http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:CaveBrat&section=today deviantART RSS for by:CaveBrat en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Wed, 09 Dec 2009 04:40:50 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/28719182/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/28719182/ Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:11:11 PST
I'm not sure what to think of my writing any more. It's hardly a craft, an art form, or self-expression any more. It's just something I do when I'm bored, lonely and horny.

I'm told my writing is exceptional.

I'm also told that my writing lacks any depth and that it can be likened to a paper bandage covering a void.

I don't exactly have anything important to write about, nor do I have anything that I need to say to the world.

Well, other than, "Hey, look at me."

In any case, I'm returning my crap to the world, but I won't be submitting anything worth looking at until I can manage to allow an emotion to overcome me. At the moment, I can't seem to express anything other than, "You know what I would love right now? Sex. And food. I should totally marry a nymphomaniacal cook."

I used to think I was a rather complex individual, but it turns out I'm pretty primitive. Don't get me wrong now, I'm not trying to be self-deprecating; I think I'm pretty great, to be honest--it's just that my writing is pretty awful, and anything I try to write is forced and uninteresting.

I feel as though I would be letting you down if I didn't include an amusing anecdote, so here goes:

I've been working at my job for about six months now, and I when I'm somewhere long enough, I tend to wonder how many people want to fuck me.

I've been pretty cold and devoted to my work, so I haven't had much of an opportunity to develop any relationships. It doesn't help that I'm not interested in anyone there.

I found out from a co-worker recently that someone in the office has a crush on me, though.

Cute, right?

I thought so at first, too.

And then I found out this someone is named James.

He's 6'2", 250 lbs.

My co-workers laughed as utter perturbation crept over my face.

"It's your own damn fault," they tell me.

"Your whole metrosexual thing works for both guys and girls."

"But--" I say, "I figured you'd all just assume that I have a girlfriend and that she dresses me well."

Apparently not.

So yeah, I'm so hot even men want to fuck me.


Anyway.


I'm glad to see all of you continuing to submit your art; always strive to challenge yourselves, and be honest with your work.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/27005542/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/27005542/ Thu, 03 Sep 2009 21:21:57 PDT
]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26859044/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26859044/ Thu, 27 Aug 2009 15:06:59 PDT
]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26806102/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26806102/ Mon, 24 Aug 2009 21:01:38 PDT
It’s true; I have not given a single fuck about how people perceive me since I started working there. Not even half a fuck.

This strikes me as rather peculiar; I have always been very generous with my giving of fucks concerning how I feel people view me. I happen to be rather self-conscious and somewhat of a peacock, and yet recently, in these last few months, my majestic peacock feathers remain neatly tucked away, and my self-consciousness is limited to occasionally checking if my zipper is up.

What the fuck, right? In fact, where the fuck? Where am I storing these fucks? Undoubtedly, they continue to be synthesised by my ego, but through what manner of psychological mechanism are these fucks being metabolised?

The question intrigues me, but I don’t actually give a fuck. Let me explain.

Paradoxically, the superseding of my past intentions of fuck-giving through conscious acts of self-advertising with complete and utter apathy have been more successful in obtaining the attention of others. By failing to offer a fuck, as opposed to wildly disbursing them, I am causing others to act strangely--specifically colleagues of the opposite sex.

Have an example: imagine a woman who is in her mid-to-late-twenties, intelligent, very clean-cut, does not believe in fashion, and frequently spends her time playing Dungeons & Dragons with males. I do not give a fuck about this woman. During my first encounter with her, she asked me if I had completed a task, and upon discovering that I had not only completed it, but thoroughly executed it, she became flustered and called me a “good boy”.

“Good boy”?

Two things went through my head: the first, this woman spends more time with canines than with males; and the second, this woman thinks I am a child. I decided to let it go; due to my genes, I appear youthful, which is a benefit as the members of my family are subject to a plethora of genetic diseases and subsequently die young--every gift has its curse.

Many weeks later, after my promotion, I interacted with this female again, this time on casual Friday. (Before I continue, I must mention that I dress sharply; one of the first things my mother taught me was that you don’t have to spend a lot of money to look good, but you better fucking take advantage of your looks while you have them. Despite the dress code being “business casual”, I prefer to dress for business.) As the woman sat down across from me, she smiled and, once again slightly flustered, said, “Well, you’re looking kind of cool today.”

I inquired aloud, “Kind of cool?” She didn’t react. I thanked her and changed the subject.

Have another example: There is a young woman from whom all of the men in the office steal glances. She is attractive, I can tell, but I am not particularly attracted to her. After a few weeks of knowing her and having a few interactions (once, she offered me a hug after I had had to deal with a very annoying case that required me to stay overtime, and she happens to live down my street and saw me walking to the bus stop one day), we managed to find ourselves within the same social circle.

During this time, I failed to give a fuck about her. I was friendly and civil as I always am, but unlike other males, I didn’t pay attention to her for absolutely no reason. We ended up becoming something slightly more than acquaintances, but not quite friends, and one day she stopped me as I was walking by her and told me:

“Nat, I luff you.”
“Oh,” I said, considering this. “Well, that is very nice of you. If you don’t mind me asking, why?”
“You are genuinely nice.”
“You mean, as opposed to insincerely nice?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Oh,” I said, turning to look at her boyfriend who was sitting next to her. He shrugged at me. “Thank you,” I said, and continued not giving a fuck.

Example the third: Females are always telling me how good my shirts look on me. First it was one girl, but she had a boyfriend, so I figured she was just being nice. And then another girl, and then another girl, and then another girl. Is this supposed to be an unspoken agreement to reciprocate positive feedback on fashion sense? Maybe they feel I would be more social if I felt I looked better than I did. I wonder if I give off “VALIDATE ME, FOR THE LOVE OF PIE, VALIDATE ME” waves. I thank them politely and carry on.

Hopefully, these are isolated coincidences, and my behaviour is not inciting women to act without logic. It’s strangely liberating, though. I think I shall endeavour to refrain from giving any more fucks in the future. ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26741794/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26741794/ Fri, 21 Aug 2009 19:47:49 PDT
I want to watch you dance when you think nobody's looking.

I want to complete your sentences when you can't.

I want to float with you in the ocean.

I want to hear everything you don't have to tell me.

I want to feel your hair on my chest.

I want to write you awful love letters.

I want to love you the way a child can love.

I want to feel your arms wrap around my neck.

I want to watch you blush as I kiss your hand.

I want to listen to you ramble passionately about something pedantic.

I want to watch you shyly break eye contact.

I want to watch your lips as you speak.

I want to politely let you know your underwear is showing.

I want to hear you sing in the shower.

I want to watch you play with puppies.

I want to remind you that cosmetics only serve to cover your beauty.

I want to listen to you tell me about your dreams.

I want to randomly invite you to make out with me.

I want to watch the colour in your eyes change as the day goes by.

I want to make love to you upon clouds.

I want to watch you play with your hair.

I want to kiss your feet.

I want to fall asleep with you.

I want to have awkward dinners with your family.

I want to watch you roll your eyes at me when I'm being a pervert.

I want to notice the furtive smile you make when we meet.

I want you to linger on my clothing all day after one hug.

I want to hide silly notes in your pockets.

I want to learn how to dance for you.

I want to make dinner with you.

I don't want everything.

I just want you.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26302795/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26302795/ Fri, 31 Jul 2009 17:10:18 PDT
]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26005746/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/26005746/ Fri, 17 Jul 2009 12:10:32 PDT
"I'm working full-time again. At another bank. Another call centre. The work is good, the people are good, the salary isn't so good, but I have few choices: I often wish I could shout at my employers, "PAY ME MORE, I'M SO DAMN TALENTED AT THINGS.""

Apparently my employers heard me.

I was promoted today.

I'm happy about that, I think.

Yes.

Yes, I am.

Although, now I'm above most of my peers; it's going to be weird being their superior and not simply thinking I am.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25953270/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25953270/ Tue, 14 Jul 2009 22:29:16 PDT
]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25759173/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25759173/ Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:14:54 PDT
I like compliments.

I like genuine ones, ones that require some thought and insight.

Demand a compliment from me and I'll give you my most genuine one.

In turn, I shall demand a compliment from you.

Fair deal, I think.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25615063/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25615063/ Sun, 28 Jun 2009 19:45:56 PDT
Your body rests next to me, your breaths soft and deep, your lips parted, your shoulders bare. I smile at you and think of how you always look the most beautiful when you aren't trying. I bring a finger to your face and brush away a lock of your hair. Your mouth closes, your body shifts as it feels my weight, and your arm reaches out for me.

Our bodies lock gently together, legs and arms interweaving, foreheads touching. Your eyes never open, but I hear your whispers and I see your lips curve slightly.

Fleeting memories fade out as easily as they fade in: daring finger-tips and wet tongues, hot breath and sticky skin.

The glass fountain pours sun into the room, a gentle shower of warm rays submerging us in a sea of light.

And we drift away.

Float with me on waves of sunlight--

Cast yourself away to an island all our own.

Breathe me in and exhale your weariness;

Cup your hands in the light and refresh yourself:

Last night was ours and this morning is for the taking.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25303625/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/25303625/ Sun, 14 Jun 2009 06:26:15 PDT
Well, let me explain.

I'm working full-time again. At another bank. Another call centre. The work is good, the people are good, the salary isn't so good, but I have few choices: I often wish I could shout at my employers, "PAY ME MORE, I'M SO DAMN TALENTED AT THINGS."

I'm not really so damn talented at things, though, I just like to think I am.

