Voice Post
14K 0:04
“This is my boy.”

Auto-Transcribed Voice Post - spoken through SpinVox

this showed up in my inbox

Why such a short review? Was the game bad and they're afraid of letting it slip in a longer review? Maybe this website just posts short reviews, and in what case what are they doing sending me mail about reviews? Lack of LAN? What the hell? Only a Terran campaign? Were they too afraid to make other campaigns after 12 years? I bet it's a shitty game, read this review for a misleading text on the matter. EDIT: also notice in the images there is only one zerg. what the fuuuuuuuck

StarCraft ascended beyond the realm of video games and become a worldwide phenomenon. Hell, it’s even considered a national sport in South Korea. Needless to say, fans have been anticipating the follow-up for quite some time now. Their patience has paid off in a big way. Even though it’s releasing twelve years after the original game first hit PCs, StarCraft II shows that the developers haven’t missed a beat in that time.

Like Nintendo or Bungie, Blizzard is one of those companies that know when not to mess with a proven formula. While their games do improve in places, get some added features here and there and never feel dated upon release, they always follow the basic gameplay and feel of their predecessors. We saw this with Warcraft III, Diablo II, and now we’re seeing it in their latest game, StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty. Is this a bad thing? Absolutely not. From start to finish, this game wears its legacy on its sleeve, in terms of overall feel to atmosphere and mission structure. While the core mechanics are the same as the first game, it’s still an absolute blast and one of the best RTS games to hit in a good, long while.

The story follows Jim Raynor four years after the events of the original StarCraft’s Brood Wars expansion. Raynor is leading his group of rebels against the dictator that he inadvertently helped bring to power in the first game, while gaining the support of colonists and civilians in ways that the dictator, Megnsk, is unable to. His heart still hurts for Sarah Kerrigan, the one-time Ghost soldier turned Zerg Queen of Blades, but he continues with his personal mission against Megnsk. However, the Zerg threat has returned, causing Raynor and his rebels to shift their focus.

The story is a lot more focused than the first StarCraft, with the storyline unfolding through cutscenes between missions and conversations that you have with your comrades in the central hub. There are some loose ends in the story that do not become rectified by the end of the campaign and some plot points that will have gamers scratching their heads, but as there are two expansions planned for the game, these story elements can be addressed in the future.

Aside from giving you an opportunity to get a better background of the story, the central hub also allows you to spend cash earned in missions and buy persistent upgrades for your units, hire mercenaries, and gain better technology. These hubs also give you some freedom in how you choose to progress. You’ll be given a choice of several different missions, each with their own financial and research rewards, which opens up your campaign options a bit and keeps it from being a standard linear affair.

The gameplay feels a lot like the original StarCraft, but there are some subtle changes that hardcore fans of the series will appreciate. The pace of the game has been sped up, with unit production and movement speed happening much quicker. This adds more intensity to the battlefield and requires more agile multitasking than before. The single-player campaign fosters this idea, with fast-moving missions that require you to think on your feet both defensively and offensively. StarCraft II also throws in a challenge mode where you can hone your skills, which is a great asset for newcomers looking to cut their teeth and learn some new skills.

One of the main beefs that fans of the original will likely have with the sequel is that it only offers a Terran campaign, whereas StarCraft allowed players to go through a Terran, Zerg, and Protoss storyline. However, to call StarCraft II lacking in content would be a huge mistake. The Terran campaign is pretty long, offering up 29 missions, an engaging story, and plenty of diversity in mission structure.

The secondary flaw that players have taken issue with is very much a valid problem; the game lacks LAN support. Multiplayer is strictly online, which can be problematic for players looking to set up their own tournaments as they did with the first StarCraft, or simply have a LAN party with friends.

The changes made to Battle.net might help soften this blow. The system is more intuitive than ever before, with matchmaking capabilities and a streamlined interface that rivals other dominant platforms. The game boasts a friend and achievement-system similar to Xbox LIVE, and you can even find Facebook friends that have the game through a quick search. Additionally, online play is very solid without much lag, and allows you to play as all three races (Terran, Zerg, Protoss).

