One of THOSE nights...

I am currently quarantined, because someone was exposed to someone who was exposed to someone who was exposed to someone who had whooping cough. Or something like that. Anyway. When one is quarantined, there is not much to do, so I thought I'd stop by for a chat. A rather one-sided chat.

As some of you may have heard, yesterday was Independence Day. Well, as you probably have guessed by now, I was quarantined yesterday as well. Not quite optimal, if you know what I mean. I did practically nothing except invent the most immature game ever known to mankind. Not bad immature, just immature immature. Think, second grade.  I must say, though, this whole quarantining business has been somewhat eye-opening. I never knew till now how perfectly spoiled I am. I was really put out by the whole thing. I didn't cry, thank God, but I complained to no end. I don't know why my parents didn't shoot me or something, come to think of it.

It turned out that one of the families in the area didn't care that we had the potential to be potentially unclean, so we went over to their house for dinner. And it was cool. One of this family's kids had friends from college there that I had never met, so that made things, shall we say, interesting. You see, I have this uncanny ability for making even more of a perfect fool of myself when I am hanging out with people that I don't know at all. One would think that maybe I would a bit more shy, but its actually the opposite that happens. Last night I was purposely acting as dumb and dumb can be and talking in a less than perfect Godfather accent. I cringe at the thought. At least most everyone was laughing their guts out for 95% of the night. Its nice to know that I sacrificed my spotless reputation for something.

But wait. There's more. I am going to give you another example of my unfortunate ability. Last fall I suddenly found myself riding shotgun with a pretty pretty girl I had never met. So we were stuck with each other for about an hour. Or rather, she stuck with me. You'd think that being shoved with an unacquainted attractive member of the opposite sex would have shut me up; sort of numbed things up a bit, if you know what I mean. That was not the case. I went on a rampage of obnoxiousness. You know, really forward for people who had never met and cracking jokes as if we were old pals.I dare say it was probably quite amusing in its own sort of way, but I keep on running into her and I am still pretty embarrassed about the whole thing. I suppose I shall get over it sometime.

I still just don't understand why I have have problem...its probably something to do with my diet.

TTFN

-Thomas

Murica Baby!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy 4th.

Six.

VI

The random object Colin had happened to snitch on the way out of the shop turned out to be an antique silver pocket-watch of Swiss manufacture. Its face value probably wasn't much, maybe two or three thousand pounds, but it was one of the unfortunate shopkeeper's family heirlooms and he was greatly attached to it.

You can imagine, then, the utter shock and horror he experienced upon discovering the disappearance of both the watch and the timepiece the next morning. Its a surprise the old man didn't drop dead on the spot. He didn't, though, to the disappointment of a great many relatives, and immediately contacted the police. So, by the time Colin arrived at ten to return the watch, the place was all taped-off and absolutely crawling with Police and Inspectors.

On the outside of the tape, a tall, slim man with longish, darkish hair stood with a package under his arm, apparently waiting to be let in. Colin thought that maybe if he waited near him, he would be let in as well. So he promptly went and stood beside the man with the packet.

“So, you've finally decided to show up, miracle baby.” The tall man said, in an American accent, with a chuckle. All he got from Colin were raised eyebrows, so he continued, “I really am sorry about spoiling your party last night, but I just couldn't resist this opportunity to finally introduce myself.

This time around he got more than eyebrows from Colin.

“Then why don't you bloody introduce yourself. Who the hell are you?”, Colin hissed.

“Well, Colin, both because after having observed you for past five months I think it would do you good to not be in the 'know' for once, and because that chubby cop with the awful mustache is finally coming back, you'll have to wait and find out.” And turning to the Bluey who had just arrived on the other side of the tape he added, “Hello again officer. Will the owner see us now?”

“Who's this man?” The officer asked gruffly.

“He's my secretary and he will also be of help to the owner.”

The officer let them through the tape, into the shop, and up a flight of stairs, to the owner's apartments, where he was yelling at chief inspector, who had apparently just reported that they had procured no evidence from the scene. Upon the entrance of Colin and the other man, the shopkeeper looked up and growled, “What do you two want? Can't you see I'm occupied?” Colin was going to answer him, but he heard his—his whatchamacallit clear his throat next to him, so he let him do the talking, and talk he did. “Yes, so sorry about that, but we have information regarding the two missing objects whose absence are causing the unfortunate occupation you just mentioned. We must speak to you alone.” The was an awkward pause and then the grump of an owner said in a hoarse, glorified whisper to the inspector, “Well, you heard him, didn't you? Get out!”

After the inspector had made his extremely ungraceful retreat, in which he tripped over a small table laden with breakfast things, the owner, Mr. Bisquebey was his name I think, turned to Colin and the stranger and asked in his pleasantest 'customer' voice, “What was that you were saying, Mr...?”

“Ellen. Liam Ellen, sir”

It is rather hard to explain what was going through Colin's brain in the moments after Mr. Liam Ellen revealed his name. A pinball machine with about sixty too many balls poured into it is the first thing that comes to mind. The second is probably an overly anxious mother who has just been informed that her son has had a serious accident at his friend's house. You know the drill, a plethoratic torrent of questions paired with an astoundingly large fountain of fantastical answers to those questions. It is enough to say that to give an account of all the questions and answers that bounced around in Colin's head at this time would merit a book in in of themselves. A boring and redundant book at that. For these reasons, it is not something you will find in these pages.

“I was saying, Mr. Bisquebey, that we have information on your stolen items. In fact, we know exactly where they are.”

There was, needless to say, a reaction from the old man when Liam, as he shall be called until further notice, finished his most eloquent address. Something like that of a volcano erupting, but in a good sort of way. Maybe a chocolate volcano. Anyway, this Mr. Bisquebey was oozing with friendliness. So much so that it was rather in-your-face and obnoxious, as I assume a life-size chocolate volcano would be. Too much superficial goodness, if you know what I mean. He sort of bowed and folded his hands together. I say, 'sort of', because circumference of both his stomach and fingers made it difficult to perform with ease either of the aforementioned actions. This, coupled with a drooling, hang-y smile, made the overall effect pretty repugnant. “Ah.” he said, and the three men were soon steeped in the boring details of the return of the timepiece and watch.

The only thing worth mentioning out of the long, twenty seven minute conference was Colin's motive for stealing the timepiece. Or rather, what he told Mr. Bisquebey what his motive was and what will also have to satisfy us. “You see, sir, I am a student and lover of clocks, watches, and timepieces as well, and upon seeing your collection so inadequately guarded, I was left quite nervous about it. After returning to my flat that evening, I tried to think of a way to convince you to up the security on your collection. This was the best plan I happened on.”

