The New Endeavor

Since it’s been a while, I’m sure I haven’t told you my new project. I’m writing a comic book. But I’m being serious about it. Super serious about it. Like when I’m done I’m going to do the dreaded thing and send it to a publishing company. Yeah, it’s serious.

Sadly, right now, I won’t tell you the plot. It involves…a lot. But I will tell you there’s people in it, and it’s dark in tone. Or I hope it turns out dark in tone. I’m not sure yet.

I’m also in the process of looking for an artist. But someone who has to be willing to work with me, and actually help me out. Mystery Artist and myself need to be a team. I don’t need someone coming up to me and asking when I’m going to pay them for their services on the spot. I need someone who’s willing to look into publishing companies with me. Does that make sense? I need to figure out how to find an artist though. Please don’t say Craigslist.

Anyway, that’s what’s going on, as I also figure out how I want to take care of this blog. I’ve gotta make a list. I’ll figure it out.

Till next time!

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When You Don’t Know What To Do

Have you ever wrote out a post, then deleted it because in reality, that’s not what you want to write about, then you do it again, until finally you say something like, “F**k it, I’m going to go sit in front of the TV and try again later.”? Maybe you have, and maybe not.

That’s what I find myself doing. I have things I want to write about on here. I’ll think it partly through, write it down, and then come on here, then say, “Nah, I don’t want to do that anymore.” I’ve seriously come up with three different schedules of things to post, but I have a hard time keeping up with myself because I’m not sure how to go about it, or if I like it anymore.

I feel that regardless, I should go with that I want to post, leave it, and put it up. What’s the worst that’ll happen? It’s the internet after all. I need a goal. Something people will look forward to hearing more of, or reading about.

I have things planned, like certain days to do reviews on things, to talk about one thing specifically, all that. I just need to go through with it. I’m attempting to write something that I want to try and get published. I should keep you all updated on that. I want to let my inner nerd out, and let her do most of the talking. Some of my other posts have done that. Well, here’s to forever trying. And this time, I’ll write a post and actually hit “publish”.

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Hypophrenia – Part 3

Outcast Among Friends

Smiles. Whispers. Laughter. It’s what friends do. It’s what his does. Hers too. And mine. They huddle close, and share pictures. They just talk. I sit with them, watching as they exchange words. Words I barely hear. Sometimes, they look in my direction, and say something, I laugh with them, even though I hardly find it funny. I just don’t feel it. I don’t feel their warmth, or enjoyment. It feels like, even though I’m with them, deep down, they wish I wasn’t there. They tolerate me with them, really, is how it feels. As soon as I leave, I’m sure they’ll cheer: “Thank god, he’s gone!” or, “I thought he would never leave. Now lets have fun!”. I’ve never heard or witnessed these things, but I’m almost positive it happens.

I do have common interests with these friends. Even so, I feel left out from things they do. I feel like the weird one. The never ending third wheel. They all pair off, and either I’m stuck with a pair, or the one I’m with, asks someone else to come with us. I’m the last to know of every party, every movie, every inside joke. I need to be filled in. And I see them sometimes roll their eyes, or give me a look. “Get with it, Andy!” One of them will often yell in mock anger, which just shows true frustration. When I am invited on time, I always feel like it was a pity invite, and really, I’m just imposing on the others. They’re just trying to be nice to me, but hope I get the message soon.

They’ve changed from before. Or maybe I’ve changed. It’s no longer genuine with them. Then again, maybe I’m not being genuine. Perhaps they feel left out from my life. Like, they don’t know me anymore. That’s why, they don’t invite me so much. They feel like I’m different, and now I’m weird to them. Maybe that’s really it. It could be they are genuine, and trying to see what happened. Trying to have me open myself up again to them. I’m invited last minute because they’re not sure if it’s what I like anymore. They’re  just trying to find out if I’m still with them.

I look up. They’re looking at me intently. One of them repeats the question: “That sure was a good game, at the park, right Andy?” They all look at me. Is that sincerity in their eyes? They want my opinion, but they always want my opinion on things, and sincerity can’t be hard to fake. But I must be open with them. Let them know how I feel. I speak, and they listen. Some smile, a few frowned. Then he started to talk, one of my friends. And this time, I listened to his words.

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A Facebook Page? Well, All Right Then!

