The story of someone totally unrelated to me

Once upon a time there was a boy named Trevor.

Trevor had a blog.

He updated it every few weeks because he wanted to build his readership base.

Trevor was so excited because he had so many blog views! The blog he used showed the statistics of who read his blogs, what websites they were from, what parts of the world they were from. It was so cool!

So for months Trevor was so excited about his blog. But then one day Trevor decided to look into the websites that gave him the most hits on his website.

They were websites like "Fat Loss Factor by Dr. Charles Livingston," and "Filmhill.com," and "VampireStat."

Trevor realized the majority of his traffic was spam. It hurt him in his heart. He knew that anybody involved in doing things like that are evil at heart, and they will probably go to hell. Trevor imagined Dr. Charles Livingston burning in hell. Still, Trevor felt bad.

So Trevor didn't update his blog for over a month. Every time he thought about it, he had no oomph. He had no excitement.

But then Trevor remembered that there are some people still visiting his blog. Real people, who enjoyed his stories, and not just a bunch of people who went to school for Marketing & PR who now sit in an office exploiting people's websites in order to get their penis enlargement and exercise websites more hits. And then Trevor thought, I'd better update my blog.

So he made a blog post about a boy with a slightly different name than him, and clued his readers into the fact that it was supposed to be about him by naming the blog post a title indicating that the post isn't about him, but in an ironic way, so that smart people would understand that it is.

And then he wrote the post about a boy who experienced this sadness with advertisers. And he felt happy and at the end of the story finished by expressing that the fictional character he made up is so happy that there are some people who read his blog, and that he hopes they continue to read it, because he likes them.

One of those Learning Moments

"I'm so sorry!" cried Ted, grabbing my hands, preparing to tell some kind of bad news. I had just walked into the dorm room and put my bag back down (I just got back from being at home for the weekend.) "I purposefully killed your fish!" he said, his eyes big with worry at how I'll react.

"You did what?!"

"I actively killed your fish!" he said, his voice booming with deep empathy. "I am so sorry! I was fully conscious of what I was doing!"He blinked his nearly tearful puppy-dog eyes.

"Did you forget to feed him?" I asked.

"No, I just wanted to kill him so I scooped him out of the bowl, put him under my chem book, and sat on it. I'm so sorry!" he said, his hands crossed in a plea for forgiveness. 

I tried to say something but my words couldn't get through the thicket of his contradictory tone and words. "H-Wh-But why?"
"I wanted to!" he said exasperatedly. "I wanted to murder your fish, so I did! And I'd definitely do it again because it was really fun, but I'm so sorry!"

That was the first time I noticed this bizarre behavior from my Freshmen year roommate. The similar situation happened several times throughout the year. One day he shook me awake in my bed.

"Dude, I am so sorry but I'm about to go sleep with your girlfriend and I won't be wearing a condom and might impregnate her!" he said, rubbing his head with nervousness at my reaction. At first I thought he was joking until he showed me the sexts from my girlfriend's phone number.

"Don't do it!" I said.

"I want to, but I'm totally sorry, and I feel horrible about how it makes you feel, but I can't wait to go to town on her oily body."

"What is your problem?" I asked him. "You're always apologizing for things you're completely aware of what you're doing!! It's ridiculous!"

"So much for diversity appreciation, huh?" he said, shaking his head.

I leaned up in my bed. "What are you talking about?" I asked him.

"I was raised by nuns."

"Your mother was a nun?"

"No, my mother was killed by German truckers. I was raised by a group of nuns who shooed away the truckers at the scene of the murder. I was raised in the convent, and they taught me to always be honest."

"Hm..." I said, thinking about it.

"I may do some pretty weird things, but forgive me, for I saw my mother get murdered by drunk German truckers when I was three weeks old, okay?"

"You remember it?"

"I remember seeing like a duck in a pond. And I still think about it to this day. In any case, you may think I'm weird, but at least I'm up front about my weirdness."

