Featuring the cow, a chicken, a lamb and two kiddies from Harvest Moon. Layout and coding by Cynthia Sun. Best viewed in IE 6.0+ and 1024x786 resolution.
Gustatory: Chipotle, Joy Yees, azn candy, MY cooking Visual: NGE, Scrubs, Naruto, O.C., Family Guy, PoT Audio: Cynthia music, Linkin Park, Sum41, Enigma Kinesthetic: DDR, feeding, doodling, scheming.
Height: ~174 cm
IQ: 100+
Weight: 72kg+
DOB: 25-12-87
Edibleness: 100%
Bandwidth:8 Mbps
Mistakes: 536,112,000 and counting
Taken Name: Topher
Alias: Gopher
SN: erazorlord93
gmail: erazorlord
pitas: erazorlord
xanga: erazorlord
Other Site: Geocities
Short stories. Letters to friends I didn't remember, essays to my future self. Poems, verses, doctrine. Diaries from an alternate universe.
Journal entries.
Real journal entries, not the shitty emo writing most people toss online.
Oh, my emotional pain! Eat some cake. Oh, the agony! Find a hobby. Oh, the ennui! Get a job. Nobody understands me! Learn proper english.
Flagrant emotions, restless hormones, stupid people--they're all part of humanity's new natural selection. Reincarnated as household items. Instead of lions and tigers, we have razor blades and antifreeze. Vodka and Ibuprofen. Ceiling rafters and bedsheets. Revolvers. Bridges. Herbicide.
Me, I do my best thinking at 2, 3am. I feel ideas gestating in my head and latching onto my parietal lobe like tiny parasites.
I do my best writing during quiet. Brooding silence. Now that the parentals have moved my computer downstairs for a trivial reason, the maternal unit walks over every fifteen minutes, minimum.
She says, a lot of kids do inappropriate things on their computer. She says, you don't want to be an inappropriate child, do you? She says, if you're not doing anything wrong, why do you keep switching screens? Are you Aye-Em chat?
And then, she keeps talking. Whining. Carping. Likens me to kids she's 'heard of' to kids she disapproves of to kids she hates. Talks about virtue, talks about honesty, talks about shit while my brain parasites are dying, losing their grip, dissolving into wisps of formerly good ideas.
The parental units, they're eating now. It's the only quiet time I can get anymore.
42 days left.
------------------------------- Topher released a bout of insanity at 12:20 p.m. -------------------------------
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Blood Rush To the Brain
Pounding headache.
Headache, no apetite. Anger, lots of anger; restless energy, discontent. The headache, it won't go away; it's throbbing, pulsing forty-nine times each minute, in synch with my disturbingly low heartrate.
Flashing lights, flashing signs. Images, words, smells--I see smells. Ideas. I can see images of the past floating by without restraint, tossing chronological caution to the wind. A picture--me, me alone, young and bright-eyed, thinking about the future.
Pounding headache, and I'm forgetting about thinking of the future, forgetting those whom I knew, forgetting pain, pain, pain.
The headache doesn't go away.
But all them memories--they do.
------------------------------- Topher released a bout of insanity at 07:26 p.m. -------------------------------
Friday, July 7, 2006
Idyllic Times That Never Existed
The parental units, they still refuse to accept the impending end to their reign.
Maybe it's their mentality, maybe it's their culture, maybe it's their lack of common sense. Maybe. But regardless of the cause, they're just not letting go.
It's 10:42; I've eighteen minutes until the maternal unit, who has been trained like a space monkey, will disconnect my modem. I know this, because I've watched her learn the intricate task of unplugging three wires.
Twenty minutes until the afforementioned parental unit begins her rant on sleep deprivation and inappropriate conduct, how internet friends are only misleading you and telling you to rebel against your parents. How righteous people do righteous things, and if I don't want her to know whatever it is I'm doing, it obviously isn't righteous.
Privacy? They haven't heard of privacy; I went to dinner one night after soccer and came home at 9, half an hour past my curfew; my computer was unceremoniously unplugged from my room and interned downstairs. If I close my bedroom door, the maternal unit requests it be opened until she either starts screaming or the paternal unit wakes from his perpetual nap and starts his threats. Kodak moment: a family shares verbal threats. Happy happy!
59 days left, and I wonder where the fuck my youth went.
------------------------------- Topher released a bout of insanity at 10:51 p.m. -------------------------------
