girth

I choked and laughed reading this story.
Fat people, oh my god, fat people.
Fucking america.
My favorite quote from this story: "Syringes with the longest available needles -- 4 1/2 inches -- couldn't penetrate the fat."
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

humidity

I got in the shower today with a plan to wash my hair, but when I stepped into the tub, I again noticed the mold that has been growing on the inside of my shower curtain liner. I've been here 5 and a half months, and enough of it has appeared to annoy me. I've been planning on cleaning it for awhile, but it's been an easy thing to put off. I only see it once a day, and I am naked and myopic and trying to get myself clean, and usually in a hurry as well; the mold gets ignored.

Until today. I didn't have to be anywhere. Time was not an issue.

I got a bottle of cleaner from under the sink, and the sponge that I keep next to it. I didn't even have to step back out of the shower. The water ran warmly from the showerhead.
I sprayed the curtain all over with the cleaner and proceeded to scrub at it with the sponge. Scrubbing either end of the liner was easiest because I could spread the curtain against the tile wall and have a hard surface to scrub upon. The end where I enter and exit had the most mold, so it was good that it was easiest to clean; the reason for the extra mold is that the end of the liner tends to fold back on itself when wet, and then sticks together, trapping the moisture and aiding the growth.
Cleaning the middle section was harder.
I had to put my left arm behind the liner and sandwich it between my hand and the sponge on the other side, allowing me to scrub one hand-sized section at a time. My progress slowed, and I turned off the water faucet; all pretenses of a quick cleaning job at the beginning of my shower having washed down the drain with citric cleanser and invisible granules of scrubbed mold.
The mold in the middle section of the liner was centered on vertical folds still remembered by the material from it's days on a shelf at the store I bought it from.
When I finished the middle section, I sprayed the whole curtain again, and then went over it with my eyes and the sponge, catching spots that I'd missed.
When I was done, I turned the water back on, and turned the nozzle to wash the remaining cleaner from the curtain.
I resumed my shower, and washed my hair.

My curtain is clean.

Miracle

I've been wearing my glasses a lot recently.
Last night, I'd been drinking.
I took my glasses off, set them down, and then put my contacts in.
After I put my contacts in, without thinking about it, I put my glasses back on, as they were in a spot I only place them in temporarily; such as when I am changing shirts, or showering.
I put my glasses on, and suddenly my vision turned blurry.
I squinted my eyes, and reached up to rub one of them, then I noticed that my peripheral vision around the glasses was excellent.
I pulled my glasses off my face, and I could see!
I ran to the window, leaned out, threw my glasses out into the street, and screamed:

"Hallelujah, I can see!!!"

-------------------

This morning I woke up with a hangover.

I couldn't find my glasses anywhere.

Then I remembered why.

And wrote this.

Waaaaaaah!!

There was a child somewhere nearby, crying and having a tantrum.
A man walked up to me in a nice hat, laughing.
I looked at him, and I started laughing too; we both knew what we were laughing about.
"I sometimes enjoy the cries of children, " I said.
"I think I'd like to do what he's doing, somedays," the man said.
"Yes, " I agreed. "Me too."
And we laughed some more.

Croissant (sp?)

I was working as a bagger at a grocery store.
A woman was purchasing 3 croissants in an open plastic bag from the bakery.
The cashier picked up the bag to count them and then set it down.
"Did your finger touch that?" asked the woman of him, quickly.
"No," he said. "My finger just touched the wrapper."
"I don't want them." She said tersely. "Take them off."
"Ok," he said, and set them aside.
I looked on in shock. Because a man who is unfamiliar to her may have briefly touched one of her croissants with one or two fingers, she was unwilling to buy them. What did she think may have been transferred? Should I be worried? No, I don't feel worried. How does she think those croissants were made? Does she think that no hands have ever touched them before?