Taking a quick break from my short story series, I just wanted you guys to know that, I’ve created a Facebook page for this very blog. Yes, yes! I know that out of the many followers I have, I have about 4, 6 readers at tops, and as much as I dearly love and appreciate all 4-6 of you, I want more people to read.

Fine… it selfish and greedy if you want.

But you guys can be awesome and (provided you have a Facebook account), go on and press that “like” button, and make me feel special. When I feel special I write more, and more scheduled. So, go ahead. More Hypophrenia installments will happen, more in synch. I kinda promise.

So click here, kiddies!

What? You didn’t think I’d actually forget to put the link here, did you?

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Hypophrenia – Part 2

When Tears Run Black

When she was a little girl, she’d watch her aunt put makeup on her eyes, leaning into the mirror, gracefully tracing her eye with black pencil, brushing her lashes to make them longer. Beautiul eyes set on a gorgeous face. She also remembered her crying coal black tears. After some days of going out, she’d return at night, the tears streaming down her face. Black rivers eroding her gorgeous face. Despite the puffy eyes and red nose, she still looked pretty.

She and her aunt got older. Soon, she was in her aunt’s place. Putting makeup on her eyes. Making herself pretty. But everytime she tried, she was never pretty enough to be beautiful or gorgeous like her aunt. No matter how big she made her eyes look, or how much glitter she used, or even how little she used the makeup, she couldn’t match her. Her aunt’s perfection never reached her.

Regardless of her plain, made up face, she’d go out. Eyes done, hair up, and dressed to kill. She’d meet her friends, and together they would go all over. Everywhere and nowhere at all. They’d dance under flashing lights, and breath under the moon. Everything would assualt their senses at once, and then it would go away, and  they were left in a calming breeze, excitement lingering on their bodies.

Then she would go off alone. Look in the mirror, examine her face. Still, she was none the prettier. Tears and disappointment would fall down her face. Never would she be stunning, never would she be like the woman she loved and looked up to. Afterward, she’d return home. She’d walk into the house, to see her young cousin, looking up at her as she was getting ready for bed. Was she there all day? She was. Her cousin sat on the bed, watching her get ready, and then saw when her tears ran black.

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Hypophrenia – Part 1

When We Were Young

She took an extra long drag on her cigarette. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She didn’t even bother to look my way.

“You know, such a pretty woman shouldn’t taint herself with such an ugly habit,” I said, hoping it could rekindle some emotion in her.

“Whatever.” She snorted in reply, smoke coming out of her mouth.

“That line worked,” I sighed, “back in high school.”

“Well, Marina, you were my best friend back in high school.”

Still, she refused to look my way. Staring at her, all I could do was sigh again. An unbearable weight was starting to fall on me. It wasn’t new, but it didn’t make it any less pleasant. Her eyes were looking into nothing, but kept an odd focus. I glanced to where her eyes seemed to linger. Two teenaged girls were sitting on a pair of swings not too far away. Their swing was lazy and relaxed, but their mouths were animated and faces vibrant with life. The weight got heavier, this time pushing on my chest.

Was she remembering what we did when we were that age? Before the real world came bursting in on our fun? When I look back on it, nothing really happened. There was no big argument, no boys came between us, no betrayal…just growing up. She went her way, I went mine…and sometimes, I don’t even know her anymore.

“Alexis…” I started, my eyes looking her way.

Then, she sighed, “This is a waste of time.”

The weight just dropped. I was crushed. I put my head in my hand. I wasn’t sad for me. I was sad for her. For what she was, and what she might be. Gone was the girl with rainbow highlights and bubbly giggle. And I didn’t even get to see her go. There was just a working woman with stress oozing from every pore. A hand quickly, but gently patted my leg, and unfathomable sorrow washed over me. It was the end of us.

She stood and dropped her cigarette. Tears fought there way down my cheeks, as I tried to will her to turn and look, or to just say a word. With one quick movement, she stomped out her cigarette and walked away. No hesitation. Completely silent. I felt extreme sadness for her. I may miss her, but I was happy. My life isn’t bad. So maybe, I was sad for no real reason at all.

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I’ve Got It!


It’s a feeling of sadness without any cause.

That’s it.

I’m going to write a series of short stories centered around that.

Stick around, friends!

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