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ted," I said. "I guess I'm the chump. You go sleep with my girlfriend. To be honest..." I said trying to get it off my chest, trying Ted's way of life. "I can't satisfy her that way... because my penis is split sideways."

Ted smiled and nodded. "I appreciate your honesty."

"Feels good to say that out loud to someone other than the team of plastic surgeons who are trying to bridge the gap." I looked up at the roommate who's already taught me so much. "You go. Go bang my sweethart. She likes being called a dirty foreigner while you do it." We hugged it out and the wisest friend I've ever known threw his bag of condoms to the side and skipped out the door.

The first song

I like to imagine that the first song was invented by an ancient species of the homo genus. I like to imagine it was way back, perhaps habilis or erectus.

I like to imagine it was a couple of bored hominids, a young brother and sister perhaps, hanging out near the river. Perhaps one was banging some fist-sized rocks together while the other was banging a hollow stick against a tree trunk. I like to imagine that, by mathematical chance, the brother banged his stick at precisely the same rhythm that the sister banged her rocks. They must have fallen into a rhythmic sinc and looked at each other, instictively bobbing their heads, suddenly experiencing the euphoria of song.

I like to imagine the others in their tribe looked over suddenly, the heavenly sensations of music permeating their furry brow world. Perhaps they watched the impromptu concert with a fascination they never knew before. Perhaps the two hominids dropped their instruments when they noticed everyone else staring at them. I like to imagine that many hominids in the tribe started hooting and hollering when the music went away, as though wanting it back. Perhaps others felt threatened by the deep soul-stirring of this enchanting rhythm they'd never been exposed to before and ran up to the two young hominids and wrenched the sticks and rocks from them. I like to imagine they tried licking the sticks and stones, tried smelling them, tried breaking them open, but discovered nothing unusual about them, and roared in frustration. I like to imagine their hominid mob-mentality grew to a fever pitch and out of fear began to throttle the two young hominids. I like to imagine they beat them against the nearby trees and then ripped them limb from limb, hoisting their body parts above their heads, blood pouring down their furry necks and chests.

Ahhh... I think of this as I listen to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Call me a romantic, but that's how I like to imagine it.

Think of almost every P.E. teacher you've ever known....

Vice Principal Hill and P.E. Department Head Logan scribble on their multi-paged interview forms in their laps. Jim Brightman, in his crisp suit and red-white spackled tie, tries to see what they write but can't quite see past Hill's big fountain pen and nails, nor Logan's hairy knuckles.

Vice Principal Hill straightens her glasses under her blond bobby-cut hair as she reads aloud from her paper, "The P.E. instructor position requires you to work a good deal of weekends, especially in the months that you'll coach your sports. You could expect to work anywhere from twelve to sixteen hour days during certain times of the year."

"Not a problem! Only sixteen?!" he jokes with an optimistic laugh, subconsciously rubbing the corners of his optimistically yellow folder. "When I was a student teacher I'd be there eighteen, nineteen sometimes!" Hill and Logan glance at each other for a brief moment. The young man smiles, "Are there any coaching opportunities for the baseball teams? That's what I played at KSU. Pitcher and shortstop."

Vice Principal Hill purses her lips. "We'll tell you that if-and-or when we hire you, Mr. Brightman. Now, if you were hired, you'd have to sign a waiver of liability for the school due to the physical nature of the job, submit your proof of citizenship and medical history, and of course we do require that you grow a strange mustache and-or beard."

Brightman nods. "Wait, what?"

"Yes, Mr. Brightman," Logan says, "And by the codes of the school board it will have to be one of the following; wiry, unkempt, patchy, jagged, oddly-shaped, or as deuschy-looking, or perverted-looking as possible. Looking is the key word there. We do not tolerate any inappropriate teacher-student relations."

"This is actually how we prepel it," mentions Vice President Hill, trailing off a bit. "In addition, Brightman, you will be expected to gain substantial weight, and-or incur diabetes type one and-or two. And if you want to take up smoking, we can look the other way."

"What?!"