Although this explanation seems lacking, it satisfied Mr. Bisquebey and so why should it not satisfy us, who don't have anything tangible invested in the situation? Well, most of the time curiosity overpowers rationality, especially in matters such as these, so between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if he did it purely for excitement's sake.

After Colin and Liam were finished with their conference with Bisquebey, they descended the stairs and made their way to the street. It had rained bit right before dawn, and the morning that the two men found themselves stepping into was one those crisp, spring mornings; the kind that puts a sort of vigor in one's step and new outlook on life. You know the kind, the sort of which one quiff of the air acts as a miracle stimulant of sorts. This air almost made Colin forget the positively turbulent state of mind his mind had been in ever since Liam had announced his name.

Almost. But not quite. He was naturally stupefied and made uneasy by the fact that this random, not-so-random man apparently knew not only quite a lot about him, but also had the same name as main character in the novel he was working on. Although e kept telling himself that it was, “pure and utter coincidence”, he had that awkward feeling in his stomach. The one that makes it feel like your stomach can't decide whether to jump or to fall and that's its just floating, both elasticized and clumped-up, in a soup of indecision. Finally he stammered, “Sorry. But, um...did, did I catch your name right?”

“What did you catch?”

“Liam Ellen?”

“Yeah, that's it alright. Why?”

After Colin seemingly finished this titbit of a conversation with exceeding awkwardness—something about it all being nothing and such—and a smile more fake even than Mr. Bisqubey's, Liam gave him a look. It wasn't an overly nice look, but not a mean or patronizing one ether, it merely sated, in the plainest of terms, that Liam knew everything and that Colin had better stop talking rubbish. The look was followed by a string of words from the looker.

“Its no use Colin. I know why you asked about my name. You may also be interested that my middle name is Ignacio and that, 'My parents are immigrants, my father from Scotland; my mother from Portugal. Hence the strange name.' or were immigrants, bless them.”

This time there was no doubt or indecision about it. Colin's stomach dropped rather like that of an egg from a tallish chicken, and then slingshotted back up to his adenoids and stayed there for a time.

He gulped air. Then he gulped again. And then, “What in—what are you?”

“Not what, who. I'm your older brother, mate!”

Colin immediately found himself in the midst of one of those overpowering bear-hugs, and, after the initial shock of it all, found to his surprise that for the first time since—since before he could remember, he actually felt like he was home.

Chapter 5

V.

A cool, nippy Autumnal Oxford evening met the two conspirators as the they stepped out the door and made their way down Wanton Well Road. The archaic townhouses loomed and crowded over the ribbon of a street, like so many leaves around a rose bud. Colin was walking silently with an infuriatingly mysterious air, and Monty was following at his side, when a somewhat frustrated, “I am going to reiterate, Colin, what the hell are we doing?”, came from Monty.

“Oh Monty,” replied Colin, his face dripping with sarcasm, “where did you learn such fancy and...colorful language.”

“I'm not stupid. I am, after all, attending one of the most prodigious universities on the planet. Just tell me already!”

“Well, yes, but it does help if things a bit your dad is on the board of regents and we are, quite obviously, going to a watch store.”

“Am I allowed to know why?”

“Yes, you are actually, we are going to snitch something.”

“You mean to say you're putting me through all this for the sake of stealing a watch.”

“Well, yes and no. We're not really going steal it, and you wouldn't exactly call it a watch.”

At this point they turned around a corner and it seemed to Monty that they were going towards the Center, so he asked where, exactly, their destination lay. “11 Longstreet Street,” was his answer. “Ah,” replied Monty, “that can't more than, what, a four kilometer walk? Why don't we skip the cab part and walk it?” And with only partial sarcasm he added, “I always enjoy our walks.” He was answered by affirmative silence from Colin, who was, as Monty knew, working out the details of their outing.

These details were somewhat complicated. You see, the object Colin was planning to take—and then return—was a rare 16^th Century timepiece of Dutch make. The shop was owned by an extremely rich widower, who's hobby was collecting watches and other time-related oddities. He lived for his tick-toking collection and couldn't bear to see any one his many collection pieces in another person's hands. For this reason, he priced everything at about three times what they were worth, and also lived on the floor above it, so in reality, his place was more a museum/house than a shop.

This collector person was extremely distrustful. So very distrustful, in fact, that he made himself more defenseless against theft than the average shopkeeper because he didn't even trust the security companies. He did everything for himself, by himself. And, as he was not technologically advanced, his system was out-dated, and easy to hack. As Colin found out. The only partially hard part about the whole thing was that the security system had an alarm that sounded when the system was shut down. Colin got this out of the way by programing the system to shut off just long enough for him to get inside the shop and then setting it in a loop so it would play the the same roll over and over again. This ensured the plan to foolproof, except for the possibility of a random police patrol, . Monty's job was to watch for any such Scuffers out on patrol.

By the time this had all been explained to Monty, they were near the destination. It was an elegant, Tudor style townhouse with ivy growing up its left side. It had stood there for centuries, probably, as evidenced by the many cracks in its wood-beam and limestone exterior. Monty, being the more romantic of the two, was thinking of the many previous inhabitants old house; the triumphs and doubtless the horrors it has been the scene of. “You know Colin, I just love these old townhouses...when you're in them, its like—like you're inside history or something.” Monty said. “Well, I always just think of what a pain they would be to heat in the winter,” replied our resident realist. “And you cannot be in history. In fact you nothing you can do has the ability to bring you closer or father away from it. You are always one moment removed from it, and there's nothing you can do about it. That is, unless you are me and you are going to solve the time-travel puzzle.”

“And you wonder why I have trouble finding you dates? You're about as romantic as the contents of my dirty clothes basket.”

“Yes, but its not as if all girls are helpless romantics, Monty.”

“I guess that's true. But, um, its I think its also true to say that almost all girls do not enjoy being told that they look like a hedgehog.”

This reference to Colin's last date in which he had tactlessly told his date that she looked like a hedgehog, was the deathblow, and Colin that. Why, just why couldn't he be better with girls, he thought. Ten more seconds and it would be time to go in the shop. He had other things to worry about. Namely, not getting arrested. “Never mind about that. Its almost time to go in,” he said. Colin then counted down, opened the door, and went inside.

The alarm, as expected, immediately sounded upon his entrance. Colin gave a sort of chuckle as he pictured the old miser breathing a sigh of relief when he saw his empty shop, as displayed by his looping monitors. He took his time going through the shop, for the already interesting objects were mystified in his torch's beam. Things would have been pretty nearly stress free, but for the agonizingly loud creaks the old floor gave out each time Colin set one of his feet. After the first seven or so steps, he found to his great relief that there was a thick rug—Turkish by the feel of it—which subsequently muffled both the movements and the creaking of that blasted old floor.

