experience to be completely the opposite of relaxing. I knocked all hundred balls off the little patch of grass, which was slowly being filled with huge divots, and felt no release. Maybe it is because everyone else was hitting that blasted white ball multiple hundreds of yards every swing, and my normal swing would wrecklessly cause the ball to land a mere 30 feet away. So I decided that if I ever needed to be angry and just couldn't muster up the ferocity inside of me...all I would need to do is hit a few balls at the range and *presto* I'm ALL riled up. It also made me think of the huge untapped potential of sports super heroes. Think about it...9 Iron the super golfer could drive around the city in his suped up golf cart, fighting bad guys. He would stand proud in his too short shorts, retractable spiked golf shoes, and alligator logo polo shirt. Clubs strapped to his back like samarai swords. He could target a bad guy from 300 yards away, pull out his trusty 1 wood, and pop the guy in the head with a speeding golf ball. And each time he triumphed over evil he would leave one of those little ball markers that snap off of golf gloves on top of his latest victim...and the little marker would just say 9I. Maybe Tiger Woods will play 9 Iron in the movie.

::

Heh...somebody voted that my site "sucks" on that little bloghop thingy I put in over on the left hand side of the page. 8 people put "love it", and 1 person put "sucks." Well, at least I know their not sucking up.