Hill blinks. "Mr. Brightman, your resume says you attended an American high school, you coached and student-taught at physical education departments in the area - You should know by now these are  standard measures for phys. ed. in public high schools!"

"But why?"

"Why are trees brown? Why are coyotes territorial?" Hill muses. "Why are attractive gym teachers a sex-scandal liability? It's just is the way life is."

Department Head Logan clears his throat. "Now of course if you don't want to gain the body and general lifestyle of a modern biker, there may be another to qualify."

The candidate perks up. "What's that?"

"Could you provide documentation of mental illness?" Hill asks. "We'd even accept forms of severe emotional damages that could affect your behavior, as evidenced by a psychologist or personal reference." She gets ready to grab her pen again. Logan looks hopefully at the candidate's folder in front of him.

"My knee flairs up once in a while... " Brightman says. "It gets me all out of sorts..." Hill puts her hand back on her lap. Logan sighs and leans in, in a fatherly way.

"Anger issues? Trauma? Do you even carry a chip on your shoulder?"

"Yeah, you know what?" Brightman says, puffing out his chest. "I think I do sometimes! I think I do have some issues, and could be a P.E. teacher!"

Logan leans back and shakes his head. "Sorry, son. The correct answer to a question like that would be more like, 'What the hell do you mean, do I got a chip on my shoulder, asshole?' or 'What are you saying, I have a small dick?' or something similar. You see the problem, buddy?"

Brightman nods. With a sigh, he stands and scrapes up the now tauntingly yellow folder from the desk. The faculty also stand and Hill extends her hand out, diplomatically, and shakes the young man's hand as she says, "It was great to meet you, Mr. Brightman, but unfortunately you lack the disgustingness, psychological damages, or emotional instability needed for a P.E. teacher at North Highlands... It's too bad that you didn't study History Education at KSU, because we really could use a Geography teacher with your chutzpah, determination, and personal pride. Best of luck."

A bit dazed, he turns around and heads out past the oak door. The faculty sit down and in walks the next candidate: A balding man, with a mushroom-shaped belly and ketchup stains still around his neck. His unbuttoned collared shirt was so wrinkled it looked like it would probably break the iron that tried to straighten it, and a certain odor came from the man, like sea-salt mixed with dying shit.

"I'm here for the job interview but first I need a friggin' Gatorade, where you people got the damn soda machines? I looked everywhere up this freakin' place. Disrespeccful!"

Hill and Logan light up. "Down the hall, near the cafeteria, and when can you start?"

That's some serious seaturtle shit man!

I pick the small transportable water tank, full of barely-born sea turtles and head back across the windy beach towards the lab, when the bellhop from my Casa Magna Marriot hotel happens to walk my way. He still has his uniform on, and seems to be smoking a self-rolled cigarette.

"Whatcha got there amigo?" he asks.

"Sea turtles." I respond as I passed by, smiling politely.

He looks at the turtles and then up at me.

"You a scientist?"

I stop. "Volunteer. Scientist. Yeah."

"A volunteer scientist? And you come to my country to look at those things?"

I look at the bucket of sea turtles.

"Yep!"

"The fuck?!" he mutters, taking a drag.

My heart gives a jump. "Huh?"

"You gonna be doctor and you volunteer here to look at those little shitty things swimming around instead of helping my wife who is dying of AIDs because of our terrible health care system?"

"Uh.. no, it's just that-"

"Or my brother's son who was kidnapped for a ransom he can't pay?"

 "...See the thing of it is is I'm in vet school. Study animals. Animales. Not... people."

"You pay money to fly here and help out, and you help out those little faggots," pointing at the sea turtles.

"The thing is, they're suffering too," I explain, as I squashed my toes into the sand. "Right now they're almost extinct because of this new microbiotic infection that's causing some of them to go blind and become easy pray. If the sea turtles die out, you're going to have an out of control jellyfish population around here. Hate to step on one of those guys, they're a shocker, am I right?" I ask, going out of pitch.

