These days, Islam is lambasted by those of us who are still wiling to take on the risk of being beheaded, or starting mass riots in foreign lands, and rightly so. The genital mutilation of children, the horrid oppression of women, the herding of men like cattle into stupid and unwise relationships, not to mention the shooting of young girls with machineguns and the creators of havoc across the Middle East, are all crimes that we can "thank" that philosophy for.

Still, I must tip my hat to American Muslims, who are by and large remarkably moderate and quick to condemn and distance themselves from extremist mosques and groups. They are in fact our greatest eyes on the ground to detect and deal with would-be terrorists.

I fear that I cannot say the same for Catholics.

Despite the thousands of boys and girls who have been raped--not abused, mind you, raped--there are millions and millinos of people in this country who continue to monetarily and support this extremist group. It boggles the mind. I cannot think of any other group with views so anachronistic, which has done nothing meaningful to take responsibility over these horrendous abuses, and yet we are still supposed to respect it.

I say, the Hell with that. I honestly think that members of the Catholic church should feel ashamed of themselves if they are not taking all reasonable means to condemn and deal with this pattern of rape andabuse.

If we call upon Muslims to condemn terrorists, why don't we call upon Catholics to condemn the rapists of children?

In the name of the Devil,

Recent months have seen many changes in my life. After wearing through my last nerve and burning my last bridge in the northeastern part of the US, I have moved to Florida, where I am already spreading my campaign of hate and fear far and wide. My professional career is already unparalleled, and my writing career is taking off as well.

And yet, through these earth shaking times, I have not neglected my personal life. See this link: http://i.imgur.com/W3J8lEa.png

That is a comprehensive photo of every friend I have made since I moved, and every friend I have kept since fucking my life in the northeast.

I don't know where I am going and I don't know how I will get there. In fact, if you ever want to put a face to the directionless nihilistic youth, think of my face.

I have no more comments. Fuck the world, fuck hope, fuck life! Argh!

смертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмертьсмерть

I'm not a furry insofar that I don't find furries particularly attractive, and I don't feel a very strong connection with animals. There are some exceptions, of course, and I do sometimes enjoy stepping into the shoes of an anthropomorphic tiger that's even taller, more muscular, and better looking than I am, but for the most part, I feel comfortable with failing to identify as a furry.

On the other hand, I have greatly enjoyed RPing on SF, and before than, YS (ahh, those were the days) over the past few years. Frankly, at this point, RPing is part of my life, to a degree, and when I've been in really good RPs, it's been something that I've found myself looking forward to doing when I get home at night, or when I have some free time, or what have you.

But in the past few months (really, ever since YS became SF) good RPs have been harder and harder to come by. I managed to find a few a couple months ago, but for various reasons, the other players have just not been able to post. Right now, I'm only in one active RP on F-List, and that only gets posted in every couple of days, at best.

I've made a lot of memories, and had a lot of great ideas due to RPing. I've even made some, dare I dream it, friends RPing, and I'm definitely glad that it became such an important hobby of mine during the last few years. But now that it's dying down and no matter how hard I try to revive it, I'm finding myself wondering if it's time to move on.

I still write, I suppose, and plan to finish a fanfic later this summer. After that, I have dozens and dozens of story ideas to do, but it looks like that allure of interacting with another creative individual is going to be something that's in the past for me. And that does make me a bit sad.

I'm still going to check out SF from time to time, in case my RP partners come back, but there's really no point in the My Threads page open and reloading it every so often. I definitely think it's time to start to write my own stories, unless I somehow manage to find a group of individuals whose creative desires align with mine once again. Overall, though, I think this journal definitely is going to mark the end of an era, but I'm not too sorry about that, because another era is beginning. I've already published one novel; I've got another short story that I hope to be published by the end of the summer, and soon, I'll begin work on an epic novel that will hopefully be published through a mainstream group. Then, I'll get to work on the dozens and dozens of other ideas I've had in mind for far too long, and as I do, I'm sure I'll find myself with more ideas, more possibilities, and, as my writing skills improve, more opportunities to publish.