In any case. I get home from work, I look at my running shoes, look outside, look at my track pants and make a few calculations that ultimately decide if I care enough about my cardiovascular health to go running.

When I decide I don't care enough, I look at some books, I look at some pens, I look at some paper and I try to calculate if I have anything worth saying to the world.

When I decide that I don't, I go online and check to see if anyone still loves me and if they need me to pay attention to them. Some people love me, some people need me to pay attention to them, but for some reason, I can't seem to respond to them regularly.

After neglecting the people I love, I go to bed and I sleep until my alarm goes off.

Wake up, shower, dress, make lunch, force self to eat breakfast.

Go to work, turn off emotions, ignore the French girl who sits in front of me and constantly hangs her office shoe from her toes exposing her bare foot, choose not to eat the lunch that was made, review national capitals and punch self for forgetting Moldova's capital is Chisinau, walk to bus terminal, tell homeless people who approach that I don't have change, ignore 20-year-olds with tattoos who smoke around their children, board bus, ignore inane conversation by youths, disembark, go home, respond with a shrug when people ask how work was.

The funny thing is that I'm happy. Happy and so fucking empty.

I don't want this life.

I don't want to live for my mortgage.

I don't want to think about retirement savings and investment options.

I don't want to maintain friendships with people because they are convenient.

I don't want to spend my days staring mindlessly at a television to preserve my sanity.

Anyway.

That's what I've been up to, and I'm sorry if any of you feel neglected.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24963863/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24963863/ Tue, 26 May 2009 15:44:17 PDT
I usually feel that I look good.

But I don't think other people feel that I look good as often as I do, which is a little conflicting on one hand, and slightly humbling on another. For some strange reason, I don't let this affect my self-image.

I was in the middle of humming my walking song in my head when I noticed two young women at a bus stop. One of them was facing me, the other had her back to me. I figured I'd do what I always do when I come across young women: walk by nonchalantly, ignore them and see what happens.

So I did.

And as I proceeded, I noticed from the corner of my eye that the one who was facing me whispered to her friend, and then suddenly both of them were stealing glances at me.

At that moment I smiled to myself and thought, "Girls are checking you out, Nat. Well done."

Shortly thereafter, however, when I had passed them and they were likely examining my rear, they burst into fits of laughter.

You know what a deflating ego sounds like? It sounds like young women laughing at you as they examine your rear.

I'm not really sure what happened there; there was nothing on my rear, and I hadn't stepped in anything unsavoury...

I figure the Universe was punishing me for my taste in music.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24944127/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24944127/ Mon, 25 May 2009 14:03:08 PDT
I met her the other day as I was strolling through a grassy field, looking for a spot I could call my own, fully knowing that it would never belong to me. Nevertheless, I was hoping that I could refer to it as my “favourite spot”, just so that I could think fondly upon it from time to time. And there she was, standing before me. She said nothing but stared into my eyes.

I smiled shyly and greeted her. Her name was Abigail.

We didn’t say much, we just observed one another for a while. She was very tall for a woman, and while she exuded femininity, I could tell she harboured an almost equal masculinity. I think I brought out her feminine side, though, probably because I was obviously younger. Her hair was full and vibrant; her expression serious, yet welcoming; and her slender limbs seemed to reign in the sunlight.

I sat down beside her and we silently enjoyed the sun’s embraces. We observed an excited puppy being released from its leash, running up to us and offering its twitching nose. We gently swatted away clouds of gnats as they were lured by our scents. We were even fortunate enough to have one very overweight squirrel challenge us to a staring contest. I lost the three times we were challenged, but she was quite good and won each game. She was so peculiar, and I was entranced by her taciturn comfort.

The next day I returned and she was waiting for me. I walked up to her and gently touched her skin. It was rougher than I expected, but she seemed glad that I didn’t mind. I sat down next to her again and closed my eyes. Losing myself in the solace of our converging lives, my lips moved of their own accord, and I told her:

"I love you, Abigail."

A small gust of wind blew past us and she shivered.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24929985/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24929985/ Sun, 24 May 2009 18:49:31 PDT
I could feel the sun with its afternoon strength blanketing me in its warmth, and with my eyes closed and my mind slowed, the sun's rays were your fingers.

Your fingers explored my face gently, as their tips memorised my contours, the stubble on my chin, the tiny mole beneath my lower lip. Almost expecting you to appear, I opened my eyes and you were gone.

In your place, I saw a field of aged dandelions, their white softness floating in the soft winds around me. I pressed my hand into the grass and felt the earth below, wondering if it wanted my touch as much as I wanted yours.

The grass was prickly against my hand, the dandelion stalks soft and swaying. A group of ants carrying their treasure traversed my open hand. I watched the earth merge with my hand and as the seconds became minutes, I remembered my youth. I spent much of my youth alone in my backyard, playing in the grass and dirt, the only explorer in a world that was my own. I was back in that world today, and it was almost the same... all but for one thing: now you were a part of my world, and I wanted to share it with you.

I pressed my back gently against a tree and shut my eyes once more, imagining your back against mine. I invited you in and we enjoyed it in silence. I would lean my head back to touch yours, confirming that you were still there, reminding you that I was still there; I leaned my arm back to brush against yours, breaching the hemisphere that belonged to you. I could feel your smile as we touched.

Foolishly, I opened my eyes to see if you were there. You weren't, but the world that I created had begun to speak to me. I watched a boldly coloured bird sing for his love as she turned her back to his, rejecting his efforts, yet willing him to continue. I watched a caterpillar ascend and descend the blades of grass and climb onto my shoe; it climbed my leg and my arm and came upon my shoulder. I named it Ronaldo de Mesquivo. Gently taking him from my shoulder, I led him to the tree and bade him farewell.

I lay in the sun as the breeze incited the world to dance; the trees swayed gently, the grass shivered in delight, and the white fuzz blew away to freedom. I stared into the cerulean sky and reached out my hand...

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24897683/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24897683/ Fri, 22 May 2009 20:47:29 PDT
"Yes."

"Would you love me if I always left the toilet seat up?"

"Yes."

"Would you love me if I had terrible foot odour?"

"Yes."

"Really? What if I had all of the aforementioned afflictions?"

"I would love you just the same."

"Well, now... I'm starting to question your standards."

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24855527/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24855527/ Wed, 20 May 2009 12:14:12 PDT
What am I ashamed of?

I wonder.

I like the song Toxic by Britney Spears.

I plagiarized a limerick in grade four.

I spent two hours walking around town in the middle of the night after prom, looking for the best way to kill myself.

I ejaculated prematurely the first time I had sex.

I am spiteful of my friends who have fathers.

I cheated on a math test in grade two.

I eventually abandon everyone I love.

You didn't need to know any of that, but I hate secrets.

Everyone hides behind secrets.

I'm so tired of hiding.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24745861/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24745861/ Wed, 13 May 2009 21:32:58 PDT what it's like to feel loved again

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24573957/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24573957/ Sun, 03 May 2009 20:21:42 PDT
I invited her into my room, and as she climbed the stairs leading to it, she timidly voiced her apprehension; I consoled her by saying, "I assure you, I am very gentle."

Moments later, I lured a young man into my bedroom for the same purpose.

The purpose, of course, was to sign my Room Book.

I have something called a Room Book; it is a book of blank pages, the first of which is entitled: "Nat's Room Book." Anyone who enters my home, and subsequently my room, is required to sign this book. It is a chronicle of the people in my life, and I ask them to sign it and leave a message.

I also invite people to look through the book, and acquire a general idea of the people with whom I associate: The book is filled with penis jokes; a naked cat lady; an artistic rendition of a Scholomance raid from the World of Warcraft, back when it was still ten man; frivolous poetry; and plenty of other nonsense.

People are generally confused and wonder if there was some other reason for my bringing them into the bedroom; I smile and casually suggest, "Well, we can make out if you like, but I just wanted you to sign my Room Book."

They only ever stay long enough to sign the book.

I like the Room Book; it is a compendium of nonsense that encourages me to make friends--and to lure them into my room, while everyone else who has already signed it urges them to trust me.

Edit: Due to a staggering demand from my Web friends (i.e. one person: ), I have posted a Web Book for anyone interested in leaving me a memory of themselves that I shall cherish for the rest of my life--or simply for those who wish to make penis jokes.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24489269/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24489269/ Tue, 28 Apr 2009 22:13:31 PDT
There are certain moral liberties that come along with being a single male who enjoys observing humans; namely, watching young women. I never miss an opportunity to record the behaviour of a woman in my mind. I mention this sometimes, and others have referred to it as my “spank bank”: I don’t really like that term; it’s more of a “quirk bank”. Strange people interest me, and in social situations, many people try to avoid looking excessively strange, so it’s a serendipitous event to catch glimpses of someone’s faltering charade of sanity.

***

I was sitting innocently enjoying a conversation with a good friend in a small outdoor café when I noticed the woman behind him. She was beautiful; many women are, but I wasn’t particularly attracted to her. What robbed my attention from my friend was her foot.

Just a foot, I suppose. Just a bare foot covered with a sandal. Just a foot attached to an ankle attached to a leg that was crossed upon her other leg. You know that thing girls do with their shoes sometimes? Where they dangle the shoe on their toes? She was doing that.

And I was gone.

I am normally not so easily mesmerised by women, having grown up with them, I learned most of their tricks. But this was unexpected.

The woman spoke inaudibly to her friend, smiling genially, her eyes squinting in the sun--and her sandal continued to dangle upon her foot.

I don't remember much of that conversation.