Once the necessary sigh of relief had been gotten out of the way, Colin began to moved about more freely. The room was over-full of intricately and curiously carved furniture and, of course, watches, clocks, and every sort of ticking thing you could imagine. The effects of both the tick-toking and the crowding furniture were not exactly what you would call, calming. Colin soon felt rather like how I should imagine a claustrophobic man would feel if he found himself encased in an egg. This feeling grew. And then it grew some more, until it was practically unbearable. He moved as swiftly as he could without being careless, and soon came to the place of honor in which he knew the rare timepiece was kept.

He was two steps away from the grotesquely carved goblin-table it was on when he shined his torch at its pedestal.

To his utter shock and amazement, that's all he saw: a pedestal. A quick check of the inscription on the said pedestal gave assurance that this was, indeed, the right table. The clocks ticked and toked, and a dumbfounded and somewhat irate Colin booked it out with the nearest valuable-looking object he could get his hands on.

If he had been there fifteen minutes earlier, the timepiece might still have been there and he might have run into someone eerily similar to himself, in more than one way.

But he wasn't and the only person he ran into—quite literally—was Monty, who had situated himself in an extremely inconvenient position, right outside the door. “Bosch it all, Colin, what's all the fuss for?” a tumbled-down Monty exclaimed.

“What do you mean by hanging about in the doorway? And you were on your phone, too. Caught in the act. Lot of good you would have been if a Scuffer had passed by. You wouldn't have detected one if he had tripped over you.”

This torrent of words was followed by the usual apologies and the two thwarted burglars made their way back to their flat as Colin filled Monty in on what had happened inside.

________________________________________________________

There you go. Sorry it took so long for me to get it done.

-Thomas 

Graduation and photo shoot.

Happy Pentecost everyone! 

A couple days ago I did this photo shoot thing with some friends for an end-of-the-year sort of a thing-a-ma-bob, so I thought I'd share some of them with you....

Yes, I know my tie is messed up.

 Doing my best Mr. Whilloughby  impression.

 Laughing awkwardly because someone is taking my picture.

 What can I say?

 Trying to look serious.

 Oh, look! Its in color!

 Train tracks.

No comment.

So yeah, that was fun. And today I'm graduating. Pray that I don't botch everything up, and that my speech insulting to anyone,  if you would. 

TTFN

-Thomas  

Whoa, look, its actually a normal post.

Well, it's been awhile now, hasn't it? As always, though, I have legitimate excuses and am entirely justified. You see, I've been quite busy lately and haven't written at all for quite some time and so do not have Chapter five ready. It's all because...well, lots of things, really. First, I put off writing a ten page research paper until the day before it was due. That was somewhat hectic and is not highly recommended. Anyway. I finished and then promptly left for a road trip. To Dallas Texas. It's a 23 hour drive and we did it straight through. W went to Texas because I was racing there. The race didn't exactly go well. People who I usually blow out of the water beat me and I finished mid-pack.Let's not get into all the gory details, though. What's done is done. 

I do want to talk about Texas, though. I must confess that Texas and Texans had been at the short end of a lot my jokes. Actually being there changed things a bit. It was so amazing! It was like going back 80 years; back to when people held the door; back when people greeted total strangers on the street and even struck up conversations with them; back when people treated each other like the brothers and sisters who we are to one another. I want to move there. It was so much fun. 

After Texas, we drove up to Oklahoma to visit with my uncle who is a contemplative monk. I am glad we were only there for 3 days because if we were there any longer I might not have been able to leave--it was that beautiful. Those monks really live the life. They are always either praying, working, or eating. It seems to me to be a become a saint free card. They all looked so happy and peaceful and as if they were in a different world. And they are totally separated from the insanity and chaos of this world. All they do is become closer and closer to God and more and more separated from this pitiful world. I am definitely open to it. 

After the visit with the monks, we drove home and arrived home yesterday, at around noon. 

Now, I am trying to get ready for my graduation in the form of trying to write a speech. I would tell you that its going spiffing well, but it isn't. Its going well, mind you, but not exactly, spiffing well. You see, the problem lies in finding that line between going "far" and, "too far." Two others are speaking and, by judgement of their characters, I rather think that they most probably will be giving pretty serious speeches. I then, for sake of not boring the audience with 3 speeches which are almost entirely the same, am trying to make my speech somewhat un-serious. You know, something along the lines of the comedic relief. The problem is that I don't want to go too far. For instance, I've come up with some lines that are gloriously hilarious, but that maybe wouldn't be well-received by absolutely everyone in the audience. Nothing bad, really. Just things which are not normally seen in a student address. I must say that me being at all concerned with going too far, is, in in of itself an accomplishment and not something to be taken for granted. 

Wish me luck and I promise to get Chapter 5 done sometime in the near future.

Gtg to mass.

TTFN,

-Thomas       

Four.

IV.

“Blast it all, Monty, this whole, 'write-a-book-to-keep-oneself out-of-trouble,' thing is failing miserably.” exclaimed a hunched-over young man of about twenty odd years, “I can't imagine what Professor Kraut was thinking when he told me to write a novel. I mean, just because English just so happens to be one of my majors, does not mean that I am destined to be a novelist. You know, come to think of it, the only reason I'm a double-major is for the bragging rights, and the only reason one of them happens to be English is because it was the first class to catch my eye after I signed up for Astrophysics. As for all this keeping me from getting into trouble, I'm getting so frustrated by the whole thing that I will very likely become insane before the weekend and then do nothing but get myself into trouble.” At this point our hunched-over young man takes a break from staring pathetically at his laptop screen and downs a small glass of something that looks very much like apple juice, but tastes altogether differently. After which he throws his head back and reclines.

“You'd think writing a novel would be a piece of cake, Monty, but this is not the case.” Our young man says ruefully, “I mean, sure, anyone can tell a story, but I feel that with this whole 'Liam' thing I'm pretty much just retelling my story, albeit with a little facelift. My parent weren’t all that nice, and although a plane crash is pretty tragic, its not quite the same as having them stabbed to death right in front of you. I felt like I had to add those details for dramatic effect. It's reminding me more and more of myself as I complete every paragraph—I went to go live with my aunt, this Liam person is living with his uncle. I keep trying to veer from my story, but it always comes comes back to, or reminds me of, me—Hmm maybe I am as egotistical as you all say I am. Well, its not really ego if it's justified—Ah, and all this is purely for the sake of having an original plot. I think maybe that the most original thing to do would just be to write it without a plot. But then what would be the point? I tell you Monty, all I want to do is blow this rubbish up. That's really what it is, Monty, rubbish!”