Ah, spelunking, one of my favorite words. It ranks right up there with "mosey" and "boobs" as words that are incredibly fun to say, even ignoring what they mean.

But this journal isn't just about the word spelunking, it's about the act, because yesterday, I went on a lovely spelunk.

It all started when I was going for my four o'clock constitutional. I was going to bring my bolt cutter, but for reasons that I can no longer recall, I've framed it and kept it in my hunting lodge. It's presently residing between a Tasmanian tiger head and a rather large, dark, sausage-like artifact that I cannot identify.

So, instead, I brought a pair of kitchen shears. Can't be too careful in this day and age, can we?

As I moseyed along my street, I realized that one of the storm drains in particular was opened just enough for a slender guy like me to enter. So, when I saw something shiny down there, I dived on in.

Alas, whatever artifact caught my eye vanished into the darkness. But, I'm a proud descendant of the Aryan warriors who brought Asia to her knees, and for some reason, this revelation spurred me to continue into the sewer. I was appalled by the presence of rats, but it was a sewer, so I wasn't disappointed overmuch.

After scurrying around for some time, I found an exit to the outside world. There was a great deal of noise from the surface, but I largely ignored it as I climbed up the ladder and lifted the manhole cover to get out. I'd had enough time down there and was just about to take my leave when I realized what was going on.

It was a parade, of some sort, with legions of soldiers carrying Kalashnikovs and RPGs. There was also a motorcade, but the most immediate of my worries was the herd of horses coming my way.

Still, I'm a patriot, and as a good patriot, I saluted them and held absolutely still, until one of the equine bastards stamped on my head and kept walking.

This angered me greatly.

I'm not quite sure what happened next, but there was a great deal of chaos as I slipped back into the whole whence I came. My shears were bloodied and the jar of formaldehyde I'd brought along had some sort of huge black something in it. These affects I kept with me as I dashed back through the sewers, dying of laughter the whole way.

The story of my spelunk concludes as I decided that whatever the black sausage I was carrying with me would make a much better meal than the pork and beef bratwurst I had intended to eat that night, my Krishna and Allah forgive me.

The formaldehyde was a bit weird, I'll admit it, but it beat the Hell out of ketchup as far as I'm concerned.

In blatant violation of UCMJ, I didn't shave over the past weekend, and the result was that by the time Sunday rolled around, I looked like a better-looking cross between Abdul Rasul Sayyaf and Osama with somewhat more defined arms and abs. To be precise, I did shave, just not my face. If my carpets were to match my drapes, horizontally recreating with the ladies would be a rather hairy affair.

I went over to a friend's ranch to ride some horses, and for some time, it was sort of fun, although I'm generally not a fan of large, smelly animals. As we galloped up and down the mountains of upstate NY like Uzbek warriors of old, he mentioned to me that his studs have been reacting very badly every time someone comes to use snips on his rose garden, or trim his hedges with shears.

Who knows what the Hell is up with that.

We retired for lunch around midday, and since my buddy's a Kraut, we had a few nice big bratwurts. He wanted to tell me that these in particular had beef and pork, but to avoid having to apologize to both Allah and Krishna, I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang loudly until he shut up.

Anyway, it was all going well until I began to eat my brat. I moved my beard out of the way to do so, and when I took my knife to the big, thick, dark sausage, my horsy reared up and tried to run away. When it neighed in horror like that and its eyes grew as wide as plates, it looked... strangely familiar for some reason, though I don't know why. Deja vu, maybe.

So I continued to eat my sausage while my steed carried on. I eventually grew irritated with him and moved to give him a little alteration, when I realized that someone had beaten me to the punch. I was caught by my friend in the odd position of being beneath a horse with a knife in my hand, but I pretended to shave the lad and just looked at my buddy, and said, "What, dost thou think me a savage?"

After all, what kind of an insane sociopath would castrate a poor, innocent horsy?