***

Sometimes I am asked to “check out” a female, sometimes by males, and sometimes by females.

The first thing I look at is posture; how does this woman carry herself?

My eyes then roll up to her head, how does she express herself with her hair?

Then a brief analysis of her clothing, whereby trends, originality and accessories are assessed.

I then examine her shoes.

If the opportunity presents itself, I will examine her hands and feet in order appraise her mani- and pedicure habits.

Then onto facial features and an evaluation of makeup: does it accentuate her bone structure?

During this surmising, a basic understanding of her shape and proportions are collected and included in my overall reaction.

“Yeah,” I'll often nod. “She’s pretty hot.”

If I’m going to be superficial, I do it thoroughly.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24463011/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24463011/ Mon, 27 Apr 2009 13:13:01 PDT
I watch people conducted by routine in their daily lives, senses numbed, minds distracted, souls erring.

What do you love?

Life is beautiful and precious, isn't it?

What makes you want to experience life?

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24350157/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24350157/ Mon, 20 Apr 2009 19:24:59 PDT
Injuries that pass through the epidermis (the top layer of the skin) and into the dermis (the second layer), are wont to leave scars: remains of an injury, an engraving of the past, landmarks of experience. Each scar carries with it a reminder of who I am, what I was... and often how much of a moron I am.

On the ring finger of my left hand, situated upon the first band that separates the distal and intermediate phalanges, is the first scar I ever received. It is what remains of what resulted from my toddler hand grabbing onto a hot curling hair iron. I’m glad I don’t remember my hand completely covered in blisters, having destroyed the first layer of skin, the cells dying and bursting with pus. I don’t remember that layer of skin peeling off like a sticker of my hand print. But my mother does, and she likes to remind me about my stealthy toddler days—I like to think of it as my ninja aptitude.

There’s a scar above the aureole of my left nipple. A friend's energetic puppy whose claws quite easily pierced through my T-shirt. I look at the scar and think of the friend, and how she fell to the floor laughing, pulling the puppy off of me as I peered into my shirt and incredulously declared: “My nipple is bleeding.” I asked her to kiss it better, but she refused and got me a band-aid instead.

There’s a scar on my right shoulder. The result of my athletic days when I used to care about muscular strength; eager to see my progress as a healthy male, I was determining my max weight on a particular weight machine in which weights were lifted with my shoulders. Eighty pounds, oh, not so bad. One hundred pounds, hey, easy. One hundred and twenty pounds, oh, I can do that. One hundred and fifty, oh, this is tough, I think I can get it, though... almost there... oh, wait, I’m slipping... I have slipped. Oh. One hundred and fifty pounds of weight digging into my shoulder. That’s going to leave a scar.

There’s a scar on my... well, no, I won’t mention that one. I’ll only say that she was enthusiastic and I decided the pain was worth it.

There are scars on my knees, the skin on my right knuckles, my right hip, my right forearm, on my bottom lip, and on my head. They are an anthology of reminders for a single event. I don’t actually remember the event, only what people tell me. Apparently I was chasing a friend who wouldn't hear me, running a red light in order to catch her, trying to stop a moving car with my body. The ten-inch scar on my head has absolutely no nerve-endings; when people look at my scar, I tell them to touch it, I won’t even feel it. They usually tell me they are already touching it.

I like my scars. They have a lot to say.

What do your scars say?

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24257137/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24257137/ Wed, 15 Apr 2009 13:32:19 PDT
Doesn't this concept work for other things? Do you think people who masturbate always wash their hands afterward? How many objects in the world have they touched? How many of those objects have you touched? How often do you think you have participated in an indirect act of cunnilingus or fellatio?

I wouldn't think too much about that one.

And yet I continue to wonder... how many times have you indirectly had sex?

Ah, try not to think about it, either.


I always wash my hands when I get home.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24170947/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24170947/ Fri, 10 Apr 2009 19:14:46 PDT
It’s not that surprising, I suppose. It takes a certain kind of person to put on a stranger’s shoes and throw a heavy ball down an alley and hit some stationary targets.

Well.

I guess it’s just not my thing.

But I can deal with that. I can accept that I’m not talented at throwing things at other things, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I learned something about myself the other day, though. I learned that I don’t know how to insult people.

Me: Well, look at you, trying to be all grown up.
Her: You wish you could look at me.
Me: Maybe if you lost some weight.
Her: I have lost weight.
Me: I can lose weight if I take a shit, doesn't make me pretty.
Her: You're right, it doesn’t. Try starving yourself.
Me: I am anorexic, actually.
Her: No, you choose to starve yourself, you’re wannarexic.
Me: Hey, that was clever; you’re right, I am wannarexic.
Her: ...
Me: I don’t think I’m very good at this. I don’t think I’m supposed to be complimenting you.

Severely downtrodden and utterly defeated, I decided to seek counsel from a friend.

Me: Hey, quick, insult me.
Him: You’re a fuckwit.
Me: I can’t work with that...
Him: What do you mean?
Me: I don’t think I’m very good at insulting people.
Him: ...
Me: I know, right.
Him: Well, maybe you’re trying too hard.
Me: I guess...
Him: Anyway, I have to go, work in the morning; you know, what responsible citizens do.
Me: Psh. Working’s for robots, just like voting and paying taxes.
Him: You’re right, you’re not very good at insulting people.
Me: I don’t get it.
Him: Just breathe, take your time, it will come.
Me: I think I have one.
Him: Shoot.
Me: Oh, right, what would the world do without the responsible grocery store workers? Society would surely crumble.
Him: Better. Much better.
Me: Yay, thanks.
Him: By the way, fuck you.
Me: I deserve that.

Maybe round two will be more successful.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24110106/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/24110106/ Tue, 07 Apr 2009 11:05:12 PDT
I never write the date on my journal entries. I don’t like thinking of my journal as a chronicle of my sanity, so I avoid any obvious attempts to mark time. I will leave emotional landmarks, though, with the occasional description of the weather—it seems to be relevant. It is a trail of bread crumbs in case I want a clue.

My journal does not roll its eyes at me when I’ve met a girl—not like my friends do. And while I could never discern if it were happy for me, I know that it trusts in my ability to completely fuck it up and walk away a better person.

There have been months, though, when my journal and I do not speak. I wonder if it yearns to spend time with me; to be laid out and caressed, indulging in my gentle scrawls. During our time apart, I use the words normally reserved for her to compose stories and poems—I wonder if she is ever envious of them. I often fear that I take advantage of her patience and affability, that I use her to textualise the catharsis of my emotions, only to continue living my life without her, content and free from turmoil. Whether she feels used or not, she waits for me, until the night I take her from beneath the pages of my life and turn to the next blank page. Her pages fill, and I wonder—when there are no longer any pages on which to converse, will I abandon her forever? Will I relegate her to storage, beneath text books and folders, where even the forgiving rays of the sun will never reach? Her pages are not numbered, and I feel it is for the best.

Occasionally, I look through past entries; remembering former tribulations, considering my growth, often pondering my stagnancy. The writing changes, sometimes subtle—open a’s, erratic g’s, hopping i’s—and sometimes less so, with the change of pens, or the change of tone. The writing is often difficult to read, even for me; the strokes and connections make no concessions, while secretly wishing a stranger will find it, its illegibility conserves the secrets therein.

Tonight, the ink shall flow, as we have much to discuss.

_____

I'm not always sure what to make of what I find in my journal.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23995044/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23995044/ Tue, 31 Mar 2009 21:59:32 PDT
That's right, folks; feel free to give me a compliment or two.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23816215/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23816215/ Sat, 21 Mar 2009 15:06:20 PDT
Désolé.

[In summary, I will attempt to regain my ability to speak and write French as well as I speak and write English by writing more in French. For those with no knowledge of French, I apologise.]

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23757558/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23757558/ Wed, 18 Mar 2009 02:59:40 PDT
I'm having a bit of trouble finding new deviants I can appreciate; I wonder if I'm becoming one of those elitist jerks I used to hate.

After a few hours of browsing dA, I suddenly don't feel so bad about all of the crap I have uploaded.

P.S. I can't seem to remove smilies from my journal, does anyone know how to do it? Am I just an idiot?

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23702673/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23702673/ Sat, 14 Mar 2009 21:56:57 PDT
Like all self-obsessed artists, I find him magnificent because he reminds me of me; but not the present me, perhaps the me in the future, after a decade of drug abuse, sex addiction, and eating disorders.

He effusively combines honest sexual perversion with vulnerable innocence, and envelops it in an elegant coating of articulate eloquence.

What makes his material effective is his completely honest humility about himself and his circumstances ("Hey Nat, isn't that what you attempt to do?" "Why yes, it is."); and I must admit, his loquacious speech is a bit of a turn on; I have never experienced anyone as simultaneously witty and well-spoken as he.

In any case, this is likely just one of those extremely rare moments in which I confuse an infinite respect for a male figure with complete and utter infatuation: much like what I experienced with Brad Pitt after viewing the movie Fight Club.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23682016/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23682016/ Fri, 13 Mar 2009 18:25:10 PDT
There is a single hair growing on the aureole of my right nipple.

I know what you're thinking: "But Nat, body hair is just a stage of puberty; all men get it."

Sure, I can agree with that. Except for the fact that I'm 23, and I don't have any other chest hair--just the one, and it just hangs there mocking me.

I was so horrified that I immediately found a pair of tweezers and plucked it away. But a week later, it was back, and hung twice as mockingly.

I am deeply upset by this turn of events; why did my pristine chest have to be blemished by such a thing? All of the work I put into developing pectorals during adolescence, completely overtaken by the hair!

