Well Mozilla, you have some ’splaining to do. I’m a long time Firefox user, and when I get an “UPGRADE IS AVAILABLE” message, I usually do. Problem is, I was being told to upgrade from 3.5.5 to…3.5.5. Hm. Need to see that again?

Instant replay:

3.5.5 to...3.5.5

Of course, I’m no idiot. I don’t upgrade to Beta unless I’m particularly interested in a new feature of some kind. So when Firefox informed me that some addons weren’t compatible with 3.5.5 (when they previously had), I figured “Why the fuck not?”

Maybe developers were putting out 3.6 versions! Yeah. Right.

So now virtually none of my addons are compatible, including -DRUMROLL PLEASE- the addon compatibility reporting addon! Oh, the fucking irony. I miss Greasemonkey, I miss AVG SafeSearch, I miss AnyColor, and I miss PowerTwitter. So now I have to try and reinstall 3.5.5. Fun.

More later.

I can’t remember the last time I had a dream. A really good, memorable dream. I suppose I never really give myself enough time to get into a good, deep REM sleep. That’s what I get for being nocturnal. At least I can still get bits and pieces of dreams, the scraps, if I try hard enough. They can be interesting. Sometimes, I can pull out words and phrases. Bits of whatever it was intended to be. But hell if I can figure out why I was supposed to dream it.

And now, I bid all you readers adieu. I leave in search of the aforementioned dreams.

Goodnight,  internet.

After slipping on a pair of warm, newly dried socks (I told you I can’t resist) I decided to catch up on some writing. I’d recently re-watched Poolhall Junkies, which is actually a lot better than it sounds. And hey, it’s got Christopher Walken in it. What’s not to like? Anywho, I sit down, and write this down:

Every day is good

If you should think otherwise

Just try missing one

Okay, now give me a break. I mean, I just watched it! The line was fresh in my mind. It just took a little rearranging.

It really got me to thinking. But then I stopped that nonsense and heated up some leftovers. One beef burrito later, I resumed thinking, my physical hunger having been satisfied. I came to the decision that I would write something, a poem or short story or limerick, that told a story of a man who misses one day of his life.

And that’s as far as I got. Don’t you just LOVE writer’s block?

I’ll be going for a walk to clear my head. Here’s hoping I can get something done afterward.

So, doing the clothes. There are way more grueling things I could have done, but hey. Clothes are a necessity. I like to think I’m not the only one who’s first instinct when pulling the clothes out of the dryer is to put them on. Especially socks.

My feet get cold.

More later (maybe).

Well, I decided enough was enough. This week, I started a self-improvement challenge, for both myself, and my environment. I’ve cleaned the house from top to bottom, reorganized my workspace, gone on long jogs and bike rides, and been eating healthier. Truth be told, I do feel better. I can actually sit at my desk and accomplish things now, and it’s a nice change of pace. It’s just a start, though. I have a long way to go. And well, I guess that’s what this blog is for, now. Less about the writing, and more about the writer. The Writer’s life.

Funny how things come full circle, isn’t it?

For now, not much will be posted here, but I’ll be back eventually. Sorry to let you down, readers. You can continue to follow whatever work I may do from here in from the following link: http://nullifiedknight.deviantart.com/

Alliteration, an act of artistry,

bending and breaking the boundaries,

creating a crazed cacophony, a

disastrous, dreadful din.

Entertain the effectiveness at evoking emotion,

finding a feeling a fellow can fathom.

Generally, gibberish is greatly

hazardous, as haphazardly heaping

irrelevant invocations is indeed a

jovial jest at judgment.

Keep knowledgeable, kings

and lovely ladies living a leisurely lifestyle.

Most mindful monsieurs and mademoiselles

need no noticeable nudge

onwards on occasions of

purely pleasurable perusing. Perhaps

questioning the quality of this quest

rests regally in the reach of you readers,

a selection so superb and scope so

tremendous, though the truth is timidly

uttered. Unusually unrealistic

visions are vainly viewed

when writers work wearily, wanting

a xerox xanadu, a xoanon

you youngsters yourselves yearn for.

The zenith of zen and zeal.

The things that we say in our minds and our hearts

can best be expressed through our songs and our arts.

But these things that we say often get stowed away

committed to darkness and not the light of day.

But every so often something deep will slip past

and the speed at which it travels will be faster than fast.

And despite how hard you may try to stop it’s rapid spread

rest assured my quiet friend it’s already been read.

They say the best that you can do in such a messy situation

is to find an explanation for your little deviation

for your innocent creation may just go and shock a nation

so be patient while you scan your work inside your mental station.

’cause everything today is all about PC PR

the way people might react, no longer what’s in your heart.

The world’s a mess but I must stress DON’T acquiesce under duress

instead confess to THEIR distress that this whole mess was your success

and go profess that you obsess over the best that they oppress.

I suggest that you impress upon the the best of the noblesse

that to repress will end with protest unless they reassess all they suppress.

But I digress.

Those private things that get past may be better off out there

because you never know just what it takes to inspire someone somewhere.

So let flow your creative juice and let go your inhibitions

and believe what your heart tells you, not their silly superstitions.

Censor only what you feel you should, don’t let them take control

of what you write and what you say and what’s deep in your soul.

The rain falls steadily from the sky,
soaking the world in a dark gray,
flooding the streets with emptiness.
The flash of headlights throw shadows,
casting them back and forth slowly,
making them sway in a somber dance.
Miniscule bombs drop on the surface,
creating self-healing craters in puddles,
and throwing ripple after ripple outwards.
The rain washes over the dirt covered world,
washing away layers of filth and grime,
leaving everything a little cleaner, a little clearer.

Gentlemen, welcome to the Academy. The Institute. The finest school that turns out the finest young men. You are no longer a child. You are a future Son of Xavier.

It was arcane, an antique, something that somehow survived the tortures of time. A stoic, unwavering monolith that stood proud and unchanged. If you did not understand it, you were not a part of it. To understand it was to life it, to live it was to learn it, to learn it was to understand it. A neverending cycle, looping for an eternity.

We did our best to understand, clinging to eachother for dear life. It swallowed us whole, one by one. Ground us up, injected what was left with honor and committment and service and courage and a sense of duty, a command of language, the knowledge of right and wrong and when which one was needed. And then it built us back from the ground up. That’s what it did. That’s what it was made to do. Swallow frightened children, and spit them out as soldiers, be it in the literal or figurative sense.

We were good little slates, filling up with all the necessary information, learning the rhetoric, memorizing the steps, our roles to fill. And that’s how it was. Fill the glass with the juice of knowledge, and drink it down. Be all you can be, what they want you to be. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, For the greater Glory of God. Written on our papers, etched on our minds. Property of the church and the school and the tradition. Shirt and tie and patch adorned blazer.

I was a part of the cadre, as I was meant to be. I became what I had to be. I did what I had to do. And it stayed with me. To this day, it’s with me. It made me who I am. A Jesuit run, JROTC involved all-boy school. was no place for feelings. So I wrote. I wrote, and here I am today, writing. I survived, just as it survived. A relic. I am not of this time. I am a product of the past in the present. I am a soldier in the battle of life. I am a Son of Xavier. I am part of the cadre. I am one of the many men who have walked down those halls.

I am.