StarCraft II looks fantastic, and ranks as some of the best environments and character models you’ll find in the RTS genre, and the scalable customization options allow it to run admirably on any number of configurations. The cut-scenes and central hub look great, rendered with the in-game engine and sporting some fantastic details. The art design that Blizzard has made their namesake on is brilliantly presented, and backed by excellent voice-overs and scores.

The core game is very much unchanged from the original game, with the overall unit balance and gameplay elements carrying over directly from the formula established twelve years ago, but that is hardly something to complain about. By building off the foundations and bolstering the series with memorable missions, an incredible story, and awe-inspiring visuals, Blizzard has assured StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty’s status as one of the best RTS games ever created.

 The water clock broke down on the side of the highway hot as buzzards and she was thinking, damn I should've taken that offer 

Voice Post
9K 0:02
“This is my voice.”

Auto-Transcribed Voice Post - spoken through SpinVox

 He dwells inside the moistened candle-lit basement beneath his mother's bedroom. Thick black ink drips from his quill onto damp parchment like hot tar poured upon bleached flesh. His heavy printed runes run straight and even—a text comprehensible only by himself and few others. Slowly he writes, speaking aloud with hissing consonants—hollowed vowels.
"My dearest love Mera,
May you never so drearily decompose. My limbs loosen and my mind liquefies inside this inhuman hive. Still alive, yes—I have managed to survive. But the worms appear less often than before and some days not even one will crawl onto my yellow dinner plate. Now so emaciated and anemic, my meals appear not like earthworms but as tendrils, insipid; as if plucked from some ripening cave-bound corpse.
Winter approaches and as the food thins, so do I thin. You would recognize me, but who else? Perhaps Mother, were she to ever free me—for now that I am enfeebled, I have become nearly identical to my memory of her. Though unknowingly, she glances upon my own haggard face at her every reflection. The witch would loath me all the more for that!
Eternally yours,
A cold breath sets the ink. Mendax mutters a final soft incantation and hangs the page between two fingers above his candle flame. Fiery blue tongues consume the message in an instant. After a disappointed glance around his cave to check for recently emerged worms, his head falls dully to the wooden desktop. The quiet wheeze of his atrophied lungs grows softer as drowsiness overcomes him.
* * *
"Mendax, awaken."
His eyes snap open and he turns, raving, to pronounce a spell with hands clawing the air before him. 
"Stop" and he stops mid-syllable. "Sit" and he sits stiffly cross-legged on the cold ground. "Your mother has missed you, Mendax. You should greet her with love and affection, not thin curses to set her ablaze."
Furious rage; his eyes smolder and yet he remains still, unable to combust--frozen by his mother's gripping magic.
"Ah, amusing--you still exhibit no control over your primal emotions. I birthed a wild beast!" The grin is dark like cheated death. "Tell me, is your mother beautiful? Go ahead, I'll allow you to speak this once."
By a foreign volition his voice activates. "You are more beautiful even than the wild moon, Mother." Silent horror reverberates inside his head. Her high laughter is nauseating.
"How you flatter me, my charming boy. Perhaps you wonder why I have come to visit you this glorious day, after two years of your solitary confinement? It was love that brought me here, mostly--and to tell you the wonderful news. I have finally met young Mera: stunning, absolutely stunning young woman. Do you know, she attempted the very same curse that you did just now when she saw me herself? It seems you told her of my weakness to fire, in those long hours you spent studying the arcane with her. Darling son, I forgive you, I forgive you—it's all behind us. We can devote all our love to each other now, as it should be; as it always should have been. Do you want me to tell you what I did to your Mera, Mendax? Do you want to know how she screamed when I pulled her eyes out of both orbits with a single word? And how pitifully she did scream, Mendax; how pitiful and weak she was." She turns her back to him, and lifts her arm to open the door atop the staircase which led to her bedroom. Blinding light shines through the threshold, silhouetted by a girl's figure. 
Mera! He strains with all his will against the forces tying him down; struggles with all his love to stand and run up to her. Shrill crow laughter smothers him. He can only watch as the figure sways alarmingly, and then topples forward down the staircase. Brutal thuds sound as skull and limbs crash down each step. Billowing in the wake of the body, hundreds of pages float downwards--Mendax's letters. Only when her body finally reaches the bottom of the staircase does his mother free him from bondage.
In an instant, he reaches Mera and kneels to hold her soft body, brushing off the scattered pages, hoping that life still could exist, even dimly, within her. He turns his lover over to see—
"Mendax! I stole her face, Mendax—all her beauty, mine!" Hysterical cackles echo around him. Too mortified to even summon the words for a spell, he turns to his mother and looks upon a new face: a face with youthful, vibrant cheeks and full lips and crystalline clear eyes--a face he had yearned for each day spent alone in this basement--Mera's face. He returns again to the cold corpse in his arms, and sees an unrecognizable visage: red, gory muscles glistening where supple white skin once had been; horrifying jagged cuts made under her chin, around her jaw, all the way up to hollow eye sockets.
"Beloved son, I ask a favor before I depart. You are looking rather thin lately. It would comfort your mother for you to eat that girl's corpse, before it begins to rot. The flesh should provide more than satisfactory sustenance for several days." One final shriek of laughter. "And I worry so for your health that if you don't do it soon, I would simply force you to eat her myself!" She disappears. The basement door slams shut above him, locked by his mother's icy magic. Mendax weeps, trapped below his mother's bedroom once more.
Then both eyes fall upon Mera.