I will require time to recover from this tragic situation, I only hope that the hair does not recruit reinforcements.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23594549/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23594549/ Sun, 08 Mar 2009 15:17:12 PDT
My views of humanity are a little skewed by subjection, but I try to be as objective as I can possibly be in my subjection--er, yeah. You see, I consider humans to be mammals, no higher or lower than any other organism, driven to what we have become by pride, egos, and the largest cranial capacity in the entire animal kingdom. Every day that passes, I wonder if we should have anything to admire about ourselves: an increasing population of humans, the direct and indirect extinction of other organisms around us, and Paris Hilton--clearly, we went wrong somewhere.

Naturally, many humans try to improve the planet, and this mentality is propagating throughout, but in my uninformed and cynical opinion, it's far too late. This does not, however, deter many of us, and this is shown by the fact that the Green Movement has become this generation's marketing clincher, and by the slower birth rate among educated couples.

This brings me to my question: is there any reason to procreate?

I've seen people have children because religion told them to, because they needed someone to love them, because they were impregnated and decided against abortion, or simply because they wanted a family--and I continue to wonder... is there really any point?

Now, in my case, I've had the chance to examine my genes, and from the history of heart disease, diabetes and plain old dementia in my family, I've decided not to inflict that on anyone. While I am curious to see what my genes combined with those of someone I love would create, I don't think my curiosity warrants adding one more human to this planet--and if I ever find myself with an unyielding desire to psychologically scar some child, there's always adoption.

So, my question to you, my ability-to-child-bear-or-donate-a-chromosome friends is this: do you want children? Why or why not?

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23513008/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23513008/ Tue, 03 Mar 2009 18:20:02 PST
"Behind every successful man is a woman, behind her is his wife."

"Why, I'd horse-whip you if I had a horse."

"From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter. Someday, I intend to read it."

"I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go to the library and read a good book."

"I have a mind to join a club and beat you over the head with it."

"I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception."

"I worked my way up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty."

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it."

"Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him."

"Marry me and I'll never look at another horse!"

"Please accept my resignation. I don't care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

"Practically everybody in New York has half a mind to write a book, and does."

"The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made."

"Well, Art is Art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know."

"I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it."

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23339466/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23339466/ Sun, 22 Feb 2009 09:32:20 PST
(This ends up being long, if you don't find my life as fascinating as I do, feel free to leave this page and carry on living your life.)

I remember being asked by my physical education teacher to join a sports team. I was slightly surprised--well, shocked, like when I resorted to my supply of emergency chocolate, only to find a note that read: "I.O.U - Mom"--but invigorated by a sense of belonging and being recognised.

I had never been athletic; and while I wasn't horrendous at sports, I wasn't at all skilled in any way: I played sports with a sort of clumsy leap first then look approach that relied heavily upon dumb luck. Sadly, it was often misconstrued as confidence and prowess, which led to the jocks being severely disappointed upon realising the truth, and proceed to hesitate before passing me the ball.

It turned out that I had a knack for Wrestling--or as I called it, the result of watching a lot of Ninja Turtles as a child--and after our first meet, my coach informed me that I had a natural sense for the sport, and if I put more work into my stamina and technique, I could walk away with a medal at every tournament. Again, shocked, like when I found out my father had had another son with another woman. Could I really become an athlete? I had spent my life reading books, watching movies and playing video games, all of which require very little movement. I suppose this was why my stamina was so terrible.

My training regimen consisted of a lot of running. Running up stairs, down stairs, around gyms, around blocks, down hallways, across fields. During one practice, I fell to one knee, gasping for dear life, and my coach, a 54-year-old man who had been joining us on the run, kneeled down next to me and said,

"You look like how I feel."

We had wrestling meets every few weeks with schools in the area, and it wasn't long before we could point out who we didn't want to face. In my weight category, there were two: one from a Catholic school (holy shit those Catholics are tough; that school had the highest win ratio as their coach had Olympic experience), and one who had been wrestling since he was three (supposedly). It also gave me the chance to make friends with other people in other schools, but of course with my people skills, I kindly declined such a chance. Honestly, how do they expect young wrestlers to talk to each other when they have to wear those ridiculous singlets? I don't know about you, but when I can plainly see someone's crotch bulge, I stay away. I found myself saying, "Yes, I wrestle--yes, I like girls," to my friends after experiencing some eye raising and awkward silence.

The season quickly came to a closing, which meant tournaments; no longer these meaningless meets with other schools, but ranking matches. There would be three; a county, tri-county, and then provincial tournament. Ooh, how exciting. The first tournament was held at my school, and as per tradition, our team was seeded, which, for me, meant that I would only have to win three matches to walk away with gold, and with my horrible, although improved, stamina, this was a blessing.

I remember before my first match, hopping alternately on each foot to keep my heart rate up, with so many of my fellow classmates watching, I could only think of one thing: they could all see my crotch bulge. I won the match in several seconds, I used a Head-in-Arm throw that brought my opponent from his feet directly to his back, which results in 5 points, and then I ended up pinning him anyway.

My second match was with a guy I had wrestled twice prior to this match; I had beaten him twice at other meets, so I knew I was physically stronger. I ended up winning again, but I felt bad for the guy because he was never able to beat me, and now, being eliminated in the semi-finals by me must have really sucked. I quickly got over it, though, as there was a crotch bulge that desperately needed to be covered.

I remember waiting to find out who my opponent in the finals would be. Turns out, that guy who was wrestling since he was three lost some weight and went down a category, but that Catholic was still a threat. It also turns out that when I get nervous, I have to urinate, and I really, really dislike public urinals. Anyway, the Catholic won his match and we found each other facing off in the finals. He was stronger than me, but I was faster and after a few close calls, I pinned him.

I had won a tournament and gladly accepted my gold meda... ]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23240543/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/23240543/ Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:31:38 PST
But wait, Nat, you're a jobless and schooless bum, you don't have assignments.

Ooh, mysterious~

Anyway.

Many years ago when I was a bright-eyed and naïve adolescent, I once engaged an older female adolescent in a conversation concerning physical abuse against females. I mightily declared that I would never strike a woman and was in the midst of experiencing that warm tingly sensation of smugness that only young males can experience after believing they have achieved something of splendid proportions, when the young woman responded that I was sexist.

[Insert sound clips of cars and record players screeching to a halt]

I demanded that she elaborate and she explained that the reason I would not hit a woman was that I believed I would hurt her, thereby assuming I was stronger and more dangerous than the woman in question. I was flabbergasted. She then continued to ask me if I would ever strike a male, and I conceded that yes, I would, and I would not have the same resolve of non-violence with men as I would with women. To me, that conversation took a paradigm, repeatedly lunged a steel-toed boot at its crotch, and left it bruised and naked in a dumpster in some manner of decrepit back alley.

I decided on that day that until I could say that I would never strike anyone, I would treat violence against men equally as violence against women; this decision is only justified in my mind because I am hardly a violent person. While my inclination towards violence against males is minor, and only encouraged by that genetic desire to compete, it still exists. As such, I make it clear to my close female relations that if they strike me, I will strike back, insofar that I would retaliate against a male who would strike me, in a valiant display of sexual equality. Up until now, I have never had to strike a female, and have only attacked two males for their excessive lack of respect towards me: in my defense, they were insufferable pricks.

My question to you, my mostly female and opinionated friends, is this: is it sexist for a male to choose not to be violent against females, even if they have no qualms about being violent against males? Would you rather have a male strike you in a display of sexual equality rather than not strike you in a display of superiority?

On a completely unrelated note, I have resolved to acquire a black female kitten in the future, name it Madame Sylvie Vaillancourt, teach it French, call it kitty-face, and depend on it for affection.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22841760/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22841760/ Tue, 27 Jan 2009 11:34:01 PST
----

Studies show that human males in developed countries of the world have lower sperm counts than they did fifty years ago. Scientists suggest that this is partly due to, among many other environmental factors, the increasing levels of female hormones present in water supplies from urine expelled by women who use oral contraceptives.

While the hormones are diluted, they are only marginally metabolised and maintain their chemical structure--and therefore their chemical directives.

Furthermore, it has been observed in nature that under certain circumstances, organisms have been able to switch genders: the factors range from climate, pollution, and genetic.

My question to you, my inquisitive friends: with birth control continuously being introduced and utilised in highly populated areas of the world, are the male species of humans at risk from becoming extinct? If they were to become extinct, would females simply adapt by becoming males? What sort of effect would this have on society? Discuss.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22573898/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22573898/ Wed, 14 Jan 2009 08:00:10 PST
It's a very unique name because it combines a Hebrew name with an Islamic name, which is only further muddled by the fact that I am non-religious and have never been Jewish or Muslim. Having grown up in a French-speaking province, where most people cannot pronounce a "-th-", I have come to prefer a shortened form of my name: Nat. Therefore, I am Nat Mohammed.

So I'm performing the occasional Google search of my name, which yields this, and I'm surprised to see something new in the five most relevant search items--something new in the second most relevant search items, in fact, right under that Facebook account I created four years ago simply to appease anyone else who decides I am worthy enough of a Google search.

I think there's some mistake, though: maybe it's a weird case of abbreviations or two separate names being searched as the same string. So I scroll down and am shocked to find my name in the "Key Phrases" section.

I'm curious now, but the name of the book doesn't seem too flattering, so I read its description.

It's about a young Canadian who gets recruited into Al Qaeda and helps them set up a large terrorist attack in Southeast Asia.