I don't know, and it made me sad. It made me think of the paranoia that seems to be so harshly gripping so many Americans. What are we so fucking afraid of, that we can just throw away food like that for the most asinine and remote dangers. Why are we so worried all the time? We have very little to worry about, compared to most of the world. It bugs me.
I took them back to the bakery and told the clerk there that:
"A customer didn't want these anymore because a cashiers finger may have touched them."
I said it kind of loudly, I suppose. I heard a woman behind me say, "well, I wouldn't either."

Goddammit, that was enough.
"Here, I'll take them, nevermind." I was pissed. I knew they were just going to throw them away, for what seemed like no good reason to me.
I took them over to the customer service desk and bought them. Screw the paranoia.

I just ate one of them.
It was delicious.

Successful day

On my walk home from work tonight, I sang. I sang the whole way, on my two mile walk. I sang noises and it was circusy, but sort of drunk walking with my feet flipping out widely on each step.

Me me me.

I exercised my Japan fetish heartily today.
I went to Mitsuwa Marketplace with my Japanese friend and a fellow Nihongo enthusiast. We wandered and spoke and shopped and ate and I spoke more Japanese in a day than I ever have. It was wonderful. I feel so small in my knowledge of the language and constant exposure to just how much there is to learn, but I'm gaining a confidence in my ability to learn it and speak and understand it. Today I really broke through the stress boundary that has encircled by shaky grasp of the language. I spoke it thoughtlessly a few times, and forgot to be nervous.
That's great!!
Best I've felt about the language so far.

Roast

I was participated in roasting my friend Shabaz on his birthday this Wednesday at a cafe. Here is the speech that I wrote for it (Shabaz was sitting on the stage with me while I spoke):

"Last night I drank until dawn, and I've had a lot to drink tonight. Before I got up here, I was worried that I might pass out first. Now that I'm here, I'm worried I might pass out on the stage. If I do, just drag me to my seat and tell the cops that Shabaz slipped Rufies in my drink. He's that desperate.

A few days ago, I was wondering what I could say about Shabaz tonight, other than to curse him for being a worthless isolated hermit of a layabout that didn't bother to read my mind so he could find out that I'm a huge Arlo Guthrie fan before he didn't invite me to go to the concert with him. I almost learned the guitar just so I could cover Alice's Restaurant, you bastard.
[singing]'Oh, you can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant' - except redemption Shabaz. I'll hunt you like the middle-eastern sand lizard that you are, and I'll be reading this again at your funeral.

[At this point I flipped him off, and then walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek. The crowd made a sappy sound.]
"What you don't know is that I have cyanide on my lips."

"Yeah, so I thought of saying all that, and then decided to say this.
Shabaz is my friend, but I haven't known him for very long, so that could still change.

I talk a lot, but Shabaz talks too long. He doesn't know when to close his mouth. One time when I was listening to him talk, his mouth stayed open for so long that an entire family of spiders crawled inside, lived their natural lifespans, died, their little spider corpses shriveled and turned to dust, all in his mouth while I watched, and before the end of his story, which he never actually reached because he fell asleep in his chair while he was talking to me.

Finally, God bless, Holy Shalam, and allah, and whatever else might be relevant to the mystery seasoning packet you call your genetic history. May your mother rest in peace, knowing that she left her son with such caring friends as all of us here tonight. Happy birthday Shabaz."