I wrote this a while ago
 Weeks upon horseback ended here. He stood before the legendary lake, heavy boots sinking into the silver mud shore. Craggled mud-clay dunes shaped the surrounding the landscape. A quiet wind chilled his skin.
The face of the lake was stiller than he had imagined from the stories of the mysterious traveler who had first describe this legendary lake to him. The man, who appeared at the tavern one evening, had quietly mentioned a place where he had once been and gave away a map leading there.
He retrieved from his dry saddlebag the piece of soft parchment. Its edges were frayed from travel--this leaf had seen many hands and many more miles. Markings of lead pencil forming a basic map upon it had been smudged almost to indiscernability. The mysterious traveler had given him this page, insisting that he himself did not have enough strength left to ever return, but with a promise that any adventurer willing to make the long journey would be rewarded in unimaginable ways.
He was not checking his bearings, as he had checked countless times during his journey. He squinted, and his rough voice recited the incantation scratched above the map:
“Awaken  Monsters, Caffeine kings,
I need a booster--give me wings.”
That was all that was written. He lifted his eyes from the page and to the glassy surface of the legendary lake. Nothing.
Then the wind shifted almost imperceptibly. Now, a stronger gust blew into his face from the lake. The gale was warm and broad, causing pebbles to roll up along the shore. His hand rose to protect his eyes from the lifting dust.  Invigorated waters jostled tumultuously; crashing downwards and upwards, twisting, misting. Tall, roaring waves began to form and rise up the shoreline towards him, fall, then blast up again, higher, pushed by the bizarre wind. Chill sharp wetness bit his face as a wall of water crashed upon him. A crescendo of deafening noise filled his ears and he cried out as the wave washed his body to the hard ground.
Silence. Flat on his back, he could feel the water retreating; hear the sound of it peacefully flowing back into the legendary lake. The wind was again quiet and cold.
Soggily he arose. He still gripped the parchment in his hand.  Dunes had been flattened; big stones scattered about. Wood had been ripped from trees on the opposite shore and accumulated in dense piles around him. With sudden alarm, he searched for his horse. Gone. Spooked, perhaps--or lifted to the sky, blown away?  Thick remorse enveloped him. Though a beast, the horse had been a steadfast companion to him during the many trials of travel.
As he scanned the area for signs of his beloved horse, he noticed something odd about nearby boulder. The boulder, not too far off between him and the shore, had been one of the dunes. The powerful gale had washed away the mud to uncover this huge stone. Although the boulder was itself unremarkable, what sat atop it struck him as very strange. Something shiny; blue. Cylindrical. Fully intrigued and with mounting excitement, he navigated around debris towards the bright object that winked at him in the sun, remembering the mysterious traveler’s promise of great rewards.
When he reached the object, he bent and brought his face very close. Tiny letters spelled foreign words: "Nutrition Facts," "Please Recycle," and a long list of incomprehensible ingredients. The largest words appeared in a menacing text on the very front:
Monster Energy
A noise. Pop. Fizz. The top of the cylinder had, by some unseen force, snapped open. Thrilled, he reached for the blue object and marveled at its temperature. Ice cold. He tried to bring the hole up to his eye for a close look but a light blue liquid splashed out onto him when he tipped it. Cursing himself, he straightened it and peered in from above. More blue liquid sloshed around inside.
Should he cleanse his body with the gift? He put the cylinder to his nose and sniffed curiously. Fruity. Perhaps this was a potion of some kind? Yes, that would make sense--given the magical nature of recent events, it seemed appropriate that he would be given a potion. Cautiously, taking care not to spill any more, he tasted the liquid. The flavor was not repulsive. He swallowed bigger and bigger gulps, slurping the contents until finally the cylinder was empty. He belched.
Beside this legendary lake anxiously awaiting something--anything--to happen, a new sensation settled within him: a stomach ache.  Groaning, he clutched his middle region and harbored resentful thoughts towards that mysterious traveler who had directed him on this journey, so ill-fated that he had both lost his horse and become rather sick, alone and far from any doctor.
Pacing--brooding--before the boulder with his supposed reward tossed carelessly to the mud, he was struck with the awareness that his heart was thudding loudly against his chest. And his breathing was different--he drew great gulps of air, more quickly and deeply, as if he had run a great distance. When a facial muscle began to twitch rhythmically just above his cheek bone he thought that perhaps the drink was magic after all and would begin to work soon, after this short attack of strange side-effects.  The muscle on his cheek then smoothed and ceased to flutter, but, gasping still, he became hot suddenly. A drop of sweat marched down his forehead.