As far as I know, I have never been involved with Al Qaeda; in fact, I'm a bloody Atheist.

And I say to myself, no wonder nobody will hire me.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22230017/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22230017/ Sat, 27 Dec 2008 17:00:42 PST
When my brother moved out, she bought a fish and named it after him, so I was curious to see what had replaced me. When I didn't see the presence of any new creatures in the house, I was slightly concerned--until she told me about her new friends.

She tells me that all her friends talk about are Japanese animation, obscure independent or foreign films, and one of them likes to use big words to explain simple things. She says, "I'm surrounded by Nats!" which I find curious yet relieving; being replaced by people is much better than being replaced by fish.

She tells me I simply must meet her new friend Xuan. Oh, yes, she's Asian. She tells me she's 25. Oh, yes, she's in my age group. She tells me we can talk about anime when she comes over this weekend. I look at my mother and wonder, is she trying to set me up with this woman? How awkward.

I got to see Tiffany as well, she's my pseudo-sister: I've known her since she was conceived, and played a part in her upbringing. I also put her through a fierce couple years of extra-curricular tutoring, because if I have a say in anyone's upbringing, they are to be excessively knowledgeable. In any case, now she's the top of most of her classes, but in my absence, she has acquired an addiction to MySpace, Facebook, someone named Edward Cullen, and a plethora of other distasteful subjects.

So Tiffany walks in, and I double take: "Holy shit!" I tell her, "you're as tall as me." She laughs and hugs me. "Holy shit!" I continue, "you have breasts." She blushes and runs away.

My uncle made it to our holiday hub this year, flew in from an island called Curaçao. Yeah, he likes to spend winters on tropical islands; he flies to Canada for work, which is usually a meeting that lasts a couple hours. He says he can't tell us what he does for a living, so we assume he's a drug dealer.

The newest member of the family, an eight-month old maltese bichon, joined us for the week. This is the first canine to ever join the family, so it was a little strange to have it in our presence. Even stranger is watching my mother play with it, laughing, smiling, and saying things like "don't be a bitey face!" or "who has a puppy bum?! Who has a puppy bum?!"

We didn't do the gift thing, which was nice. We had previously done a family secret Santa gift exchange, but this year we focused on food and family. I've never liked the whole idea of gifts, partly because I don't need things, and partly because there are better ways to show appreciation.

When I entered the house, a full two days before anyone else would arrive, I realised that the house was spotless: this meant I was considered a guest. It was odd to have my mom treat me as a guest instead of as her son; I wasn't sure how to react when she insisted that I not help her prepare any meals or wash dishes. But at the same time, there were little things that gave off a motherly luminescence: the presence of a new box of Fruit Loops in the cupboard, some new books on the bookshelf, and the frequent offers of cakes and pastries.

Going home for the holidays for the first time was an interesting experience, especially the home of my mother: after moving to Ontario and interchanging residences in which the walls are yellow with cigarette smoke, or the floor is covered in dog hair, it was refreshing to spend time in a house whose only scent was the light wafted fragrance of lilac.

My mom did, however, buy me a few gifts: two pairs of boxer shorts and lip balm. She gets those for me every year, no matter what.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22079868/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22079868/ Sat, 20 Dec 2008 06:29:25 PST this.

I can't believe how well this guy aimed. I wonder if he practiced.

I'm equally surprised that Bush dodged and blocked. I have gained some respect for the man.

I like how the other guy is .

Whoever made this is a genius.

(Thanks to PokoFish for supplying the link.)

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22054932/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/22054932/ Thu, 18 Dec 2008 18:29:11 PST
That being said, I will now proceed to mentally review everything I have ever said, thought, or written in an attempt to achieve said goal so that I may reward myself with that final piece of cheese cake and fall asleep tonight with a sense of accomplishment.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21908220/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21908220/ Wed, 10 Dec 2008 00:54:03 PST
Friend: The cat likes you.
Me: I like the cat.
Friend: Probably because you're both attention whores.

Friend: Want me to buy you a kitty?
Me: No!
Friend: Why not? You love the kitties.
Me: I'm allergic.
Friend: That doesn't stop you from loving them.
Me: I am not yet adequately prepared to be responsible for another living creature; I can barely feed myself.
Friend: Cats take care of themselves.
Me: I'd rather just play with yours occasionally.
Friend: It's my brother's.
Me: I will steal it. And then return it.

Kitty: **Strolls into the kitchen**
Me: Kitty-face!
Kitty: **Is frightened and runs into a metal grate**
Me: **Scoops up the kitty** Silly cat.
Kitty: ...
Me: **Looks around nervously** You belong to me now.


I could very well become a crazy cat man after all.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21644522/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21644522/ Mon, 24 Nov 2008 09:32:53 PST
When I moved in with my best friend, I suddenly realised that I went from once owning a now stolen PS2, to now being in the presence of a Microsoft Xbox 360, a Nintendo Wii, a Sony PS2, and a mountain of games; as one can see, my friend is a gamer madman, and I fear that I have no choice but to submit myself to his madness.

I had attempted to resist his arsenal of video games, but every book I clutched onto for dear life began to whisper,

"Nat... your friends require your presence... the Xbox beckons... the Wii cries for you in its sleep... push the power button, Nat. Take hold of the newly-designed ergonomic controllers... Yes, the Wii-chuck is a marvelous thing... hold it within your hands, Nat. Hold it within your hands and feel its power."

Turns out it wasn't the book whispering, my friend just has a sick sense of humour.

I had given in, and while I could still manage to stick some reading and studying into my leisure time, I had not anticipated the iron grip of my now arch nemesis: Guitar Hero.

"Hey, Nat, ever played Guitar Hero?"

I can still remember the day I was still exempted from its power--its maddening and obsessive power...

I was fairly unperturbed upon my first play: Oh, three buttons, this is simple. Hey, this music is rather pleasant. Look at me, I can press buttons to music--this sort of makes me feel like I can play a guitar.

But it was only the beginning...

As I graduated from Easy and made my way to the set of Medium songs, I suddenly came to a startling realisation: I want to be good at this game. And thus my fanatical spiraling into GH stardom began.

I had beaten every song on Easy, but no, it was not enough; I went back and 5-starred them all, achieving one set of gold stars for a perfect song. I then began my sinister incursion upon Medium and was faced with my own mediocrity, managing only to five-star most songs, but relinquish myself to four-star defeat on some.

The whispers continued:

"You're doing very well, Nat. I think you're ready for Hard."

And so I allowed myself to continue...

Oh, the pain!

The infuriating frustration of a blue and orange note, how they mocked me! I spent three hours on one song, failing to grasp the learning curve one requires to go from Medium to Hard.

"It's a whole different game when you go up a difficulty, Nat. Take a break, go back to it after some sleep."

"NO! No sleep, only Guitar Hero!"

The darkness of madness loomed over me like... something dark and maddening... a storm perhaps... no, too overused... loomed over me like a swarm of ravenous moths upon a cotton field swaying in a light summer's breeze. Yes, that's better.

My wrist burned with discomfort as I experimented with guitar positions, my eyes welled with tears as I had to make conscious decisions to blink; the world had faded, and all that was left was the passing fret and five-colour combination of notes. I slaved over that song on Hard, often exclaiming, "I WILL DEFEAT YOU, GUITAR HERO!"

And then it happened... I beat a song on Hard.

Not even graduating from secondary school with honours felt this good.


I have since managed to stop playing Guitar Hero. At night, I can still hear the guitar solos, beckoning me to return. For a few days, every song I heard I could only hear in Guitar Hero format: button presses and descending notes. My new catch phrase had become, "Damn you, Guitar Hero!"

But then last night... my friend came home with an impish grin.

Guitar Hero: World Tour.

I fear that this may be the last you hear from me. I love you all, remember me in my prime.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21413147/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21413147/ Sun, 09 Nov 2008 22:08:33 PST
The weekend began with the convergence of me and two associates, and a trip to the local alcohol vendors where I obtained a shiny bottle of vodka. My usual habit when purchasing alcohol is to never drink the same thing twice; I have yet to discover an alcoholic drink with a taste that does not force an effusion of incoherent noise from my mouth indicating my distaste for it. However, my plan was to hold sobriety at bottlepoint, bind its limbs and lock it in the basement for the weekend, and straight vodka has yet to fail me.

The acquisition of the vodka was fairly simple, and while I was more than happy to offer my identification to the squinty-eyed vendor, I was entrapped in a conversation about Quebec. All of my identification is French, and people from Ontario are chatty and often curious. The vendor explained that he had lived in Quebec for five years and had taken French for nine years in school, and when he attempted to speak French to me, and I replied, he could not understand what I was saying.

The actual consumption of the alcohol occurred later in the night and resulted in candid conversations, interesting revelations and much tomfoolery. I ended up passing out for a few hours, but I had made plans with another friend for the following evening and decided that staying awake was the better approach.

A friend who I haven't seen in several years was visiting for the weekend, and he invited me to a club. Under normal circumstances, I would not have gone, but I have been determined to experience new things and was easily swayed. As evening fell, my friend suggested that I begin drinking, as club-vendored alcohol is expensive and I had a shiny half-emptied bottle of vodka awaiting my attention. Just as my sobriety was removing the binds from its hands, exiting the basement, and shielding its eyes as it attempted to adjust them to natural light, I pushed it down the stairs and locked the door.

The night continued and my friend was introduced to inebriated Nat. One of my drunken characteristics is a noticeable increase in my articulation; I don't quite understand it, but I am quite pleased to be an eloquent inebriate. Now, the alcohol was important, because I would not have been able to enter a night club unless my logic was askew and my inhibitions were cast away.