Unread, and un-spellchecked

This night.
Seemed a good place to start laying words down.
The trouble is where to go next from there.
The keyboard is unresponsive to my fingertips. One word leaps to the next with the agility of a retarded long jumper. I could be a disfigured cheetah closing in obviously on a kill that will never be.
However, I could be anything, though I sometimes feel that that is reserved for other people. People with will and perseverence. I have endurance, but have not had much else. Never had much gut, or strength, or individuality. I was the one that took punishment and ran away quickly. I didn't want more than what I found without trying. I wanted to be left alone, generally. I could have played video games forever by myself in a closed room for a long time and been happy. Forever, if I'd had the best selection selected for me on a monthly basis, but that involves other people. No way to be alone and be happy for me. I had to find a way to interact.
I've been gradually looking for ways to do so for years. I've gotten better at it, I suppose, though I'm not proud of it. I'm still the same sad kid I was when I was 15, but now I've learned more about the art of distracting myself.
Shiny baubles and all kinds of things; shiny shiny shiny!
I must be kept busy, or life starts to stain through.
Here is where I lay.
The first day of spring will come soon. We will have some equanimity around that, which will be nice.
If I don't contradict myself, I'm happy.
Come on then world, fuck me with your best stillettos on, I'll be waiting with the meanest reviewers to nail you to wall with your brethren, and cry about it afterward.
A good drink always needs a home.
Enough of this.

Noon: Part 2

She stopped looking at the city and looked down at her feet, then at the ground and gravel and bits of broken plastic and glass that littered the shoulder of the road. She didn't like when her father was upset. She didn't know what to do. She kept her eyes on the ground, trying to identify different things there near her. There was a lid and straw from a soda cup, crushed flat and browned with dirt. There were bottle caps and a crushed can. Next to the can was something small and white and round. It looked like it could be soft or brittle. She crouched down and moved her head closer to it. It had a yellowish color stained into it, and was small, about the length of half of her index finger. She reached down and picked it up very carefully. It was fragile and very light, like a piece of hard dust. One end of it ended smoothly and roundly, like her finger tip, but the other end had a hole in it and was burst open, as if something had ripped free and escaped from it. She looked inside it and saw a little brown husk of something within. A discarded skin. It was a moth's cocoon, picked up and blown by the wind, but she didn't know that at the time.

She dropped it back on the ground and stood up. She looked again at the city, burning. She felt a wind blow over them, hot and rich with the smell of something strong and unpleasant. It left a taste in her mouth, hot and plastic. Ashes scattered in the sky and blew like leaves. She was scared. She reached for her dad's hand and found it, fidgeting with his pant leg. She grabbed it and he held her hand.

They stood there for a long while, watching the city burn with the others on the side of the highway, the radio in the car broadcasting worried voices into the air around them as moths would bounce around a bright light.

Noon: Part 1

She was five years old at the time, sitting in the passenger seat of her dads old car, riding from Jersey towards Manhattan to go see her mom. Her dad and her mom didn't get along anymore, and she was made constantly aware of that, especially when the two were within speaking distance. She was unconcerned with the drive, she'd been on it many times before. The radio played the news in the background, men and women speaking in serious tones about things far away and close to home. Her father listened intently as he drove, seeming concerned about something. She mostly ignored him, concentrating on a book she had in her lap, something about squirrels and trees. She had trouble remembering the book later in her life, but could say that it was one she carried with her many places. It's odd to forget things that were once so closely well known to oneself.

Her dad slowed the car down, looking off to the left, towards the city they were driving towards, Manhattan. Something was happening. He reached to the radio and changed to a couple other stations quickly, then came back to the first one. It was silence for a moment, and then a voice came on. It was a male voice, and he sounded surprised and unhappy. She realized they were talking about the city her mom lived in. Her dad slowed the car further and pulled over onto the left shoulder of the highway. She looked at him. His long face was tense, his mouth set very firmly below his angular nose, lips held tightly together.

“What's wrong dad,” she asked him.

“I don't know honey,” he answered.

He stopped the car, and turned off the engine, but left the radio on.

“I'm getting out of the car for a minute, ok?”

“Ok,” she said. Her father got out of the car, and she could see that there were many other cars stopped on the highway. Very few cars were still on the road, but the ones that were sped past very quickly. She didn't want to look at her book anymore. She wanted to know what her dad was doing. The newsman on the radio was very upset and anxious. He didn't sound like they usually do, quiet and reserved. He was talking about fire and planes and Manhattan. She crawled over the seat to the drivers side where her dad had left the car door open and stepped outside, joining him.