With this our subject slammed one of his desk-drawers shut and the figure who I think we are to assume to be Monty, betrayed himself by waking up with a snort and tossing his phone against the wall from whence it ricocheted into the rubbish bin. His build was that of a slim-ish teddy bear. I know those two attributes are not thought to normally be synonymic, but I can't think of a better way to describe him. He had the laughable look of bewilderment that one commonly finds on those who have been wakened under abnormal circumstances on his round, lovable face.

“Ohhhh, Colin,” Monty yawned, “what is it now? That 'story' of yours again?” He added with a chuckle.

“Ok, first off, its not a story, its a novel and I know you said that just to annoy me. Second, I'd like you to know you make for the most amazing moral support. This is the third time you've fallen asleep on me this week.” Colin replied while turning slowly toward his flatmate in his office chair.

“And this is the third time this week ended my evening nap prematurely.” Monty shot back with a wink.

“You know, why I still put up with you, I don't know.”

“Like I haven't heard that one before from you. You 'put up' with me for three reasons. I'm rich, I'm therapeutic, and I know just about every girl in the county. You wouldn't survive without me.”

“I know Monty. In all honesty, you are my sanity. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Its all right my man, everyone knows you're a bit high-strung. Its forgotten.”

“No, this time I'm going to make it up to you. I've just hit upon the most brilliant idea.”

A, “Oh, no, not again.” may or may not have escaped from Monty's lips at this point.

“And this time I promise we won't spend the next morning in front of the magistrate.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't counting on you botching the whole thing up. Besides, this time I've taken the possibility of your slipping up. There is no possible way it go wrong.”

“Thanks awfully for confidence, old boy. Now how about spilling this 'brilliant' idea of yours? What am I to do?”

“You?” said Colin as he leaned forward with a look of anticipative mystery on his face, “Practically nothing...which is yet another reason why it can't go wrong.”

“Thanks again.”

“You're welcome—you know Monty, I often wonder why you put up with me. I'm a perfect ass most of the time, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But really? Why ask me?” said Monty, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his pleasure, “You're supposed to be the brains of the establishment. You tell me.”

“Well, I guess its because if I didn't help with your studies you'd probably fail, which, in in of itself, wouldn't bother you, but your fire-breathing dad would almost certainly disinherit you and then none of the girls would go after you. Plus, you seem to revel in being verbally abused. There. Is that a fair assessment?” said Colin, with a half laughing, half guilty smile and another shot of whiskey. This time a self-congratulatory one.

Monty put on the most convincing critical face he could muster at the moment—which wasn't in the least convincing, by the bye—and rose from the throne of a recliner he had hitherto been occupying. He cleared his throat and said in an extremely judicious-sounding tone, "Upon weighing the evidence both for and against, I have solemnly rul--”

Unfortunately his ruling was cut sort because he and then Colin burst into laughter and by the time he had recovered, he seemed to have lost his train of thought for he sank back into his chair and started fumbling for his phone. “The rubbish basket, Monty, the rubbish basket again.”

“Again?” exclaimed Monty, “What are the odds.” After which he got up, retrieved his phone, sank back into hid throne, and said in a rather thoughtful tone, “You know, I don't understand at all why things just seem work out for certain people, you included. Nothing ever seems to go wrong for them, no matter how stupid the things they do are. Then there are people like me. The kind of people who always end up on the wrong end or with the short straw. It's just not fair.”

“Yes, perhaps you're right. Just remember two things to cheer you up: First, life is pain. Second, we 'lucky' people are generally extremely intelligent, or in other words, we make our luck, and there are many downsides that stem from being smart. For example, having to deal with stupid flatmates. I imagine its much more nice to be stupid.”

“You know, you really were right when you said that you are a perfect ass most of the time.”

“ Why, yes, of course. When am I wrong?”

At this point Colin turned back toward his literary undertaking, let out a bottomless sigh and began pecking away at his keyboard. There was a pause for about two minutes when at last Monty broke the chatter of the keys, “Alright, I'm giving in even though I know it's exactly what you want. What's the scoop.” The result was instant. Colin shut his laptop got up and put on his coat. “It has to do with time. Come on, I'll give the details in the cab.”

__________________________________________________________________

There it is. And I'm leaving for a road trip like, right now, so TTFN. (sorry if its typo-ridden, I don't have time to proofread)

Three. (A little late)

III.

Archibald Ellen, 2E 61^st St. New York City, NY was the address of my destination. Uncle Archibald. I had heard the name, but hadn't seen the man until the memorial service. He looked like an Archibald. He was 12 years my father's senior and although he shared with my father a slimness of figure, beyond that there was no resemblance. If I had to match his appearance to that of a bird, it would definitively have be a turkey vulture. And not only because he was bald and wore black turtlenecks. He had a loose head. That is, he could have fit at least two of his heads into the amount of skin that he had around his neck and scull. All this was further accented by his drooping nose and the horn-rimmed glasses he was always wearing.

I was sitting in the back seat of his Prius and we were just entering The City. As I peered out on the NYC afternoon, I saw for the first time the hustle and bustle that was to be home for me. Under normal circumstances I may have been somewhat shocked by the magnitude of it all, but I was quite used to abnormal circumstances by now, so this was pretty much a walk in the park, so to speak. We wove our way through the traffic in silence and--surprise, surprise--arrived at our destination in silence. He was, I think, preparing the speech I was to be the audience for upon our arrival at his flat. And what a destination it was! My parents had said he wrote books, but I hadn't thought doing that could have bought such a stupendous apartment. It was on the 17^th floor and overlooked Central Park.

The door latched behind us and I stood in awe as Uncle Archibald began his speech, “First off, I want to begin by saying that I am not a nice sort of person, Liam. I did not claim you from the court after all these months because I feel an emotional attachment to you, but rather because I felt a extremely inconvenient sense of Scottish duty toward my brother's son. You may be wondering why you hadn't met me before--erm--you know, and I can give you two reasons. First, I really am quite busy with my job and when I am working, I like to be alone. Second, your parents and I had conflicting views on certain things that made our relationship somewhat strained.”

At this point he paused, adjusted his glasses, twitched his nose, and continued. “ Now for a rule: you are not to disturb me between the hours of seven in the morning and six in the evening. This means no noise. Do you understand?” A hasty nod from me followed, in the hopes that it was over, but unfortunately my hopes were unfounded, as he went on, “Aside from that you can do whatever you want, as far as I'm concerned. I have also arranged the details of your education. I hear you have quite the little brain in there so I am prepared at all costs to cultivate it. The Spring semester starts next month and you will attend a highly touted private preparatory school which runs through high school. We will be going there for a placement test and a tour next week. Follow me and we'll get settled in your room.” He then turned to pick up my luggage and, as he was in the midst of lifting my suitcase, he paused and said, “Oh, and one more thing. You are not, under any circumstances, to call me, 'Uncle Archie', if you wish to remain living under the present conditions. My name is Archibald.” It did not seem that he expected and answer, so I made note of it and waited for him to show me to my room.