We set out on our adventure, picking up my friend's sister and her boyfriend. I was curious to see what his sister was like now, because during high school, she had a ridiculously obvious denial crush on me. Upon meeting me, we exchanged greetings and I was introduced to her boyfriend. It wasn't long before he had to comment on my speech, saying things such as, "Do people actually talk like that?" "What the hell is he saying?" "That's English, right?"

We decided to take a cab to the nightclub so we could all enjoy some inebriation. Me, the sister and her boyfriend in the back, my friend in the front. During the cab ride, pressed against the sister, she turned to me and announced, "I had such a huge crush on this guy in high school. You know," she said, putting her hand on my knee, "I'm nineteen now." Which caused the boyfriend to respond with, "You know, I'm still here."

Upon entering the nightclub, my friend asked me what I thought, and I said, well, yelled over the music: "I can completely comprehend the appeal in meeting members of the opposite sex with diminished faculties." And then I realised an alluring female server was standing next to me. She smiled in response to me noticing her and asked if we wanted anything to drink. It wasn't long before other friends arrived.

It was then announced that the plan was to get me laid. While I wasn't going to object, I knew my character and explained that I am much too timid to approach strange attractive females. I was then told, from a male, that I had no need to worry about that as I was sufficiently attractive, and the females were sufficiently drunk. He then added, "You're good looking. If I was a female or gay, I'd have sex with you." I thanked him for the compliment, noting that this was the fourth time a male had made this exact same comment to me.

I was then swayed into stepping onto the dance floor. Now, I must explain that I do not dance; I am far too awkward and self-conscious to synchronise my body to music. And while I attempted, I discovered that I can dance, just... ]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21258661/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/21258661/ Sat, 01 Nov 2008 03:33:44 PDT
I've had a lifelong inability to distinguish my positive traits as a human being. Like most people, I can't look at myself objectively and see myself for who I am. Instead, I get doubt and unconfidence in my eyes and am blinded every time I attempt to determine my good qualities.

Now, here's the thing... the people who know me best are the people who read my writing. Not even the members of my family know me as well as someone familiar with the content of my writing.

(You know what someone said about me not too long ago? She said it's odd that I don't have much of a sense of humour. She was completely serious. This person has known me my entire life.)

So, this is where you guys come in. There are a handful of people who watch me and regularly read my work, so theoretically, you know me the best. I am requesting an honest description of who I am from the eyes of another. That is, a description, as detailed or succinct as you like, that is as honest as you can possibly be. Brutal honesty is fine, and encouraged, as long as you feel it's true.

Now, it sounds like I'm fishing for compliments, and I am, quite certainly, but I'm not trying to do it out of whiny angst; I'm just curious to see how people who know me through my writing perceive me.

If I have convinced any of you to actually do this, I would suggest sending it to me in Note form.

It's ridiculous, I know, and I want to say, "The more detailed, the better", but even I feel bad about asking someone for a paragraph devoted to me.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20828581/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20828581/ Sat, 04 Oct 2008 16:34:00 PDT
My mom told me that in the first grade I never spoke during class. I never raised my hand, I never volunteered for anything, and as a result, my first reportcard was terrible. My mom went on to explain to me that after seeing my test scores, which were quite good, she argued with the teachers about the definition of education and evaluation. I suppose it is due to her that I was able to continue being me while getting the grades I deserved.

Today I would call myself shy. A couple months ago, I wouldn't have, but recent evidence has proven to me otherwise.

Exhibit A:

I'm alone in a grocery store buying fruit. When I buy fruit, I like to examine it carefully considering things like: how genetically modified does this look? Is this brown mark unhealthy for injestion? Should this feel firm or tender at this point? Soon thereafter, a young and attractive woman comes up beside me and proceeds to do the same thing. I look at her briefly, but she doesn't notice, and I say to myself, Hey, she's pretty, I should ignore her and escape or something.

Exhibit B:

I'm jogging/running/walking, because I'm too out of shape to maintain a jog, but I like to challenge myself by periodically sprinting. I used to run around to random places and get lost, figuring that if I have trouble finding my way home, at least the workout would be sufficiently agonising. No pain, no gain, right? However, I've discovered a trail people use for biking and jogging and have been using it, since there are no surprise 40° inclines. The other day, I ran by an attractive female jogger. Naturally, after discovering that she was attractive, I picked up my pace, avoided eye contact and ran on.

I do this so often I don't even realise it anymore. It just seems natural to ignore attractive females. I mean, I can't very well allow them to know that I'm attracted to them, right? It's not polite to appreciate someone's existence simply for the way they look, right? I would be better off appreciating their personality, but since it's difficult to ascertain that much about a stranger in several seconds, I'm better off escaping and ridding myself of the temptation to continue looking. Right?

Why does logic, no matter how unproductive, feel so logical? I think we call that sophistry. Casuistry. Deception.

Due to my inability to function socially around females I'm attracted to, I've resorted to online communities for meeting people. I have recently tried LavaLife, PlentyOfFish and eHarmony, which have only served to further illustrate how shy and emotionally underdeveloped I am. Oh well, at least I get to post my picture on the Internet inviting severely mal-adapted people to stalk me. I'd probably like the attention.

I haven't lost hope, though. I'm quite aware that there are other shy people in existence, and there's a good chance that I'm not as shy as them. The only challenge now is catching them when they try to escape. I figure, the average human can live up to 75, I have time. I'm glad I can laugh at myself about it, but it's really quite frustrating.

I could always become a crazy rabbit guy. I'd collect cats, but I'm allergic to them.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20471416/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20471416/ Sat, 13 Sep 2008 12:04:33 PDT
Reading Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk; it's good.

Mopped the walls with Lysol cleaner.

Only able to write about sex.

I missed Ontario girls.

Still alive.

I guess.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20004047/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/20004047/ Sun, 17 Aug 2008 12:23:42 PDT
I think I'm depressed, but I'm confused because I haven't been writing any macabre poetry like I usually do when I'm depressed--it's become my litmus test for determining my mental health. In fact, I haven't been writing anything at all.

I figure the well-adapted thing to do in this case would be to seek help, perhaps from a medical professional, perhaps a counselor, and move on. Instead, though, I think I'll make a feeble cry for attention because it's easier and I don't have to leave my room.

I don't think I've ever been "well", in the literal sense of the word. I remember asking my mother as a child, "Mommy, what makes my life important?" and she became upset with me. She never answered the question, though, so I figured it wasn't something your mother could tell you.

I was nine the first time I wanted to die. Throughout my childhood, my aunt, who was four years my senior, would delight herself in humiliating and emasculating me. When she wrestled me to the kitchen floor one day and held a knife to my throat, I pulled the knife closer. I suppose her own ordeals explain her behaviour, but like most of my childhood, I choose not to think about it much.

Don't get me wrong now, I'm not asking for pity, sympathy or even empathy; I'm just outwardly reminiscing. I'm a fairly positive guy today, I just like to fantasise about my death sometimes.

In any case, the actual point of this is to say that I can't bring myself to read or write (I got through four chapters of A Tale of Two Cities before groaning and tossing it aside). Until I regain those interests, I'm going to avoid dA, because I bore myself with these "pay attention to me" posts.

I wanted to say something witty, but I had to try too hard to make it witty, and I think that defeats the purpose of wit, so I gave up.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19505377/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19505377/ Sun, 20 Jul 2008 18:37:40 PDT
I never rebelled as an adolescent; I never felt that I needed to. My mother always gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted because her parents wouldn't give her that privilege.

A twelve-year-old girl asked me how old I was the other day. I said I was 23. She made a shocked face and continued to look puzzled.

"You don't look older than 17."

It wasn't the first time I felt castrated by a little girl.

I guess adolescence isn't such an established period of one's life; I still feel like a teenager: I like attention, I like thinking about girls, I like being angsty, I like exploring my sexuality. People had always called me mature for my age, but there came a time when I was as mature as I was expected to be, while others around me became more mature. Maturity isn't as simple as I used to think it was.

I always thought that you were either mature or immature, but what does that even mean anymore? There are people who confidently achieve what they want from life and those who don't. Growing up isn't something everyone does at the same rate, and they shouldn't have to.

I'm starting to do all those teenager things I refused to do in high school. Smoking, drinking, and I'd be promiscuous if I was more outgoing or knew girls I liked. But things are slowly making sense.

I haven't had the urge to write one of my idealised love stories in a while, and I figure it's because the way I see love is changing. I used to think that I should only date someone if I wanted to be in love with them, and while I'm still fond of being in love, I don't think it's the right way to look for it.

I suppose the reason for this change is that I'm getting tired of falling in love with girls I meet on the Internet. My first relationship was when I was fifteen, and I dated a girl on the Internet for nearly a year. I never met her, but I loved her. I'm not going to say I regret falling in love with girls on the Internet, or that there's anything wrong with it, I'm just tired of loving girls I can't meet. I've had face-to-face relationships since, but I still have a weakness for the Internet Woman.

It all comes back to idealised romance; when you don't meet someone, you get to create their image in your mind and fall in love with that. It's a pain when you have difficulty meeting people in real life.

I'm making a couple big changes in my life soon, primarily moving out of the province on my own. Starting over is something I'm used to doing, so I'm going to take advantage of it and redefine myself. I figure I'll start by using the silly male protagonists in my stories as role models; they're parts of my identity I've never quite been able to actuate.

I'm also going to try to spend more time outside around strangers. I hear that's a good way to meet people and possibly find a girlfriend.