Panic clenched him when muscles all across his skeleton were seized by great, shuddering spasms. A violent convulsion toppled his body. He writhed upon the ground, blood-pulse beating too brutally against his skull to hear his own shrieks; lungs near bursting, face contorting as extreme nervous malfunctions warped his features into gruesome expressions--inhuman, monstrous. His curled fingers dug into the mud. Grey sky oppressed him, clouds assuming forms that jeered at him, guffawing with the wind. The legendary lake, like a flat, oblong eye seemed to peer downwards at him--silent and amused.
Then, as if his tormentor had been satisfied, the convulsions reduced by degrees. He sensed the energies which had animated and overwhelmed him internalize within his flesh, become part of him--a fire digested in his blood. He arose with an ease that surprised him. Arteries pulsed and sizzled beneath his skin like lightning coils. In his head, the violent toll of his heart had been replaced by his own thoughts. His consciousness had grown loud, huge, towering, filling the broad sky. A spectrum of bare emotions vibrated within him now--and he had not only gained an immense intellect, but an influence upon the outer world as well: the dark clouds swirled no longer by the forces of nature but at the beckoning of his own foreboding desire. His breath was the cold wind. His thoughts were the toppling clouds. 
He exercised his newfound powers by materializing an image of his former self upon the moist mud in front of him. Sharp disgust pushed nauseatingly upwards like vomit; disgust which like an animal he expurged with an atmosphere-shattering, roar. In a vision from the ancient past, he remembered how he had slowly made this journey upon horseback. What had he been seeking? He hadn't even known then, hadn't any clue; had followed his intuition unquestioningly with the mysterious traveler's promise dangling like a carrot before his stupid face.
And at what a slothly pace he had progressed, inch by inch along the stretching roads, entertained only by that dull horse! He would have the power now to make the trip in two great leaps--if he wished to return home--but he flinched at the memory of that abysmally drab house and his vapid wife, and her filthy children and the pale grass, and those thin clothes and his meritless job (tending the horses on his boss's farm) and his limp voice, and his lame grip and his shallow breath and his defeated acquiescence. . .
He knew he was no longer that man. His core self was the same--his ego remained intact, in fact magnified--but that insipid flesh which so limited him before had been transmogrified into an indefatigable muscle without inhibition; a wild horse without doubts or fears or weakness. And yet this couldn't be the reward that the mysterious traveler had promised. What he yearned for before, he still yearned for now. Although capable of anything, he yet remained with nothing to satisfy him. Acute rage combusted within him and he lunged wildly at the materialized image of himself; its clone face mocking surprise, it shortly dissolved leaving him alone again before the legendary lake.
When he perceived a muted neigh, the hanging clouds began to ripple weirdly. His heightened senses could actually detect the odor of the mare's dank sweat. He noticed the deep hoof-tracks leading away from the water and scoffed at the ineptitude of his former self. By following the impressions to the crest of a hill he could then see the fretting animal near a thick, solitary tree not far away.
He felt compelled to approach the horse. There was no need to ride it, and he was not in the mood for companionship—but something about the sound, the sight, the smell of this horse made him flush. His heart thudded once more; his palms moistened.  The heat from the horse’s body radiated to him, and he was drawn to the flesh. He brought a hand forward to touch the fur, and in the instant he touched it, he gasped. Every follicle made his skin tingle with a pleasant sensation; the smooth texture was sublime. He walked around to the end of the mare, hand gliding along the curves of the mare’s body, and when he stood behind it with heavy breath, pangs of longing made it difficult to not caress the hind legs with both hands. The clouds were havoc.
Shirt ripped off, he was unable to resist the urge to press his full body up against the animal, the flesh so warm and wet. The horse tried to step away, but he gripped its rear, holding it forcefully down. Wildly, he pulled his leather pants down and pushed his erection into the animal. The animal struggled, whinnied and it attempted to pull away, but he used all his strength to keep it in place. He began to thrust deeply into the animal, with growing force, pleasure-waves coursing from his groin to his entire body. The satisfaction was overwhelming when he pushed his fingers into its anus. As he plunged his entire fist deep into its rectum, the mare’s hind legs tried to kick--but his forcible grip caused its knees to snap. He neighed.
"This is my reward!" 
He achieved orgasm. And the clouds were limp. 