He led me out of the central living area and into a short hallway. Uncle Archibald's flat was decorated in a way I hadn't ever been familiarized with. There lots of lines, splotches, and irregular shapes in the enormous canvases that were placed on his walls. Some of them, at times, faintly resembled human shapes. That they could serve any purpose other than to confuse one's mind to me seemed impossible. My child's opinion of them held more truth than I realized at the time, as the opinions of one's younger years often do.

There were three doors in hallway, one on the left and two on the right. I often thought it would have made more sense to have one on either side and then one at the end, but I guess that would have been too symmetrical for my uncle. Instead of a door at the end there was a three dimensional painting which made the hallway look as if it continued on endlessly. As far as I'm concerned, the only good thing about that painting was that sometimes when Uncle was getting frustrated about this thing he called, “writer's block,” he would resort to Scotch Whiskey, get drunk, and almost invariably walk into the painting with a crash and a veritable torrent of words that I think it better not to repeat.

My room was more of the same. Complete randomness. Everything was made to look like it was upside down. The floor had lights in it and the ceiling was made of wood paneling. The only thing that looked normal was the bookshelf because you really can't go wrong with them. This may sound strange, but I became attached to that bookshelf. It was to me a beacon of normality; it was my Statue of Liberty, for within it's shelves it held the key to whole new worlds: worlds in which I could forget my world. Upon entering what was to be my room, I ran to the bookshelf and and placed Ferdinand and Winnie the Pooh next to the other books. My two books were dwarfed by the fifteen or so other books in the shelf in both size and width. Over the next few days, while I was waiting somewhat impatiently for the tour of my new school, I found that all the books were by written by the same author. Excited by this discovery, I asked Uncle Archibald about it towards the end of dinner. My not so confident, “Uncle Archibald?” broke a seemingly indomitable silence. An annoyed sigh escaped from his mouth and was followed by a disinterested, “What is it, Liam?”

“I've been looking at the books in my bookshelf and—and I was wondering why they are all written by the same person.”

“Hm, that's a good question. Well, its because they were all written by me.”

“Oh, so you pretend you're a different person when you are writing?”

“Yes, its called using a pen-name. I do it so people don't bother me.”

Now I knew why he was always writing—it seemed to me that if I were him I would want to pretend to be a different person, too. Thankfully, I had the sagacity to know to keep that thought to myself, so I merely said, “Oh, that sounds fun!” and ran off to my room.

The day of the visit finally arrived. It was a beautiful old school called, McGregorson Preparatory School. The campus building were all stone-cut per-Victorian style in architecture and everything was in order in a pristine and beautiful way. We met the Principal, Dr. Helm, a very proper looking lady, and, after making a tour of the campus, I took the placement test.

I placed in the fifth grade. Everything just seems to fall into place for me when it comes to learning and understanding. It seems that my mother's patient guidance in reading and elementary math payed itself off. I rather wish she could have been there to give me a proud hug and kiss. Instead, all I got was a stiff, “Well done,” from Uncle Archibald.

We returned to his flat in silence and made our way to our rooms in silence. Me to read and him to write. I found it hard to concentrate, though. For the first time in months I was excited about something. 

School. 

I couldn't wait to find out and experience what it held in store for me.

_______________________________________________________________________

....So yeah, sorry I didn't get it up last night...I've been really busy with training etc.

Till next time, 

-Thomas 

Chapter the Second.

II.

As if I needed anything else to cement into my mind the fact that I was the center of the universe; the eye of the crazy hurricane we call life—my mom told me not three weeks after our conversation that we were having a baby. Whether it was going to be a boy or a girl, we still did not know, but I was happy. I had gotten what I wanted and now I was sure that God and I were on good terms, even if I didn't understand what that meant.

The excitement and anticipation grew exponentially as Mommy's tummy did. By the time my 4^th birthday rolled around, it was so large that Kevin and I had started making snide remarks about it. She was one of the big mamas now. I even suggested going on walks in the evenings “So that you don't get too fat”, as I told my mom. In reality I wanted to go so I could try out the new bike I has gotten for my birthday, but I thought I was more likely get the desired response if I suggested it coupled with a motive for the party on whose consent the proposed outings hung. I'm sure she saw right through it, but we started going that very evening—that's the kind of parent she was; the best of the best.

Our evening excursions became the focal point of the day of me. Sadly, they were also to become a defining point of my life. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the happy walks. I would ride about ten feet ahead of my parents, always telling them to hurry up because I wanted to go “really fast.” They would walk side by side holding hands, and occasionally when I looked back I saw them with their hands on Mommy's stomach, smiling the most serene of smiles. We lived in a quiet neighborhood and the streets were lined with maple trees. It was all so beautiful.

Everything changed on August 2, 2007. You might even say that it was the beginning of a new life. That night I was dragged into a nightmare. Oh, the walk had started so wonderfully and yet—and yet it seems heartbreak and tragedy nearly always pay their respects when one is at the height of one's familiarity with happiness. We had just finished our dessert and were walking it off. The sun was just lowering itself behind the skyline and it filled the air with a cozy sort of light. But it was all in mockery. I remember the maple leaves rustling in the breeze. I thought it so wonderful, but no, they were whispering ominously of things to come. And come they did.

We were not ten minutes into our walk when it all happened. You might say it was bad luck, simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but luck is a myth; it simply does not exist. I remember a tall man in dark clothing with awful pictures on his sweatshirt walking towards me. The pictures on his clothing were nothing on comparison with the picture of his face, though, for it was animate. And yet at the same time not so. I see it in my dreams to this day: bobbing up and down with its wispy black hair contrasting an inhuman whiteness of complexion. It was like a confrontation with lifeless life for he was torn between those two extremes; he was in agony. His eyes were opened so wide that I thought they may pop out and his mouth was making formless but audible sounds. Even at my young age I could see that a storm was raging inside of him and that it was about to break.