I wonder if I'll still be able to write the idealised romance. I'm also curious to see what happens to my writing if I ever manage to find a girlfriend and maintain a long-term relationship with her. I guess we'll have to see.

(P.S. If you're a female living in the Kitchener-Waterloo area and are attracted to me, let me know--it would make my life easier.)

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19468550/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19468550/ Fri, 18 Jul 2008 16:33:10 PDT
Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is only free to watch until Sunday, and then a DVD's coming out.

It's quite good. Inspiring, really.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19406435/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19406435/ Tue, 15 Jul 2008 09:28:56 PDT
13: "Yay, now I'm officially a teenager."

16: "Yay, now I'm permitted to operate a motor vehicle in Canada."

18: "Yay, now I'm responsible for myself."

20: "Yay, my second decade."

21: "Yay, now I'm permitted to drink everywhere in Canada." ... **cough**

23: "What? It's whose birthday?"

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19315210/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19315210/ Thu, 10 Jul 2008 17:22:48 PDT
Five years later and now I'm looking for every reason to escape it. I started with books, writing, massively multiplayer video game worlds, but now they're not doing it. It's all reminiscent of life; it's all still real.

My problem with reality now is that I don't know how to interact with it. I don't know who I'm supposed to be or what I'm supposed to do in order to maintain a relationship with it. I feel overwhelmingly inhibited and the only time I am liberated is when I'm inebriated.

I tried drinking not too long ago. Well, I suppose drinking requires the continuous act of drinking; all I did was get drunk, so essentially, I tried drunking. It didn't take very long for the alcohol to get absorbed into my blood and circulate throughout me; I'm short for a male, I'm anorexic thin, and I have the alcohol tolerance of a school girl. Interestingly enough, it was several family members who suggested I drink; the concept of me without inhibitions was just that entertaining to them. I'm told that the most entertaining part of the night was when I paused, looked at my family and said: "I still have inhibitions," before jumping into a shopping cart and rolling down the street.

Now, I'm not advocating inebriation, I'm just attempting to make a point. I'm only ever myself in two forms: in my writing and when I'm drunk. It seems so peculiar for me to struggle with my identity like this, I mean, isn't that what high school was for? During adolescence people don't expect you to have your shit together. I made an interesting comment the last time I misplaced my sobriety: "If I get drunk often enough, my inhibited self will balance itself with my inebriated self." It really made a lot of sense, but it was at a twelve-year-old girl's birthday party and they didn't seem to agree.

I'm starting to think that the only way I can get the things I want is by unlocking myself. I may only be able to, for example, approach a female I'm attracted to, if I'm not entirely sober. Things seem clearer and less complicated when I'm drunk, and if I can recall how to walk, I might find the confidence to move my life forward.

I'm starting to wonder if this is a sign of early alcoholism. Maybe I should switch to marijuana before things get out of hand. I haven't gotten high yet, despite the many offers I've had--also by my family. I think they're trying to tell me something.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19204470/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19204470/ Fri, 04 Jul 2008 14:44:46 PDT
Like many wary individuals, I don't enjoy visits to the doctor; but unlike many wary individuals, I have been able to avoid it for quite a few years. I think it's been about five years since I have visited a medical professional under the pretense of a health evaluation; I use the word "pretense" precisely, and you will understand as my story unfolds.

When my family moved to Ontario from Quebec, we had to find a new family doctor, and I was rather surprised to see who mine was. The first time I met her, she asked me to urinate in a cup, and it was love at first sight. This woman must have been in her mid-to-late twenties, still had the youthful shine in her hair and the twinkling eyes of a medical student starting her internship. So I was undecided as to whether I would harbour a secret and passionate love for her, but I was nevertheless fond of our annual meetings. I was sixteen the first time I met her, and it went something like this:

"How are you?"
Better now that you're here

"Do you experience regular bowel movements?"
Why, Doctor, don't you think we should get to know one another more... intimately before I answer such a question?

"Do you use drugs?"
I'm high on you right now.

"Are you sexually active?"
No, but I was hoping to start soon... maybe even today.

Of course, I simply answered her questions; at the age of sixteen, you never confess a secret passionate love. Our visits usually went this way, her questions, my answers, a brief and unintrusive physical.

I distinctly recall the year I turned eighteen, and the subsequent annual doctor visit. At this point I had managed to balance out my hormones a bit and develop a meaningful relationship with that smart-pretty girl I liked. So as I awaited my doctor, sitting on the tissue paper, wondering how naked I should have been, and examining the charts on the walls, I wasn't thinking about the secret and passionate love I had harboured for her.

She eventually came in and took a seat, and we began the process as usual:

"How are you?"
"I'm quite well, and how about you?"

"Do you experience regular bowel movements?"
"I've never had issues with my bowel movements."

"Do you use drugs?"
"Not yet." **laughs**

"Are you sexually active?"
"No, nothing serious. I'm careful."

"When was the last time you had your genitals checked?"
"Wha...?"

Well, this was new. She must have asked again, because her eyes had moved up from her clipboard to me and I was thoroughly at her advantage. Many thoughts began to run through my head as I examined my doctor: the shine in her hair was still there, but her eyes were slightly less twinkly, a little more calm, at ease... eager? She was wearing a white blouse and white pants; a pink sweater hung around her shoulders and white sandals. She adjusted her glasses and looked at me again.

Oh, sweet Llama, I thought, she was the equivalent of the lonely librarian. I was caught in a badly-written porn scene; the nympho doctor and her innocent patient.

"No," I said, clearing my voice. "I mean, nobody has ever examined my genitals."

"Would you like me to examine them for you?"

Oh, sweet Llama, I thought, this was either adolescent heaven or a cruel, cruel joke. I began to seriously consider her offer. Allowing this young and eager doctor to examine my genitals would have resulted in two outcomes: she checks my genitals, I achieve an erection, we both attempt to ignore it; or, she checks my genitals, I achieve an erection, and we proceed to have secret passionate love on top of a tissue-paper-covered bed of ecstacy. Either way, the erection was mandatory.

"No thanks," I said finally. "I'm pretty familiar with my genitals, and I've never found any bumps."

She eyed me carefully, perhaps winking at me, perhaps licking her lips, but it didn't matter; I had a girlfriend, and I didn't need some wild fantastic sexual excursion with a young and attractive doctor. (*cough*)

We ended the examination and I was sent on my way. That was about five years ago. I haven't visited a medical professional under the pretense of a health evaluation since.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19082628/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/19082628/ Fri, 27 Jun 2008 20:25:13 PDT
It was summer and I was a young child delighting myself with a popsicle. I must have been eating them all day because I can recall my father reprimanding me for taking another one. I offered him the reasoning that a popsicle is simply frozen liquid, and if I were to drink a large amount of juice during the day, it wouldn't make a difference; so why make a big deal out of it?

When dinner came along, he gave me my plate and a glass. On the plate, some strange food I had accustomed myself to consuming while visiting my father, and in the glass, one cherry popsicle.

I remember asking myself if my father was attempting to make a clever statement, or if he had misunderstood my argument and figured that I preferred popsicles over juice. He was rarely, if ever, clever.

My mother insists that I got my intelligence from her side of the family.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18710274/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18710274/ Sat, 07 Jun 2008 08:11:58 PDT
After weeks of repressing myself, I realised that I could no longer do the things I enjoyed (things as simple as reading or writing) because I had completely lost the motivation. That is certainly no way to live.

I have been told that it's a reality of the world not to enjoy one's job, and for one to be required to fulfill certain expectations that may not always be ideal. I think there are people in the world who can do this sort of thing on a long-term basis, but it seems that I cannot.

So I've resigned from my position at the respectable organisation and have decided to continue my education. Have I mentioned that I'm sort of a college dropout? Well, I sort of am. In any case, for anyone nearing the period where they must make a decision concerning the path they take through their lives, follow what you know to be true and not what others tell you. Only you can know what you truly need from life, and it's very important to figure that out.

I've decided to teach English. I'm not sure at which level yet. I've been considering the high school level, but I might be too strict for them; that's when students need the most motivation, and it's more important for me to have an effect on somebody's life than secure my retirement. I have plenty of time to decide, though.

I'm not sure how long I'm going to continue living in Quebec. As it is, if I moved to Ontario, I would have my living arrangements, uh, arranged. But now I have to decide which school I'd want to attend and how I'm going to pay for it. Student loan, here I come.

Now, onto dA stuffs. Concerning my 5-Stage Relationship idea, I haven't actually gone far with it. I sent out one first stage (which I don't think was very good, since I never received a reply) and have been planning some other stages. So I figure I'll just start over with the whole thing, but make it simpler.

I get the feeling that some people were interested in participating, but felt as though they had missed a deadline, so I'll be communicating with them and seeing what will result.

Also, I have a bad habit of ignoring dA when I'm repressing myself, so I have a number of deviations to peruse while I rekindle myself with art. Unfortunately, I haven't had a single writing idea in the last two months, so I'll be working on tuning up my creativity as well.

And lastly, during my two-month absence my pageviews have increased quite a bit and I'm not sure why. Either I'm waking up in the middle of the night and refreshing my dA page in some sort of somnambulistic mania, or people are reading my work; if the latter is the case, I thank all of you for taking an interest in my writing.

I did notice that I was chosen as one of April's top picks, which I found interesting. I was actually thrilled until reading the description of my writing which was something along the lines of, "... his stories are too long to read recreationally, but they're good when you have nothing better to do." In any case, it's wonderful to be recognized at all, and I appreciate it.