(no subject)

The internal struggle of buying my cigarettes: I only smoke Marlboro Ultra Lights (uuuuuultra lights). Two options: 72's or Regular. 

If I buy a carton of 72's, the deal I get is equivalent to two free packs of cigarettes. At 37 dollars per carton, I'm paying only 3.70 per pack. I get a tax-free deal at my local "Choctaw Plaza" so I am among the people who are paying the least amount of money for cigarettes, and Marlboro's at that. I am a brand whore. 

If I buy a carton of Regular cigarettes, I spend 48 dollars. This is less than two free packs. I'm paying the same amount of money as if I had bought 10 packs of 72's at full price, not carton price. So I am forced to decide:

Do I want two free packs and buy Marlboro 72's? Or do I want a free upgrade from 72's to Regular by buying a carton of Reggies? Easy choice, stick with the carton of 72's. Regular has only a quarter inch of extra tobacco, and the filter is longer so my hit is less strong. But my problem is this:

Do I pay more(not only getting a worse deal but actually paying more) to protect my lungs with the longer filter of Regular cigarettes? The extra tobacco is nil--I don't smoke entire cigarettes anyway. So my question now is do I risk my life by spending less money of the shorter filters of 72's, or do I go the safer option with regular? Oh yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. 

edit: no choice should be like this

Speech by Wikipedia
Speech is the vocalized form of human communication. It is based upon the syntactic combination of lexicals and names that are drawn from very large (usually >10,000 different words) vocabularies. Each spoken word is created out of the phonetic combination of a limited set of vowel and consonant speech sound units. These vocabularies, the syntax which structures them, and their set of speech sound units, differ creating the existence of many thousands of different types of mutually unintelligible human languages. Human speakers (polyglots) are often able to communicate in two or more of them. The vocal abilities that enable humans to produce speech also provide humans with the ability to sing.

A gestural form of human communication exists for the deaf in the form of sign language. Speech in some cultures has become the basis of a written language, often one that differs in its vocabulary, syntax and phonetics from its associated spoken one, a situation called diglossia. Speech in addition to its use in communication, it is suggested by some psychologists such as Vygotsky is internally used by mental processes to enhance and organize cognition in the form of an interior monologue

Speech is researched in terms of the speech production and speech perception of the sounds used in spoken language. Other research topics concern speech repetition, the ability to map heard spoken words into the vocalizations needed to recreated that plays a key role in the vocabulary expansion in children and speech errors. Several academic disciplines study these including acoustics, psychology, speech pathology, linguistics, cognitive science, communication studies, otolaryngology and computer science. Another area of research is how the human brain in its different areas such as the Broca's area and Wernicke's area underlies speech.