I have, in the past few months, found myself in the pursuit of yet another degree. I'm not quite sure why I'm getting it, other than it's free and it's something to do to take my mind off of things, so there's that.

In any case, this evening, I was in the unpleasant position of having to write a paper on some long-dead philosopher with ideas that I found rather pandering and pathetic. Mentally, I have little reaction to them other than "bull-fucking-shit" but I believe that if I were to submit this phrase as my assignment, it might reflect negatively upon my grade for the course.

So I have started to elaborate on why the philosopher's incoherent rhapsodies are bull-fucking-shit. It's my belief that anyone with half a brain, who hasn't had the grave misfortune of being raised in an overtly religious environment, could eviscerate his points within a few paragraphs, but I've found myself having to drone on and on, obfuscating points with minor tangents, examples, lengthy diatribes about explanations and definitions which could be accomplished in just a few words, and similar such wastes of time.

The most depressing thing about this sort of nonsense is that the professors eat it up, or else, when they give you a bad grade, you can point out that your logic was infallible and any excessively low grades are unwarranted, the result of personal bias, and ought to be raised by a few points.

I leave this to close out this journal: http://donstuff.files.wordpress.com.....ay-writing.gif

So I recently saw a Facebook event in my area about some sort of "Mottz" competition. Naturally, I believed that people were showing off mangy dogs or something, but I then became aware that it was actually a competition for cheese. See, "Mottz" is apparently short for mozzarella, and I don't mean the group responsible for maintaining Firefox.

Apparently, some people will spend hours of time and over ten dollars a pound on mozzarella. I'm not sure why, given that the stuff you can buy in the grocery store is a few bucks a pound and pretty good, but hey, maybe they're richer than they look. I ain't gonna judge.

Mozzarella has, in fact, become one of my favorite cheese. It goes great with chicken, which is the only meat I regularly eat, and the one complaint I have about it is that it doesn't stay nice and gooey for very long out of the microwave. Still, it's great to roast a chicken breast, throw some "mottz" on it as it gets finished, then pull it out, spice it up with some Texas Pete's or Frank's Red Hot, and eat it, even as you try very hard not to remember that it's basically a disproportionally large avian boob.

So after completing my motorcycle class today, an utterly enjoyable experience of fucking up on a rather weak bike in 95 degree weather, I arrived home and had a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. This is probably my favorite candy by far, and I'm not really sure why. I think it's just because chocolate and peanut butter go together so well.

In any case, since many of my classmates were half-bald schmucks suffering from midlife crises and trying to reclaim some of the youthful vigor that I so entirely embody, they jumped at the opportunity to insult my generation by complaining about our habits of texting while driving, and other such things that old farts like to project onto us. Myself, I am not convinced that younger people text/talk while driving more than older people, but in the back of my mind, I was always thinking, "Well, at least we're less homophobic and racist than you bigots."

I spend a lot of time cruelly mocking and criticizing, well, everyone, but the fact is that I'm very proud of my generation for utterly changing the way homosexuality is treated in this country. Twenty years ago it was taboo, ten years ago gay marriage was taboo, and now, if you oppose gay marriage, you're either an asshole or a social conservative, and even the most conservative of conservatives takes steps to differentiate his own traditionalist views from plain bigotry.

This is not because forty plus people have suddenly had an en masse change of heart, it's because younger people have rejected the pathetic, backwards, stupid, and absurd things that their parents and elders have taught them in favor of a more reasonable and open worldview. True, young people today make mistakes (and, I am told, this is sometimes what young people are known for) but at least we're less violent, racist, homophobic, drunk, and stupid.

For this, I salute my fellow not-yet-bald-and-wrinkly peers.

Hails!
Hails!
Hails!

One of my favorite shirts to wear is a Burzum tee shirt with the Algiz rune directly underneath it. While I don't really enjoy that white supremacists and such people have hijacked runic symbols for their own means, I can certainly see why they have in this case, and that's because life is a really powerful, wonderful symbol.