My parents had taught me to smile and say, “Hello” to everyone we met on the street, just as they did, but I couldn't do it this time. I was far too scared. He passed. And I then heard a, “Good evening” from my parents. I can almost hear the smiles, too. Then came the outburst of rage in the form of a stomach-churning yell, and a scream. Mommy's scream. It seems so unfair that a woman of such love, grace, and beauty—that her last utterances came in the way of a scream, but life is not about fairness, as I have come to learn. I turned my head to look around. Everything was a mass of confusion. My mother was down on the sidewalk, apparently tackled by the dark man, simply for wishing him a good evening. He was over her, and his hand was wrapped around a small, dark object. My dad tried to intervene, he jumped between the victim and the assailant, trying to shield the victim and thwart the aggressor. The hand went down. The the hand went up. The hand repeated it's horrid actions for what seemed an age...down...up...down...up. One cannot blame the hand, it was simply doing its job; one cannot blame even the head inside that gruesome face for it was following its heart; a heart so warped by the world and humanity, one could hardly call it human anymore--the heart is a paradox, as is humanity. Once the hand had performed its commands, it returned the object to a pocket and the man ran off into the night, leaving all that was left of my family: three corpses.

I was in shock. As the realization of what had happened started to fill my mind, so did a dark and empty feeling surround my soul. Much like the pools of red darkness that surrounded the now lifeless shapes that, only moments ago, had been my family. You may have expected that I ran to them and buried my tears in their lifelessness, but I couldn't move; I couldn't cry. I was numbed. And, in a sense, left more lifeless than the remains of my family.

By the time my ability for perceiving reality slowly started to come back there was a crowd of shapes on the scene. Then sounds, then lights, then important looking shapes. They came to my family of corpses and I, and backed the rest of the shapes off. What happened before this I can recall only in a vague sense. I remember a car stopping, I remember another scream, eerily like that of my mother. I remember a phone call, and a well-intentioned woman trying to comfort me. That is all. The important looking people—who I, as my perception increased, recognized to be emergency personnel—asked me who I was, but I couldn't find words. They pointed at my mom and dad, “Are these your parents?” I nodded. They proceeded check me for injuries, wrap me in a strange blanket, and take me off to somewhere with a soft mattress, where I slept in a state of semi-consciousness for a long while.

I never saw even the bodies my family again. I was told later that the reason being that they were quite mangled. I will not go into details, both because it pains me and because I think your imagination is up to the task. Imagine as you will. I was also told the dark man was apprehended and convicted of three counts of first degree murder, assault, and possession of an illegal substance. He pleaded insanity and I hope with all my heart that he was. How a human being could do such a thing to a fellow human has been a cause of mystification for me. It is all just so backwards. And the man was barely a legal adult. In later years, I ascertained that he was an orphan who had been brought up by abusive foster parents. Once he was old enough to stand up for himself, at age fifteen, they booted him from their house and he was left to fend for himself.

The description, “Aged fifteen, male.” is not one that pops the words, “mature,” “independent,” or “responsible.” into most people’s minds. Rather, its much more likely that the opposite happens. Especially when the person being described has been forced to lead the gut-wrenching life my family's murderer did. He was in and out of correctional facilities until he was seventeen, at which point he joined a 'real' gang that kept him away from trouble with Cops, but got him into real trouble in the form of drugs, etc. Again, I will not go into details, but you can imagine as you wish.

I guess all this led him to be jealous of my parents serene happiness. In his torment he couldn't bear to see the peace and goodness conveyed by that simple kind gesture. It burst the storm inside him and he became the animal that mercilessly and mechanically carried out a truly monstrous deed. This all may make sense—even add up –to you on this page, but I saw it in action, and no words or thoughts will make sense of those actions for me. How? Just how can one get to that point? That point which is so incomprehensibly beneath the natural state of human nature; the state in which we are born.

And fate.

Fate left me an orphan, by the hands of an orphan who, as a result of being orphaned carried out the deed that left me an orphaned. Was I to share in the fate of that orphan? Was I to be abused and brought up under pitiful circumstances? Was I—could I possibly find myself, years later, burdened with the blood-weight of human life? That, only time told me, and that, only a smaller lapse of time and these literary formulations will tell you. 

Well this is awkward.

For some mysterious reason my computer isn't hooking up to the wifi here...so there are no guarantees for Chapter two tonight...it is ready, though, I just can't get it online. Sorry.

Things are going well here at camp-----and I'm exhausted, so ttfn.

Stay off the streets and outta trouble.


-Thomas

Train trip!

.....And the train has free wifi, so I thought I'd drop in. I've never really done this train thing before and so far I'm loving it. It's just seems so much more relaxed than a plane. Anyway, I'm currently speeding down the West Coast to San Diego for another training camp at the OTC. It should be good. The other cool thing about being on a train is that everyone stops for you. It makes one feel so important; all those cars lined up, powerless to do anything but wait while I pass, all whilst I smile and wave to them...ahhh! The power of it all!

Well, I would talk cleverly about stuff, but I have lines to get down and other things to write, so I'd better sign off.

Take care,

-Thomas

Chapter the first.

I

They always said I was born July 7^th, 2003 at 11 o'clock on a cold, dark night--as nights normally tend to be. I have no reason not to believe them, for it is evident that I was born at some point in time, and the point they give is just as likely to be correct one as any other. They also say that I was born in Wooster General Hospital and given the name Liam Ignacio Ellen. This I know for I can still remember patches of early years, which I will now try to recall for your edification.

My parents are immigrants, my father from Scotland; my mother from Portugal. Hence the strange name. We weren't exactly poor per se, but we certainly didn't have any extra money lying around in excess. My dad was a mechanic at the local car shop and my mom worked part-time as a housekeeper. We didn't have much, but I lived in a happy home, conveniently situated in neighborhood almost entirely populated by elderly couples who both gave me treats and were usually asleep before the sun. What is more, our home was filled with love, and that love brought along with it joy and peace. I still hold images of my parents putting me to bed. They would stand over me—they seemed quite enormous, but in that somehow not intimidating way parents seem to naturally be masters of— my mom with her large, doe-like brown eyes glimmering in the soft evening light, her brunette curls forming am exquisite frame for her kind, motherly face. Then there was Daddy. He would alternate his glances between Mommy and I. He was slim, and had a boyish sort of face; a face filled with love for his little family.

There was the swing outside under the oak tree. Ah, the countless hours we spent swinging underneath it's branches, and how I longed for the day when I would be old enough to lose myself among it's foliage. The summers were filled with lemonade and watermelon, the winters with stories. Ferdinand the Bull and Winnie the Pooh being the most revisited. If the entirety of life was like my early days, there would be no need for heaven...

Speaking of heaven, my family wasn't strictly religious. That is, we didn't go or belong to a particular church. My parents were good people, though, and they believed in God and in turn instilled that belief in me. Something that I did not comprehend or appreciate until recently.