On that note, I have some deviations to view. I hope you've all been keeping those creative juices flowing; you're a talented bunch and I look forward to what you have (and will) come up with.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18062073/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18062073/ Sun, 27 Apr 2008 20:36:08 PDT
I mean, I've been interested in quite a few girls and never divulged it to them, so there's a chance someone has harboured such feelings for me.

I figure that the highest percentage of people who would be attracted to me are those who are acquainted with my personality, and sadly, that only includes the people who read my writing (and maybe some girls from school and work--statistically).

Well, if you have been, are, or will be in love with me, let me know.

I know that sounds desperate, but there's more to it.

Here's the deal:

I propose a five-message relationship. That is, we send each other a total of five messages (e.g. E-mails, comments, private messages, etc.) to go through the stages of a relationship, resulting in a pseudo-relationship between you and me. The messages can be as long or as short as you like, but for the sake of parallelism, if you start short, all subsequent messages must be short.

Stage one: Courtship

Stage two: The sickeningly lovey-dovey relationship

Stage three: The argument

Stage four: The break-up

Stage five: The awkward meeting one year later

(The names of the stages are simply suggestions, the sequence of messages can unfold however you like.)

If anyone actually plays along and if the results are entertaining or thought-provoking, I'd like to post them as a deviation. If you're interested, send me a message/comment/E-mail with your interpretation of the first stage, and I'll use it as a template to reply with my first stage. If you're interested in participating, but don't want to initiate the first stage, let me know and I'll send you the first message.

Review:

A total of five messages will be exchanged between me and my "lover"

The messages will incorporate elements of a relationship using the first stage to set the length and style of the following stages. (If you prefer not to follow a set style, you can write a reply in any way you like.)

If the five messages are successfully engaging, they will be posted as a deviation with the permission of the participant.

I'm hoping to achieve some interesting results (regarding writing styles and content) while having meaningful pseudo-relationships with my readers.

If you think this idea is stupid and have a better one, I'm open to suggestions. I don't consider this a contest or anything (unless you consider me posting our relationship a prize); I've just had trouble finding writing ideas and girlfriends, so I decided to find a temporary solution to both problems.

(Oh, and if you're actually in love with me and want a real relationship, that's cool too.)

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18041386/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18041386/ Sat, 26 Apr 2008 16:10:28 PDT
There are some rules, but I'm going to be a rebel and not abide by them. Essentially, the following are eight random facts about me.

1. I've never lived anywhere for more than five years, so there's a recurring period of my life in which I have no easily accessible friends.

2. I was chosen specifically by an instructor to play the role of Jesus in a school's traditional Easter play of Jesus' resurrection when I was in the fourth grade.

3. My hair is so thick that if you cut a strand of it on an angle, it can pierce skin.

4. When I was young, I became ill with a tropical stomach virus from eating food my father brought back from some island, and now I can't tell when I'm hungry.

5. I once had a dream that I was a male dog who was only attracted to female cats.

6. Facial hair doesn't grow on the left side of my face.

7. It's impossible for me to see a cute animal without shouting its name and adding the suffix "-face" (i.e. bunny-face, puppy-face, kitty-face).

8. I can only be myself with people I've met or corresponded with through the Internet.

There we go. I'm not going to officially tag anyone, but if you've taken the time to read this, you can proceed to imagine me excitedly running up to you, tapping you on the shoulder and then running away giggling.

So there, you've been tagged.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18014201/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/18014201/ Thu, 24 Apr 2008 20:41:54 PDT
***

I came home today after work in good spirits and entered the kitchen to find my mother and aunt conversing. I opened the fridge to get the juice and noticed my aunt staring at me. I looked at her.

"Guess what your mother's going to do? Tell him what you're going to do," she said, turning to my mother.

My mother looked at me and said, "I'm quitting my job. I'm quitting my job and then I'm taking the train across Canada. After that, I'm moving out of Quebec. Then I'm starting up my own massage therapy spa."

I nodded, glad to hear that she had finally decided what to do when she grew up.

"But there's bad news," said my aunt. "Tell him the bad news."

My mother, looking at me again, said, "You'll have to pay the mortgage."

"Oh. Okay." I nodded and took a glass from the cupboard.

My aunt, smiling extravagantly, looked at my mother and said, "There, now we've settled everything."

My mother, still looking at me, asked, "How do you feel about this?"

"Well," I replied, pouring myself some juice, "discovering that I'm a homeowner is somewhat disconcerting, but I'm in a good mood today."

"The mortgage is set up as bi-weekly payments of $500."

"'Kay. That's not bad for one month."

"Also, there are condo fees."

"'Kay."

"And hydro."

"'Kay."

"That doesn't include the Internet, phone, cable television or groceries."

"That's fine," I said, "I can live without groceries."

"'Kay," said my mother, and I left the kitchen.

***

You know you're an adult when...
... your parents give you their mortgage.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17705483/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17705483/ Sat, 05 Apr 2008 20:25:52 PDT
I'm wondering if anyone has noticed this and if they have anything to say about it, particularly about my approach to characters.

Admittedly, all of my male characters are versions of me, but that's nothing unusual. I'm very fond of originality and as a result, I don't like giving the people in my stories names. My reasoning is that I associate names with people I've met of the same name, and I've known others to do this as well. I would hate for someone to profile a character in my story as someone they know of the same name, so I avoid it completely, or leave it until the end. That way, the character has had enough time to create their unique personality in a reader's mind.

Is this effective at all? Has anyone noticed that my characters are always "Man" and "Woman"? Also, I'm really bad at naming things. I named my rabbit "Rabbie" when I was a kid. Girlfriends have frowned at me for never giving them cute nicknames (seriously, the only real nickname I've given a girlfriend is Queen Bitch She-Devil). I would honestly name my children One, Two, etc., but no wife would allow that (hell, it will be their nicknames whether anyone likes it or not). I have experimented with inventing names, but I'm not very good at that either ("Hmm, this name needs more Q's in it...").

Secondly, I try to avoid describing my characters' physical appearance. The main reason I do this is because I don't envision my characters as being particularly attractive; they are your everyday average-looking people with peculiar perspectives of the world. So in order to emphasise their personalities, I avoid physical characteristics. I know what you're all thinking:

"But Nat, writers generally craft their characters as a reflection of themselves, and you're so good-looking. So isn't it reasonable to make your characters equally as attractive?"

Sure, I suppose. But "attractive" people aren't any more interesting than anyone else; I would rather have my characters seem appealing for their personalities and perspectives than for their aesthetic value. Again, has anyone noticed this in my writing? Is it effective? Should I just get over it and describe people more thoroughly?

I would really appreciate any feedback, positive or negative, concerning these points.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17547806/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17547806/ Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:39:19 PDT
I've been attempting to curb my ego since I discovered how prevalent it was in secondary school, but I can't tell how far I've come. "Cultivate the art, not the ego" is something that really hit me when I first heard it; does what I write attempt to say something to the world, or give the world a reason to look at me for a fleeting moment? Both, I suppose, but which do I strive for?

I've also noticed a recent inability to feel emotions. I figure I'm trying not to feel nervous about work by shutting down my emotions, but it's really interfering with my ability to enjoy writing. Self-preservation is a mechanism of the ego, isn't it? Pride is such a pointless thing, but it seems to have some survival benefits, or it wouldn't be so rampant. I wonder how long it will take for me to accept emotions instead of trying to turn them off. I still can't cry when I want to.

I keep a list of writing ideas. The list is growing, but my completed works aren't. I've heard that it's important to begin writing the moment an idea inspires you, but I end up losing interest in the idea halfway through, and always for the same reasons. This isn't funny. This is just another disguised autobiography. Nobody will want to read this. I wonder if the only true inspiration is the one that comes from the act of writing.

It's not unusual to craft art in one's own reflection, especially in writing. People will write about what they know best, after all. I guess I've come to the question I don't know how to answer: why do I write? I'm the only person telling me that what I'm writing or thinking about writing is simply ego sustenance, but I'm finding it difficult to forgive myself for it.

Maybe my mother was too distant when I was young. Maybe not having a father figure has left me with a void. Maybe there's nothing wrong with accepting selfish writing. But I'm still afraid that my writing is being driven by my need to be recognised instead of by a passion for writing. It's just a barrier, right? I'm being too hard on myself, right? Not everything I've written was an attempt to convince people to like me, right?

I guess the only mistake would be to stop writing; it's natural to have a need to show one's writing to the world, isn't it? Just as musicians want to be heard and visual artists seen?

I'll get over it eventually, I suppose. In the meantime, I'll have to find a way to live with myself.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17511361/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17511361/ Tue, 25 Mar 2008 15:06:21 PDT most amusing and incidentally Canadian thing I've seen in a while.

The contrasting combination of music style and comedic content really won me over.

]]> ~CaveBrat http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17030831/ http://CaveBrat.deviantart.com/journal/17030831/ Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:04:00 PST
- Some people in Canada are ill-tempered, obstinate and incorrigible, while not everyone in the US is

- There are females on this planet who think about sex more than I do

- When a member of the same sex invites me out for a drink, it's important to find out beforehand if anyone else will be attending

- People in Asia think I'm tall

- The majority of the world is too busy worrying about their physical appearance to worry about mine

- Potty training may have tremendous effects on an individual's personality

- Understanding that love is a chemical imbalance can make it more meaningful

- Happiness is a choice

- There's no such thing as truth, only strong arguments

- You cannot expect someone to love you unconditionally if you cannot love yourself in the same manner

- Everything I believe might be wrong

]]> ~CaveBrat