I'd contrast the Algiz rune with the crucifix: the former is a symbol of life, and the latter is a symbol of tortuous death. Now, this journal isn't intended to be an attack against Christianity, simply because I'd like to fry that fish some other time, but I think it's really great that even today, even in this world, there are a few things out there that we can use to symbolize our unyielding desire to seize life and extract every last pleasure we can out of it.

Life is one of the very few things that unquestionably gives us all a sense of power, and wonder. I'm not really sure how to describe it, but I'd like to discuss something I experienced some months ago in Central America. I was on a beautiful beach just before sunset and myself and my colleagues had decided to go swimming. We left our stuff with this older American (well, I say American, but I mean white American) couple who we had met at our hotel some times before.

I noticed that the husband was reading Three Cups of Tea, and although I am not intimately familiar with the book itself, I had seen an interview with the author, and as you all know, I fancy myself as a bit of a south/central Asia enthusiast. So, me and this older guy shared a nice conversation about the future of the region and what it means for the US going into the future, before I joined my colleagues in the crystal clear, pleasantly warm waters of the Pacific Ocean, as the tangerine-colored Sun set in the distance behind us.

Afterwards, we dried ourselves off, nastily put clothes on over our bathing suits, and went to eat absolutely delicious meat and vegetables cooked over an open fire. Our tables were made of wood slabs and we kicked it with some other expats/tourists. Since this wasn't the US, there were a couple friendly dogs wandering around and hanging out at our feet, and in the darkness, we same a small group of horses waltz along on the beach, after having been let out for a while by their owners.

It was then that I felt like the biggest one percenter of my life, but that's besides the point.

This feeling of prosperity, beauty, achievement, friendship, internal strength, pride, and glory, is the greatest form of life as far as I am concerned, and a lot of who I am and what I do is based on attempts to seize that feeling and to raise it to even higher extremes.

This is why I wear the Algiz, and this is why, no matter how bad things get, I will never stop.

Hail Victory
Hail Freedom
Hail Satan

So I was going over my finances and looking at future job prospects and all that good stuff that most people seem to be unable to do, and I realized that I'm living so absurdly under my means that it's funny. I suspect that I think of the numbers in my bank account the same way one thinks of points in a video game, in that they're supposed to be earned so that they grow, and grow, and grow.

But what's the point, though? And where does it end?

In a few years, I should be able to get a 1%er job, and with my spending and investing strategies, I'll have so much money left over after expenses that I'll have to ask myself what the purpose is, sooner or later. What then? Will I retire, or travel the world? Or become a philanthropist or something?

I'm still not sure about any of them, but I think that my goal is to have enough money to live off of investment returns by the time I'm thirty. After that, I'd like to dramatically build my real estate portfolio, and perhaps start a few side jobs/part time businesses just to broaden my horizons.

I wonder where it will end, though. I hope to not be a rich, broke guy, but I also don't want to be a lentil-eating, wifi-stealing, thirty five year old retiree, too.

I recently became aware that Mark Sanford is now back in politics and is, in fact, a South Carolina Congressman elect.

This is despite that he "hiked the Appalachian" and is now wearing his mistress proudly on his arm wherever he goes.

The son-of-a-gun naturally tries to avoid questioning about why voters should trust him, given that his own children are probably correctly disgusted and appalled by him. Myself, I found a few statements he made during the whole Monica Lewinski scandal to be entirely refreshing and correct; why on Earth should I trust a guy not to betray my interests, or the country, if he's willing to betray his spouse?

The Hell with Mark Sanford and anyone who voted for him with the knowledge of his actions.

So I was introduced to the idea of breeding sluts as a sexual kink recently, and while I'm not prepared to discuss my personal interest in the setup (unless you're ovulating--in that case, feel free to note me) it occurred to me that breeding sluts may actually exist in real life.

Enter surrogate mothers, stage left.