It is controversial how far human speech is unique in that other animals also communicate with vocalizations. While none in the wild uses syntax nor compatibly large vocabularies, research upon the nonverbal abilities of language trained apes such as Washoe and Kanzi raises the possibility that they might have these capabilities.
The origins of speech are unknown and subject to much debate and speculation.

Contents [hide]
1 Speech production
2 Speech perception
3 Speech repetition
4 Speech errors
5 Problems involving speech
6 References
7 See also
[edit]Speech production

Main article: Speech production
In linguistics (articulatory phonetics), manner of articulation describes how the tongue, lips, jaw, and other speech organs are involved in making a sound make contact. Often the concept is only used for the production of consonants. For any place of articulation, there may be several manners, and therefore several homorganic consonants.
Normal human speech is produced with pulmonary pressure provided by the lungs which creates phonation in the glottis in the larynx that then is modified by the vocal tract into different vowels and consonants. However humans can pronounce words without the use of the lungs and glottis in alaryngeal speech of which there are three types: esophageal speech, pharyngeal speech and buccal speech (better known as Donald Duck talk).
[edit]Speech perception

Main article: Speech perception
Speech perception refers to the processes by which humans are able to interpret and understand the sounds used in language. The study of speech perception is closely linked to the fields of phonetics and phonology in linguistics and cognitive psychology and perception in psychology. Research in speech perception seeks to understand how human listeners recognize speech sounds and use this information to understand spoken language. Speech research has applications in building computer systems that can recognize speech, as well as improving speech recognition for hearing- and language-impaired listeners. Rosetta is an example of listening software.
[edit]Speech repetition

Main article: Speech repetition

Spoken vocalizations are quickly turned from sensory inputs into motor instructions needed for their immediate or delayed (in phonological memory) vocal imitation. This occurs independently of speech perception. This mapping plays a key role in enabling children to expand their spoken vocabulary and hence the ability of human language to transmit across generations.[1]
[edit]Speech errors

Main article: Speech error
Speech is a complex activity with the result that spoken errors are often made. These have been used by scientists to understand the nature of the processes involved in its production.
[edit]Problems involving speech

See also: Speech-language pathology
There are several organic and psychological factors that can affect speech. Among these are:
Diseases and disorders of the lungs or the vocal cords, including paralysis, respiratory infections, vocal fold nodules and cancers of the lungs and throat.

Diseases and disorders of the brain, including alogia, aphasias, dysarthria, dystonia and speech processing disorders, where impaired motor planning, nerve transmission, phonological processing or perception of the message (as opposed to the actual sound) leads to poor speech production.

Hearing problems, such as otitis media effusion and auditory processing disorder can lead to phonological problems.
Articulatory problems, such as stuttering, lisping, cleft palate, ataxia, or nerve damage leading to problems in articulation. Tourette syndrome and tics can also affect speech. A lot of people also have a slur in their voice

In addition to dysphasia, anomia and auditory processing disorder can impede the quality of auditory perception, and therefore, expression. Those who are Hard of Hearing or deaf may be considered to fall into this category.yt 

Grub Mub'udud
it was a nice day. it was a nice afternoon. morning was nice. the evening would have been nice if it weren't for the event witnessed by three that occurred in a bedroom upon the hour of sleeping.

"fine," said Jimmy. Jimmy was schizoid as a result of the activities on a lake that summer with 5 others, 4 of whom died and one other, ME, who was in the room too, along with Jennifer and Annie, our best friends. it was like a holiday except for Jimmy, who was actually talking to himself now, but we were really feeling peaceful. "fine I'll do it."


"What Annie, don't you fucking get it?"


"What the fucking hell man, I don't got to listen to this anymore." He took off his shirt and started touching the drawings around his chest and tummy. "I feel pretty into it right now."


"Jimmy just called Annie a man!" Jennifer was the most sympathetic of Jimmy's condition of talking about nothing to nobody whenever other people were around and whenever he was alone, too, we all assumed.