Outside, she looked around. There were many people standing; a few were sitting. Some were yelling; a few were crying. Everybody seemed upset and they were all looking off to the east. She looked up at her father. She was short for her age, and her father always seemed so large to her, even though he was not a very tall man. His face was still firm, but his eyes were watering. There was a tear on his cheek. She looked away from him, and out to see what everyone was looking at.

Later in her life, when she was 8 years old and in school, a teacher discovered that she wasn't able to see what was being written on the board, even when she was made to sit in the front of the class. That teacher talked to her dad and he had her go to see an optometrist. She was found to be near-sighted and was fitted with a pair of pink glasses with little strawberries on the sides. As she got older she tried to think back on her childhood, and the things she saw. It seemed that her childhood must have been a mostly blurry place to her, but she couldn't remember it that way. Her most distinct visual memories were all of near things though. She remembered standing on the road that day, and what she saw when she looked to the east, towards Manhattan island.

The sky was blue above her, but there was dark smoke above the city. She could see the tall peaks of buildings, but they were not distinct to her. Below the buildings and climbing up towards the tops, there was bright orange light that jumped and flickered. It seemed to be all over the city and it looked hot and angry.

“Oh god, your mother...” her father said softly, and looked down at her, his face collapsing into a grimace. It was noon.

no habla espanol

I awoke fairly early today. At 10 am. I plan to do the same tomorrow. This marks a new consistency for me in a weekly schedule that usually involves waking up near noon each day.

I had time before I had to report to my job to do some shopping this afternoon and wandered up Clark street to do so. My desire: earrings!!

I ventured into Sally Beauty and found that they do sell earrings. I looked through their selection and found some that I wanted. The woman at the counter helped me retrieve them from the case; a pair of studs and a pair of hoops.

As she rang up the order, she said to me, "You're not Latino, are you?"
I looked at her. She looked to be about 40 years old. She was Latino, but I did not recognize her as such until she asked me.
It's a question I've had to answer many times. I have yet to work out a natural response that concisely sums up my situation.
I often say, "Yes, I'm half Mexican.", but when I say that, I know that that infers a cultural connection on my part to Mexico, when the reality is anything but.
My father is a full blooded Mexican, and my mother is very Caucasian (whatever that means now), but I don't know my father. I know his name, and have an address he might still reside at, if he still lives. My only memory of him is of a vaguely shaped shadow in a doorway from when I was about 7 years old and very sick with the flu, laying in bed. I've no connection with him, Mexico, Espanol, or any Latino community, so I feel near to a lie whenever I tell anyone that, yes, I'm half Latino. It is in my blood and my appearance, but that is about all.
So, after a moment of silence, I told her, "I've never known my dad. I don't even remember what he looks like."
"Oh," she said. She was quiet for another moment. Then she said, "I have a cousin who is half Latino."
It was not uncomfortable. Our conversation remained pleasant and short.
I felt pretty good about it, and happily left with my jewelry.

Metal

I've been thinking that I'd like to wear earrings again. I have two holes in each ear that used to be at a 14 or 16 gauge, but I've worn nothing in them for over two years now. I lost and gave away all of my earrings in the meantime.
The holes are still visible, and I've wondered about them, so I tossed four safety pins in a pot of water and started boiling the water. I boiled them for a few minutes, and then decided that I didn't really think it was going to matter and poured the water out and gingerly retrieved one of them.
I went into my bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, and began to push it into the lower hole in my right ear. I didn't get it in very far, and I was worried that I would deviate from the old hole while part way through and punch out of a new spot on the other side.
My ear turned red and began to hurt, so I stopped.
That was last night.
Tonight, I thought, "Fuck it," skipped the boiling, took one of the pins and went for the other ear. I jammed it straight through in one try.
It felt pretty good, actually. A self managed pain.
I cleaned it, and now happily have a safety pin through my ear.
One down, three to go.
Time to go jewelry shopping.