I of course mean no offense to the women who undertake this difficult and demanding position for the sake of couples and individuals who otherwise wouldn't have kids, but at the end of the day, is there really that big of a difference between a breeding slut and a surrogate mother? True, in fiction, breeding sluts tend to be slaves who are a lot hotter than 95% of women could ever hope to be, but the purpose is pretty much the same, isn't it?

Just some food for thought. By the way, on a completely and entirely unrelated note, I wish the mothers of FA a happy Mother's Day.

Toodles for now.

Considering the majority of my academic background and the career I have selected for myself, it's rather strange that I enjoy writing, though I've not done it very much for about a year now for a whole host of reasons, only one of which is that this month marks the one year anniversary of the completion of a piece that was so painful and difficult to write that it really shocked me out of writing seriously until now. I've continued a few fanfictions and now that I have some more time, I'm thinking of getting back into them and wrapping them up this summer, but we shall see.

In contrast with engineering and other fields of study and employment that are directly related to the hard sciences, writing and other forms of art are so bloody inexact that it's often annoying. I rarely known if I'm writing well or even decently, and when I'm RPing, I'm sure it's fun and all that, but I don't think it's really good practice for proper storytelling. It is, at most, practice at introducing characters, plots, and conflicts, but that's only part of writing. Real writing involves the careful use of language to deliver interesting characters, plots, and conflicts in the manner of your choosing, and it's damned difficult to do.

I guess you could say that I'm a masochist for being so interested in such a difficult profession and such a difficult, albeit in a different way, hobby. Now that I really think of it, there are not so many things that I enjoy that are really "easy" except for watching some anime from time to time.

In any case, since the reception of my recent Calvin and Hobbes darkfic was so good, I'm thinking of writing another, different one. I can't remember how I got the idea for it, but there was definitely a muse, and there definitely continues to be a muse for it.

Frankly, I'm really not sure why my work is so bleak and depressing, but if one were to get one's news from TV and movies, one would be under the impression that the world is bad and getting worse. I guess you could say that the zeitgeist of our time is increasing peace, prosperity, freedom, and equality, but the impression that all of these things are not happening and indeed are being reversed.

But that's another journal.

After a glorious evening course, I found myself talking to this Latino guy I've been distantly acquainted with for a while. We got to discussing what we do, so I told him what I do, and then he told me what he did. The guy had a rather thick accent, so when he said that he did stuff with Snapple, I assumed that he sold juice drinks at a busy intersection or something. After all, he was Latino, right?

Turns out the son-of-a-gun's a chemical engineer who does QC and stuff like that for some sort of firm in Brooklyn. By contrast, my own phenomenal occupation seems almost mediocre.

So I went home feeling like a piece of shit racist. I hung out on my couch masturbating Cheetos and eating my dick for a while, when I got to playing with a wonderful pair of long-handled bolt cutters I have. They're really finely tuned and when you use them, the blades make this sweet "schllllick" sound as they close.

It was then that I decided to go for a late-night stroll to a nearby ranch. For some reason, I took the bolt cutters with me, and I am glad that I did so, because it wasn't long before I had a wonderful idea.

I hopped the fence into the ranch and snuck along, all quiet-like, like a fish, and got up next to this big ol' stallion that a lot of you nasty fuckers on this site would probably enjoy jacking off.

Well, I did start to jack it off. I made it expose that huge black sausage of its, and then I stood up next to it, took my bolt cutters out of my pocket, and castrated the damn thing. The sound effect was wonderful, because it was like "schllllick"--pause--"schlop" wherein "schlop" indicates that XXL hot dog falling to the ground with a nasty splat.

I didn't get a good look, but imagine that you were getting jacked off and then someone castrated you. I'm pretty sure the stallion's eyes got to be about the size of dinner plates, As you might guess, I ditched the bolt cutter and ran the fuck away, cackling like a madman. I bet the rancher had a fun night, waking up to the mirth-filled cries of a nut legging it across his field, only to find a horse dick and a bolt cutter in his wake.