"Jimmy put yer shirt on, you can stay after you perform whatever OCD action you have to perform to feel comfortable here. We're safe, ok?" Jennifer held a smile as Jimmy ran two fingers across a line leading from his nipple to his belly button. He started sighing.

"I can do it again before I go to bed."

"Jimmy." All three of us said his name. "Jimmy what the hell are you talking about?"

"Whatever, just ignore me."

Annie threw me a pillow. I giggled and whispered I love you right as Jimmy did something we will never forget. He tried to jump out the window.

"What the hell--NO!" I grabbed his ankle with both hands as his torso was angled out of the window. He started squirming.


"Jimmy! Why are you screaming!?"

Why is he jumping out of the window, I thought as I pulled him onto my bed. He started laughing.

"That almost found it. I almost found it. I'm getting so close. It's ok now everybody, I almost found it." His eyes were unfocused and he was looking towards the ground.

"Jimmy you almost really hurt yourself."

"Yeah, are you ok?" Annie.

"What are you even talking about?"

He looked right at me. "Grub Mub'udud."

Nightmares. Stunning, swirling nausea. These are what I remember about Grub Mub'udud.

Jimmy's story was a sad one. After he returned from the lake where the others died, his family began to control everything about his life because he was out of control.

"We're going." Jimmy stated airily.

"Simply what are you talking about, Jimmy. My god."

the hamburger paragraph
deleted for content--beautiful video of our pond
looked it up, it's called the hamburger paragraph
I'm definitely going to delete this and replace the presentation with this short story. Same location.

Firstly, before I get into what essentially is a boating story, I want to say that I don't boat hardly often enough. Nor do I fish, either. I taught a man to fish once. He hooked me in the eye. I told him I wasn't the fish he was looking for. Now we order Chinese take-out every Thursday afternoon. Just listen.

The details of what happened that day are strange and scattered. The relevance of what I'm about to say should be suspicious to each and every observer, because what I'm about to say bubbled out of my fingertips like busted bottles of champagne on Christmas Eve.

Tell me, I ask you to tell me something or any thing, I ask it but you never do, you never really do, do you? Cheap.

I'll continue. Our boat was huge and dirty. Old seats, holes in the walls. We had a T.V. set but no one could figure out how to get any reception. Jimmy packed a phonograph but the speakers were blown so all we could hear was the unamplified sound of the arm upon the vinyl. It was tinny and no good. We just ate our steaks and stayed quiet.
It was a boring ass week but on the fifth day something finally happened besides arguments and rum-drinking. Even when I woke up earlier that morning, I knew some thing was coming. I remembered very little of the dream but I couldn't taste breakfast, and that afternoon the kitchen seemed especially tiny and cell-like. We heard it coming moments before it did finally arrive. I was by myself on deck when the surface tension of the water broke by some sort of vibration and the lizard rose.

Green. The jewelry was inhuman, with amorphous, multicolored beads attached to gold chain, hanging like ivy from ears, noses, wrists, even the tongue. Its tongue was curled outward, yellow and red, pierced through the center. Talk about a freak out. It was an upright alligator. I thought of it as animatronic but only because of movies.


Now would be a good time to talk about these things.

Cell phone towers. For reception. Sure.

Hypno-bation. Verb.

The boat sank shortly afterwards. I don't know what happened to the rest of the crew but Jimmy and I made it to the shore. We prayed to the clouds. The mud wouldn't stay still.

I also might present this one.

Was a soft night now
the couch underappreciated
Would eat me up with all its kiss me mouth

The new camera like a rendition of Macbeth
Captures your face like the lips of a god
We had somewhere to go when we left
but we had no reason to leave
i remember her hair like a fur boa

An apartment underappreciated
across from a shopping center
at night when things are safe
a parking lot of semi-confusion but
ultimately love

We stayed up all night and I just sat there
We weren't asleep but we had our problems
Aching, I think we were weeping but I didn't
know it at the time and what happened later
or sometime around then or sometime before
i remember too without vividness of image
but vividness of mind, it must have taken a long time to happen
and without my body i never knew i would miss that so


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