The days happily piled one on top of the other until I was three and a half. By then I could read with affluence and had my multiplication and addition tables down. Pat. Everything came so easily to me—perhaps too easily. There was at least one thing, though, that my little head could not wrap itself around. Why were the kids my age so slow and unintelligent? I would ask and re-ask myself a form of this question whenever I was left without entertainment. I just couldn't get it. The result of all this was that I'd sit in corner, reading, while my peers would rumble around on the playground, fighting, eating bugs and dirt, etc. during the 'mommy meetings' or whatever those things that all the moms went to were called. I was, I'll admit, a prototypical social recluse.

But then Kevin came along and he changed everything. Oh gosh, the stuff that went down when we joined forces still manages to crack me up. I'm really not sure how our moms managed to retain their semblance of sanity. Kev was five and pretty smart for his age. He was small, though, so he fit right in with me. We fought an undeclared war on the rest of the playground crew, and our un-mated mates were no match for his age and my brains. The awful cruelty of children is only outmatched by their wonderful honesty. And my, we were both cruel to our “playmates” and honest about some of the more plump of the moms. The oddity of it all, though, is that our cruelty was more often left unpunished then our brutal honesty. How unjust life is. Even after all this, I still think that the honesty of a child is wonderful. It's much better than the deceit and reservation that confines our supposedly grownup world to it's never-ending boorish state. Anyway, there was one time when “the others,” as we called them, were roughhousing and eating away, when Kev and I found the sprinkler box. And it fortuitously was unlocked. All we had to do was turn the handle from the left to the right—just a few fateful inches to get back at those dirt-eating rapscallions for putting earwigs down our shirts the other day.

Needless to say, we turned it. The result was glorious. Pure chaos. I particularly remember watching with glee as an abnormally dimwitted chap tried to get out of one of the sprinkler's paths. The only problem—for him that is—happened to be that he was revolving in the same direction as the sprinkler. He came out of the ordeal slightly more drenched than the others. Ah, poor little man; we were shameless. Veritable devils. Unfortunately for us, the evidence against Kev and I was quite tangible this time around, in the form of a plethora of screaming, wet three year-old’s, and two little gremlins laughing beside the fateful sprinkler box. We got timeout. Quite a lot of it. But we afterwords agreed that the effect was worth the punishment.

Another and more important result of my interactions with Kev was the idea of having a sibling. He had two, an elder brother and a little sister. I naturally decided after a time that I wanted a little sister ad well. My heart was soon set upon the idea. I wanted a sister with all my heart.

So I asked my mom about it, “Mommy, I want you to get me a little sister like Kev.” Sadly, that was my way of 'asking' as I was somewhat spoiled and thought the world revolved around, well, me. My mom gave one of her knowing little chuckles that I remember so distinctly and replied, “You silly boy, you, I can't just go and get you a little sister like I go and buy your lunch, or pick one up at the drive-through.”

I was perplexed, so I asked, “Why not?”

“Because a little sibling would be a gift. You don't buy gifts, do you Liam?”

I replied in the negative, but I wanted to know who gave little siblings as gifts, so I could become friends with that person and then he'd give me one—or so I thought— I asked her, “Well, who gives them so I can become friends with him...?”

Another chuckle as she ruffled what little hair I had and then, “Come on silly, you're already friends with him.”

“What? No way. Don't tell me its Kevin.”

“Kevin! Spare us, no. God, my dear.”

God again. Although I felt an inexplicable attachment to this three letter word, that's what it was, a three letter word that Mom used to explain the inexplicable, if you can call what she did explaining. That's all it meant to me: an aura of undefined, vague goodness. And that was the thing I had to be friends with in order to get my little sister. I was at a loss as to how to foster that friendship, so I gave the all-knowing, “Ohhh, okay.” and continued, “Well, how can I be sure that we are really good friends and that he will give me my little sister?” I had dealt my mother four Aces and she played them well.

“I think the best way, Liam, for you to be sure that that you're God's close, close friend is by doing what he wants you to do and all you need to do is ask him every night for your little sister until you wake up one morning and she's there.”

“Okay, but what does he want me to do?”

“Oh yes, of course. Long story short, Liam, for now all he wants is for you to obey and listen to me.” And with a wink she added, “No more sprinklers.”

After weighing whether the price was worth the product, I nodded and blurted, “Alright, if its sure to get me a sister.” and started toward the door for the swing.

If only my young head had appreciated fully the weight of my mother's answer, “No, my love. Sorry, but nothing in life is for sure.”


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

.....So there it is. Sorry if the format was confusing...blogger is stupid and it disregarded all of my indentations etc...I am far to lazy to do it again when its already there on my word-processor. And after all, I am writing this for no other person than myself, so if any of you read/enjoy it, it'll just be a bonus. 

I know that probably sounded really self-centered, but it really makes any sort of potential pressure nonexistent, so that's my mindset. And, well, I'm a bit self-centered--but aren't we all?

I also have really good news to share about my triathlon stuffs. I heard yesterday that I have been selected to represent Team USA at the Pan-American Championships in June, which awesome because I really wasn't expecting that. And the training is going awesome. And SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE!!!!!Everything is awesome.


Till next week,


Peace. 


  

And so it begins.

Well, sort of. All I am going to give you for now is this lame intro/forward thing. I probably should have edited it, but I haven't yet, so you get the raw, uncut version. Enjoy and stay tuned for Chapter the first next week!

Here it is:

I have often wondered whether I would actually get around to doing this, and it seems I have. I still don't know why, exactly, I am giving an account of my life for all the world to know and to judge, but I guess that's just what people who have led extraordinary lives do, so I have decided to float with the current and here I am formulating a sequence of ordinary letters in order to inform you of an extraordinary sequence of events.

What you will gain, if anything from your delving into my story, I cannot say. That depends entirely on you, the reader. You may merely get a laugh, but I hope you delve more deeply than that because a life, if perceived in the correct manner, is a spring from which actions flow forth; actions—good and bad—that can guide and teach you; actions that can better the understanding you have of your life. Please learn then, if you can, from both my mistakes and my triumphs. At the same time, if all you get get out of reading this story is a laugh, that's something and that something has worth.

Now I will explain some things about how I am writing this chronicle. First, it will have three parts. Second, my life has been made upon thoughts that appeared random in the present, but actually turned out not to be. That's just how I work. The problem, for you that is, is that's also how I write; kind of in all directions. If I am writing and the subject on which I am articulating pops a thought into my head, well, I'll jot it down, perhaps even if its mid-sentence. I think that would be overly confusing for most normal people, so for the  sake of your emboldening I will put those not-so-random, random thoughts in bold. Like this. I'm not really sure if that whole emboldening thing worked. In fact it didn't, but it amused me, so it doesn't matter. Shut up please. It was funny...And so on and so forth. Its like having parentheses but not. That's not too hard for you ordinaries, is it? While we're on the subject of ordinaries, I tertiarily want to have a word or two about words. I like words, especially big ones. I think of myself as quite loquacious. Scratch that. I am the epitome of loquaciousness. That being said, I am going to employ restraint and use colloquial expressions so that my story is comprehensible to the masses, both because I think most everyone can benefit from reading it and because I loath those who pompously use impressive words just to look intelligent. Then again, it is most amusing when those pompatic individuals misuse their 'impressive' vocabulary. Is it not true to say that everything finite has a flip side? Plus, it is much more fun to make up one's own words. In fact, I have done so twice in this paragraph alone.