I sort of want to start an RP with some stallion motherfucker and pretend to be gay and start to jack him off, and then link him to this story, and then keep playing, just to see what happens.

I don't think that hypocrite's quite the right word for it, but earlier this evening I recalled the scene in Return of the Jedi when Yoda was speaking to Luke about what it means to be a Jedi.

In particular, he said: "Adventure. Heh. Excitement. Heh. A Jedi craves not these things."

To be sure, there's nothing particularly glamorous or exciting about living as a ascetic in exile on a miserable swamp world, but it's bloody well easy, isn't it, to talk about how meaningless adventure and excitement are when you get to travel the galaxy on the taxpayer's dime, waving around laser swords, using mind-powers the rest of us live without, all the while dishing out justice and judgement vigilante-style.

I am reminded of occasions when I'm told by people who are richer than I am, from richer families and societies than mine are, how little money means in the grand scheme of things.

I'd take Yoda and his defeated cult more seriously if they actually practiced as they preached and did the real difficult work with respect to justice and fairness: poring through law books, cross-examining witnesses, exploring issues from all perspectives, and using the sword of justice and rule of law instead of hacking peoples' limbs off or using telekinesis to subdue them. It's utterly pathetic to put yourself out there as a monk when you have a massive, luxurious temple on the capital planet of the galaxy and all of your needs are taken care of, 100%, until you die.

Maybe Palpatine was right and the Jedi are not immune from egoism.

Or maybe I should just go to sleep now before this journal gets even more bizarre.

I've just finished writing a really dark and sad Calvin and Hobbes fanfic I've been thinking about for a while. It sort of took on a life of its own toward the end, which was supposed to be somewhat hopeful and beautiful, but ended up just being really painful and sad.

Writing this piece was really weird for me, because I had to summarize a lot in a little time. I mostly focused on thematic elements and internal thoughts rather than plot development and description. Calvin's really the only main character in it, but he's so different from the happy kid in the comics, and the world is so different from the world in the comics that it was really hard for me to think about things from his perspective.

I'll probably upload it tonight to my alternate fanfiction.net profile, just to see what's up. If you want to give it a read, note me and I will link you.

So a few mice have managed to find their way into my apartment recently. We caught one like this:

http://journal.chrisglass.com/2005/....._catch_a_.html

And later, we caught another one with a glue trap. The first one was simply dispatched by being tied into the trashbag and thrown away, but the one caught in a glue trap was triple-bagged and then drowned in bleach.

It was fucking nasty, because first it struggled, then it drowned, then it died, and then it started to turn white and dissolve.

I guess I don't have the serial killer gene after all, because I found it an altogether unpleasant, albeit funny, experience. For this reason, the final mouse will be humanely killed by being set on fire.

A few days ago, my first published work was released.

I have since been pretty busy with RL stuff, so I haven't had much time to promote it, but I'll tell you what--comment here, or PM me, and I will tell you how to get a copy of my book. It's available in PDF, HTML, and there's also a printed version.

It's a post-apo story, and while it's not exactly brutal compared to the stuff I have done, it is kind of dark and violent. Still, it's a very satisfying and exciting story, and there's an excerpt posted online that I'll forward you at will.

If you ask me really nicely, I might even send you an autographed copy. I'm sure it'll have great retail value, once I become the next JK Rowling. I'll try to get back to any requests or comments soon, but Far Cry 3 is coming out soon, and it'll be the first video game I'm going to really play in months... if I like it, great, if not, well, then, I know that I have finally grown up.

X

I was recently witness to a discussion in which a somewhat conservative-minded fellow explained to a more liberally-minded fellow his feelings on abortion, and how it's wrong, given that despite an embryo/fetus is not necessarily a human life yet, the fact that it may become one makes it morally relevant.

I personally don't agree with this line of argument.

Regardless, the liberally-minded fellow responded that despite this, no one has the right to tell a woman what to do with her own body and the contents of it. Certainly, no one has the right to force a woman through nine months of hardship and pain, even if the alternative means that there may be one excess life lost.