Happiness in Clicking

Recently I was roaming through links on Fark.com and came to one in regards to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. I'd been curious about what that was so I clicked on it and read all about the Monster and it's status as a deity and it's co-validity with Intelligent Design in a scientific setting.
I then found a link on that site to a podcast that contained an audio clip of an interview with Richard Dawkins where he spoke in regards to a recent documentary that he had filmed: "The Root of All Evil?".
I felt compelled to see the documentary from there, and it was inspiring. His verbosity and reverence for the human spirit is enheartening to witness as he throws his energy against the dogma that is harnessing the fear of the world and spitting in the face of the very things it proclaims to protect.
I heartily recommend it.

"Tap tap tap tap tap."

After stepping off the train in a small crowd, I walked with them and chose to take the stairs down to the street level. I was moving quickly, and watching for a good route to take among the others already on the stairs.
A woman directly in front of me wore a long black coat, with the hem of a fancy dress sticking out from below, bunching up on each step behind her. I knew this would slow her down so I looked peripherally to my left and found I was moving slightly faster than the person that was there. I sped up a little bit and slipped in front of that person to come abreast with, and then pass on the left, the woman in the long dress.
In front of her, still on the stairs, I noticed a light bright blue glove on a hand. It was knit and had a little bit of other color on it, or maybe a white pattern. I liked it, and the way the arm it was attached to was poised out from the body of the girl moving quickly down the stairs.
We both reached the bottom at about the same time.
I heard her say, "I love-"
and she turned and looked right at me, hesitated for maybe a quarter second and finished with "-going down the stairs!"
Looking at her, I said, "Me too." Then I looked down at my feet and mimed running down stairs really fast with them and said, "Tap tap tap tap tap. Going down stairs is fun!"
Our pause to speak was barely a pause at all, and it seemed as though we never stopped moving. She turned to the right and I turned to the left.
We were headed in opposite directions.

Shiny shoes

My friend was visiting from out of town, and I was showing him around downtown a little bit at night. Walking, and trying to remember the very limited trivia I've absorbed about the city thus far, we found the Billy Goat's Tavern and went in for some dinner and drinks.
I remembered reading about the place as a famous hangout for reporters from the Chicago Tribune building across the street, and lo and behold, there were quite a few reporterly looking fellows having drinks at the bar.
We ate and absorbed the journalist brain juice oozing from the dirty walls and left to wander the city some more. We came near the State street bridge over the Chicago River and I was telling Chris about Marina City when we heard a voice.
"Hey man. Hey! Thems some nice shoes. Say-uh lemme shine em for ya."
We turned and saw a black guy in a thin jacket and wearing shiny Nikes coming up. Shine shoes? He spoke really really fast and I noticed that many of his teeth were broken, but some were capped with metal.
When my friend and I didn't immediately walk away, he quickly knelt down and pulled out a cloth and a bottle of shoe shine. He took my friends foot up on his knee, squirted some brown liquid on his shoe and proceeded to shine it with the cloth.
He talked to us the whole time.
He told my friend, "Okay, I got a riddle for you. You answer it, double or nothin, double or nothin."
"Don't do it," I told him. "Don't do it. You'll lose."
The shoe shine guy looked up at me and said, "You talk real fast, where ya from?"
"I've lived in Chicago for a couple years, " I told him.
He finished the shine on both shoes, and my friend and I agreed that they did look much shinier.
The man put his hand out and said something that neither of us understood, but we realized it was money time, of course.
My friend pulled out his wallet, and took the singles he had in it, $3, and was about to give it to the guy when he said: "Seven bucks, it's seven bucks."
"Damn," I said.
My friend laughed and pulled out a $10 bill and gave it to him.

The guy said, "Alright, Imma ask you the riddle. Okay. Now tell me, how many sons did your father have?"