Enough with the explanations. Let us move on. To tell you the truth, I don't get the whole autobiography thing because it is imperfect; it is without an end. Perfection is, as far as I'm concerned, the only state worth working for, so I am going against my normal code in writing this story. Or rather, part of a story. I have problem. How shall I end it if it does not end at the end? Am I to say, “I shall live happily ever after.” in a reassuring manner? That's the way the majority of stories end anyway. The only problem with that is, well, I don't know if I will indeed live happily ever after or not. Anything can happen. Hope, then, is the only viable option: hope that I find a way to end-but-not-end my story without awkwardness; hope that I do live happily ever after. Will you hope with me?

-L.E.

Aug. 9^th, 2054

Happy Easter!!!!!!!

Unfortunately for me, its not feeling happy right now.
I feel incredibly sick. My stomach is in shock.
It feels like a bloated pregnant cow,
Please, just take me to the block,
I wanna die,
So I can fly,
Into the sky,
Watch;
 See me try.

...And blah blah blah.


...Am I not a poetic genius?

I crack myself up sometimes; but usually not.

--Oh, I forgot to tell you why my tums is aching. Well, I found out that after not eating since Thurs., eating a SlimJim, candy, a doughnut, part of another doughnut, part of an apple fritter, an apple, some ham, some strawberries, and two bagels, with an occasional deluge of milk thrown in, is not the way to get your stomach reacquainted with the concept of food.

I'm gonna blow guys.

And I don't recommend being in the same county when I do. Its very probably going to be quite messy.

Anyway, I'm gonna go catch some sleep before my sister comes to pick me up for a party. Hopefully that will better my condition. Somewhat.

In other news, my story is coming along and it will be debuting on Wednesday, so stay tuned. Also, today I was crawled upon by an artificially albinofied black widow. On my foot. It was scary. True story.

Till next time,

HAPPY EASTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(again)
 
-Thomas

Is it really Wednesday?

I was trying to decide whether or not I'd post today, as its only been two days or something since I last was one here, but then my play practice got cancelled and that conveniently decided things for me. So here I am. Yayyyyyyyyy...I guess. Anyway, as you have hopefully by now deduced, this is not a "real" post. At all.

In fact, all I'm here to say is that I really don't have a post for you.

But I have been thinking. Quite a lot. And my thoughts will, if everything turns out, turn into a great many sequential posts. I've had this sort of idea for quite sometime and...

Okay, I might as well get to the point for the dimmer of you. I'm going to tell you a story. If you want to know whether it will be excellent or not, sorry, I really don't know. Also, please get this straight. I'm not writing a book. I'm telling a story, that may seem like a book, because I want to and I think it will be fun. The only reason that I'm sharing it with you is because...well, I guess there two reasons...one, I don't want to just quit this blog, and two, I want to finish at least a third of it.

So.

I will be back next week with the forward. With luck....please wish me it.

But to remind you: it is a simple story, nothing big; just fun. If you end up liking it, good; if you don't, then you can move on and hold your peace.

Don't expect much.

-Thomas

Announcements!!!

Life is going well, but that's not really what I'm posting about. Before I get to what I'm really posting about, though, I'll give you a little update. The weekend was crazy. And fun. There was a dance. It was amazing.

...There's the update. It funnels nicely with the 'announcement' I'm making. You see, I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately; more particularly the lameness of this blog. Most of what I talk about is about stuff I do. And my audience either was with me and therefore has no reason to hear me talk about it, or was not with me and either has no interest or feels excluded.

Take the dance. I could have gone on and on about how awesome it was and gone in-depth into the amazing moments and the mortifying ones. But I can't do justice to it for those of you who weren't there and why the heck would you want to hear me talking about it if you were there? So I'm not going to talk about it. Pretty much all I've done is blather on about my little, insignificant life and although its nice to know that so many read it anyway, I feel like I'm wasting your time.

All this, coupled with the fact that I really need to up my concentration on certain aspects of my 'real' life; namely, school and training, I think I'm going to cut back on this thing. A lot.

So here's the idea for going forward: I will be posting once a week, either on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, (please don't kill me if I don't get one up occasionally) and the posts will be more creative and hopefully much more worthwhile. Every once in a time, if something really big happens in my life, like winning the World Championships or getting married, I'll let you know. Promise.

Thanks so much and TTFN,

-Thomas  

Kind of potentially bad news. :(

I have some bad news that I've put off talking about for a couple of weeks, but both because I should probably tell you and because I can't think of anything else to write about at the present moment, I think I'm finally going to break the news.

It has to do with my triathlon stuff. You see, the international governing board of triathlon, (ITU) has radically changed the classification and selection criteria for para-triathletes in order to make everything more competitive. And I'm all for that because last year at World's there were people who didn't belong. Its just unfortunate that it all had to happen the year following the disaster last season was for me because my results are just on the cusp of being good enough to get selected, so if I had had a healthy season I would be a lock to get in.

As a result of this things are kind of up in the air right now. For everyone. People don't even know what category they are going to be in. Anyway. In order to get into World's this year, you need to have a certain amount of international points, which you get by competing in international races. The international races, though, have a 60 athlete limit. That's an average of 6 athletes per class, per gender. I know, crazy, right? In order to get into the international races, your national governing body participates in this "draft" with the other national governing bodies, each taking turns selecting their top athletes for the start list. They have to do this because no one has points right. Its just a mess right now and as I was only the second fastest U.S. athlete last year, I probably won't make the start list for the international races and so will have no way to qualify for World's. Its not an impossibility, but I wouldn't bet on it.

Anyway. All this is kind of a bummer. I'm training harder and smarter than I ever, though, and the plan is to do some local races and then blow the field away at Nationals (which are in Sept., after World's for some reason) and be like, Hah! Joke's on you! You should have picked me, but you didn't. Too late now. Heheehehe.

The thing is that although its a bummer, just as very few things in this world are perfect, so too, very few things are bad to the core. I was going to miss weddings due to my races and its also my last summer before college, so it'll be really nice having it more relaxed. And I'll be able to spend way more time with my friends, who are the best, so how can I complain?

Well, that's it. I have to go read my philosophy now.

TTFN.

-Thomas