X: "Yo, dinosaurs, I'm'a let ya finish, but the thylacine is the best extinct creature of all time."

jodi:  Oh, we'll go to the market and get chicken breast with no things in it.
 
x:  You are, like if, Joss Whedon wrote a Chthulhu mythos. 

jodi:  I mean, not injected with antibiotics. 

x:  'A tentacled thing rises out of the depths.'

jodi:  Ah, I get it.  Like this?  'A tentacled thing rises from the depths of a space of wetness and into a place that is not wet where there are creatures with sticks coming out of their core and they transport in a vertical way.'

x:  That's extreme, but yes.  This also reminds me of if Lovecraft wrote the Twilight series.  'The wretched beast stepped out into the meadow, where it began its eldrich scintillation.'

The patient has a history of lapses in memory, difficulty differentiating reality from non-reality, and intended violent outbursts toward both animate and inanimate objects.  Possible triggers of the aforementioned symptoms include heat and humidity, low tolerance for idiocy, disruptions of routine, and extended social interaction.  The patient has had an unknown pain syndrome for approximately eight years.  It seems to plague her relentlessly, except during occasional bursts of manic physical and emotional activity, which are probably just an indication of a brief remission from said pain.  While the patient does not seem at all depressed, her mood is that of a general state of disgust. 

There is no known cause for the symptoms associated with mystery-disease A.  The patient eats a remarkably clean diet, abstains from drugs and most alcohol, and regularly participates in physical activity.  She refuses to discuss social activities and becomes agitated, bordering on violent, when the topic is brought up. 

We have no further recommendations, nor treatment, at this time.  The patient will continue to be studied at regular intervals.  Follow-up in four to six weeks. 

II.     The author may take liberties with the facts.  Details provided may be insanely distorted and/or misrepresented to suit the author's whim.

III.     The parameters outlined in this manifesto are subject to change (and non-change) and really bear no merit at all.  This is just an excuse for the author to do as he/she wishes without having to answer, address, or even acknowledge queries from anyone and/or him/herself.

IV.     The content of this blog, and of associated blogs, may be abruptly pulled from public view, put back up again, altered, repeatedly taken down and then reshared, and/or any infinite number of possibilities related to such mentioned actions.  Basically, what happens in this blog, may not stay in this blog.  This ain't Vegas, baby.   

V.       The author shall maintain his/her level of antisocial behavior and distance from society at large, or even attempt to increase it, by only randomly reading emails, not randomly reading emails, randomly responding to emails, most likely not responding to emails, skimming over emails, or not reading emails at all; by feigning ignorance; by seeming otherwise occupied; and/or by keeping his/her eyes downcast so as not to catch anyone's direct gaze.

VI. This blog is not to be taken seriously.  The author is serious about this.

“I can’t stand to disappoint you,” he thought, “and so, I stay away.  I hide.”

“If only you knew that having you in my life, somewhere, is enough,” she thinks to write, but doesn’t.  In fact, she writes nothing at all, just thinks.

He doesn’t write either. 

They never did.  They never will. 

Interested in being proper, she walked on the left side of the road as she made her way down the hill to the bridge.  Once there, she stood on the eastern side and stared into the water, noted animal tracks where the earth met the creek.  She crossed to the western edge of the one-lane bridge and followed the flow with her eyes until it turned sharply out of her sight and beyond the trees. 

She navigated the steep path that was carved from the feet of fishermen years past, but cut instead to the left and crawled under the bridge, where she sat on the concrete base and waited for the occasional car to pass over her head. 

When the little girl noted the first eels of the season, she would then walk up the hill, on the left side of the road before crossing it to her house, and tell her stepdad that the trout were coming. 

As three children run by, going from the end of a street that I can not see to the beginning of another, in the middle of this drenching rain, I think about people that carry umbrellas.  I'm not really one of them.  I sit on my porch.  I sit by my window. 

Sometimes I get wet on the way out of the store when I have shopped for groceries.  I take a deep breath and make a run for it, getting quick to the car. 

I might be seen strolling through my yard for the sake of it all.

I ponder people on busy streets carrying umbrellas.  I think that there must be more space between them because of this.  Does one on a rainy day have to add commuting time for the subtraction of available space on a busy street crowded with umbrellas? 

I sit by my window and I hear the rain pour, long and drenching, and grasp at the diameter of an umbrella, the diameter of an average-sized person, and the circumference of personal space that one who walks on a busy street crowded with umbrellas would contain.  I don't know if people would be slowed by their instruments of apparent protection, or if they should unsuccessfully scurry, and thus travel at their usual, dry-weather rate.  I can't imagine a mathematical scenerio that would increase their rate of speed. 

It is difficult for me to grasp being on a street busy with people and crowded by umbrellas in the rain while I watch the empty sidewalk from my window. 

I am going outside to sit on the porch.