I knew that my friends father was somewhat estranged from him. I asked him if he knew.
He said, "Oh yeah, I know."
I thought about what I knew about him and guessed: "3".
My friend said, "No, 4. I've got three brothers from my dad."
The shoe shine guy said, "Wrong! Shit, you know your dad didn't have no babies! That's what mothers do!"
With that he walked away from us, and we turned to cross over the river and see what else could happen to us in Chicago.

Terminator 4

I went towards my kitchenette this morning because I was hungry. I know what's in there. Not much, but I did have 4 boxes of Boca Spicy Chick'n Patties which are mostly gone now. They were on sale at my work, and I've had one for breakfast and one for dinner every day for a week.
I opened the freezer door, reached in, and removed a cellophane-wrapped chick'n patty from the box. Closing the door, I then turned and removed the wrapper and placed the frozen patty on a plate. I then opened the door to the refrigerator and placed the plate inside and closed it. I then (very quickly) opened the fridge, removed the plate, moved two feet to my left, opened another door (this time to the microwave) and put the food in.
Open the door, close the door, press the buttons, yay! - but only if I'm standing in front of the microwave. My fridge doesn't have any buttons.

Machines: 1 Nate: 0

echo

It's daunting sometimes, trying to think of what to say, what I could possibly have to say to entertain a passerby, or a friend, or myself in this space?
That is the duty here. To entertain, to engage, to communicate. This is not activism. It's just another moment that I struggle to infuse with some sort of life, or at least a hopefully natural extension of my personality.
I could talk about something from two days ago:

I went to the Chicago Cultural Center with the purpose of seeing some art, and also to place myself in a large ornate building and see how that felt.
I was wandering up a huge grand staircase, admiring the metallic inlay above me and in the walls when I heard a very large sound. It was of a grand piano, bouncing around the rooms and off the stairs and me. I felt urgent! Suddenly, there was import being sifted tangibly from the air and settling everywhere; the room felt thick. The sound was everywhere, and whomever was playing was doing so very vigorously.
I began to move very slowly, almost certain that something shocking or life altering was about to happen. A clone of myself that my unknown father had been growing and raising for the last 23 years was waiting for me at the top of the next staircase, and the crescendo of the music was coming closer as I ascended to meet my destiny in the eyes of myself...

I reached the top of the stairs and found the source in a grand room, that I realized I'd been in before. I worked a cleanup for a special events company after a wedding in that room. It's really magnificent. There's a high dome of colored lit glass in the center, and the ceiling gradually slopes down, covered in mosaic tiles until it meets the walls.
An Asian man with long hair in a pony tail sat in front of the piano, and he played like a small monster, his face moving and contorting with the motion of his hands on the keys and in synch with the music being issued.

There was seating for at least a hundred people in the room, but only a handful of people were there, all sitting near the back.
I quietly entered and took a seat to the side of them, and watched him play.
I spent an hour or two in that seat, and learned that his name was Alpin Hong and that he was only practicing for a recital the next day in the same room.
He was surprisingly good, and I felt just fine about sacrificing the rest of my gallery viewing time to listen to and watch him play.

Searching for god

No this post isn't about searching for god.
It's just about some girl I used to know.
I met her while I was dating another girl, and she was the friend of a friend. When I met her I thought, "Dammit. Why am I dating this girl. This other girl is amazing!"
Soon after that, the relationship fell apart, though I hadn't intended it to.
Awhile later, I saw the other girl again. Started talking to her, and seeing her more often.
I was always so confused, I could never figure out what she was thinking, even though sometimes I felt like I knew. We became close, with more time, but not very close, then exploded one day, and only one day, and that was all it ever was.