He skull-fucks my eyes. "I can handle jellyfish."

My big toe was fully buried in the sand. "You know what!" I say. "I have a couple hours free tomorrow, I'll stop by somewhere and give your wife some antibiotics, or - help you look in the jungles for your kidnapped nephew, err... Put up posters, what do you do about that exactly?"

"We have to pay eight hundred thousand pesos. He cut hair for living."

"Hm..." I blink. "Could he use an assistant?"

In the name of the pages, the ink, and the holy binding

"People call this book the Word of God!" Pastor Channing said, holding up his gold-covered Bible, his tiny veiny arms straining. "The book whose truths of God have pervailed over thousands of years! The book that has shown the light of God, no matter its translation from Hebrew and Aramaic and Greek to English, to Chinese, to French -- although we all know God speaks English, not French."

A light laughter rippled through the crowd, so light in fact that some members of the congregation were undoubtedly nodding in actual agreement.

"A book that has survived that many translations and still holds true! The book that can encapsulate the power of God using only pages, ink, and glue! Nay, that kind of a book is God! Only God himself could hold that kind of power! THIS IS GOD!"

He held the Bible as high as he could, the veins in his neck and arm ever prominent. People in the congregation knelt.

"And those who have translated it are prophets! God has made it so that any translations in the name of the Holy Bible are accurate! After all, that is how we've treated it! All worship Zondervan Publishing House in La Porte, Indiana!"

The white people in the pews bowed their heads further.

"And we worship the retailers who brought God to our bookshelves! All hail Borders Books and Music!"

The people bowed their heads further, most of them touching the pew in front of them.

"And to the copywriters and edit- uh oh!"

The book -- the God -- in Pastor Channing's old white hands fell through his fingers. It flipped through the air, the corner of it hitting the chalice of red wine -- Jesus' blood -- and the bowl of crackers -- Jesus' skin. All three hit the red carpet next to the altar, the wine splashing across the pages of the Bible, the crackers splaying around.

Someone in the crowd stood up.

"He spilled Jesus on God!"

The Pastor looked at the mess of deities on the floor at his feet, and then looked back up at his congregation.

"It is a sign! The blood and skin of Jesus is now encompassed in the book!" He held up the Bible dripping with wine and crackers. People gasped. "The Bible is our God!!"

When in doubt, follow the classic Hollywood script formula!

Teresa scowled with her bushy eyebrows.

"I'm 26 and I still haven't found myself."

It was a realization that came that morning with Cheerios. As she munched the same oaty flavor, it hit like the spoon hiting the bowl.

"I work in a sheet metal factory and I don't know who I am! I didn't want to go into sheet metal! Why didn't I go to MYU?"

Her boyfriend Cho ate his fruity pebbles and nodded. "Y-You're doing great, honey. We've got a great routine going here. You're making a lot of money." He picked up his bowl and squeeked across the floorboards to the sink.

Teresa shook her head.
Later at work, Teresa turned off her gigantic spot welder machine and removed her safety glasses. She glided through the machines and workers to the supervisor Tompkins' office door.

"No, you can't go to Cancun! You have to schedule off your vacations, and you've already used all of yours this year!"
"Mr. Tompkins, I need to find myself and God so my only choice is to go on a roadtrip to Mexico, or fly to Hawaii." She cocks her head to the side, as though annoyed by the idea that she has to go.
"No! We've got you Monday through Thursday next week! If you want time off you've got to give more advanced notice!" He looked back down at his office desk. A loud sheer began in the background yards from the open door.

"BUT!" Teresa shouted, "I need to do this! God told me while I was eating breakfast!"

Mr. Tompkins rubbed his bald temples.

"You don't know who you are because you haven't strived to ask. You'll never know the full extent of who you are, but the only way that you can ever figure out who you are is by stepping into the shoes of others, so that you can see yourself through their viewpoint. You can't look at who you are with your own eyes; you must see through the view of another."

Teresa went silent. "That gave me goose pimples."

"I've been to Hawaii before."