This line of argument I found extremely convincing.

What boggled my mind about this argument is that if it was applied in any other circumstance, those on the left would decry it as heartless, cold, and ethically untenable.

If no one has the right to force a woman to sustain a pregnancy through to the end, then why on Earth does the government have the right to force you to work for it for months out of the year, every year? If the fact that an excess life may be lost as a result of this non-aggression is simply inevitable with respect to abortion, then why is the fact that some people might die if there exists no nationalized healthcare scheme regarded as something different?

In the name of the Devil, right wingers piss me off in many ways with their religiosity and their drug war mongering, but left wingers are just bad--if not worse--in many of the same ways.

I've heard this question asked before, rhetorically, in a left-wing attempt to convince people to not cut "welfare" programs and instead focus on military cuts and things of that nature.

Now, to be sure, I completely support cutting defense spending by bringing the troops home from the 100+ countries they're in, rapidly ending the war in Afghanistan, and instead look at how to fight terrorism--if necessary--with a light footprint.

Apart from that, though, cutting defense just ain't enough. Big chunks of the Federal budget these days are entitlements, and I suppose I'm supposed to not dare to support touching those because Jesus wouldn't.

Ignoring the obvious counter that these so-called "welfare" programs are extremely inefficient, ineffective, and wasteful--who gives a damn what Jesus would cut? We're supposed to have a secular state, aren't we? Or is the whole separation between church and state something that only applies when right-wingers want to let kids pray in school or what have you?

Further still, when you get right down to it, Jesus was not the genius he seems to be regarded as today. Sure, he was a great force in civilizing humanities (and still is in many ways), but he never had the responsibility of being a politician. And, at the end of the day, many of his ideas--with regards to collectivism, community, and altruism--are simply wrong as far as I'm concerned.

When my left-leaning friends point out that Americans, by and large, are not exactly qualified to make important political decisions, they tend to do so in order to oppose right wing politics.

The fact is, however, that the base of the Democratic Party is probably as embarrassingly dumb as its opposition.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOZ-Etb0k0Q

I urge those of you on the left to take a long, hard look in the mirror before insulting your political opposition.

A lot's been up. I'm focusing on practicing writing with fanfiction these days, but I'm also working on editing a story I wrote some time ago for submission to some sort of publisher.

That's another thing--I am in fact getting a book published. It was accepted about a month ago and will come out in both print and ebook format in November/December of this year. It's a "furry" book, about 100k words long, in the post-apo genre.

I'm also working on gathering some poems together to maybe send them to some magazines or publish them in an anthology.

Now that I think of it, I guess I have been pretty productive in the past few months (that's what she said, hur hur hur).

I even have a website these days, although it's still under construction--and before you ask, yes, the guy who administrates it is an Indian IT guy.

Contact me for a link, and if I'm in a good mood, I might send you one.

It was successful.

In case you haven't noticed, we're on the razor's edge of war, in some form, with Iran. If Romney wins, I suspect conflict will be more open, but make no mistake--President Obama's "subtle" methods of cyber warfare, spying, and potential assassination are highly aggressive and highly dangerous.

To be frank, if I was Iranian, I would probably set aside my problems with my leaders and band together to defend my homeland from what I would fairly perceive to be unwarranted foreign instigation.

Let us remember that Iran does not have WMDs, won't have WMDs for some time, has repeatedly said that it doesn't want WMDs, has taken steps away from preparing nuclear WMDs, and suffered the results of WMDs during the Iran-Iraq War.

Let us also remember that our own so-called leaders have bungled relations with Iran for the past fifty years, starting with our frightfully retarded support of the Shah and our continual condescension toward them despite that they are not entirely different from us at all.

Now that I've said my bit, I'm going to brush up on my Persian and remember not to hold my breath on the leftist--I mean, anti-war movement lambasting our Warmonger-in-Chief for his warmonging.

Salaam, Tehran!