It was the anticipation that really made it worthwhile.
Waiting and waiting and waiting and thinking, "oh my god (whoops, there's god) what the hell do I even still call this person for" and doing that for so long.
Waiting and waiting and waiting. It's easy to do. I've spent a lot of my life waiting for things. Most people have.
A good deal of my waiting time has been spent thinking about love, and why I do things.
Something I read recently elicited this: love in another is the search for god in heaven. When one turns from religion, releases from that all-permeating envelope of acceptance and peace in the fold, one must turn that which made one seek that, and place it somewhere. The need does not dissolve. Falling in love with someone, setting them effectively up as a god, is only natural.
If I were very religious, I might not need to think about women so much, and I might not write posts where I talk about girls long gone, and how this one time I threw an empty beer can at her head, but missed.
It's okay though, I intended to miss.

Two

A surprisingly accurate occurrence.
The last time I got really stoned I found myself reading about the mapping of the human genome (they finished! I didn't know that) and about space and time as dimensions. I learned what a tesseract was and viewed a stereoscopic image of one. At the bottom of one article on hypercubes, I found myself staring at a fractal image, and then I wanted to watch a visualization program. I hunted G-Force out of the Winamp plugin archives, and spent an hour watching that.
All from smoking weed.
Seems like very typical behaviour for a pot smoker, but still I found it odd that I ended up accidentally exhibiting that typical behaviour, as one that rarely smokes .

And today, something rare.
Working as a cashier, I saw two asian women enter my line with two bottles of beer. I listened carefully to them, as I do everytime I see someone ambiguously (to me) asian, to discern if they are Japanese speakers. They were, as I could tell from their speech. I rarely know if someone is japanese before they sign their credit card slip. I said "Konnichiwa" to them, and then told them I spoke a little japanese (in japanese) while I rang them up. I asked them if they wanted paper or plastic (kami ka purastiko(i think i fucked that part up)).
At this point, I noticed that I was trembling very badly. I was shaking. I don't think anyone noticed, but I could tell that it was more difficult to control my arms and hands when I was opening up a bag.
In wondering why I was shaking, I remembered other times that I'd shaken in the same way.
Leading up to and during and after my first kiss. It was a prolonged one, and took place in the front cab of a two seater toyota truck, my first car. I was very nervous and remembered trembling enough for the girl to notice. The severity matched that of what I had today.
The next closest was the first time I drove a car. I was very nervous, but not trembling nearly as much, though the sensation was the same one.
The link seems to be because I was doing something very new and that I'm not experienced in, rather than because the people I was speaking to were female. Also, whether I see the activity as being of import or signifigance or a great desire affects the strength of it.
I tremble! How odd.

A suicide note

I am sometimes questioned about the nature of my sense of humor.

I have been told at different times that it is very dark, really sick, and that I have a crazy laugh. I have been called morbid, sardonic, and twisted, all for things that I find funny. After failing recently to describe my sense of humor, I now think that the best way is this:
there are moments when one has to laugh, or cry; I generally choose to laugh.

Or do I?

It may be true that all the universe and all within it is a determinable sequence of events; a steady causal chain that could be traced forward and back, given the right variables and tools to process them. Which means that everything I do, I do because I couldn't have done anything else; I am literally programmed to do what I do. The programming is the result of everything that has occurred before, i.e. the particular events of my life and birth and genetics and environment, all directing my actions.
This is determinism as I understand it.
So where is there room for any real decision, actual free will?

Perhaps free will is contained within the mind, and nowhere else. The ability to conceptualize a multitude of possible actions at any given moment is free will, regardless of any actual compulsion that will push me towards one of the options.

In this sense, free will would exist alongside my ability to perceive of myself as a self, and nowhere else. It would be an illusion, but one equal in importance to the illusions that I use to allow me to mingle amongst others and survive and communicate.

To drop the illusions completely, (if that is even possible without becoming permanently insane) would then also abolish any possibility of free will, though perhaps the sheer magnitude of everything being constantly experienced would make the question of free will moot. A life lived without illusion would be all consuming.

Who knows what I would then find to laugh about?