I Really Don't Want To

Job 16:2 KJV I have heard many such things: miserable comforters are ye all.
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Eph 4:17 KJV This I say therefore, and testify in the Lord, that ye henceforth walk not as other Gentiles walk, in the vanity of their mind,

Rom 7:18 KJV For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not.

Rom 7:23 KJV But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members.

Rom 6:16 KJV Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are to whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?

Col 2:18 KJV Let no man beguile you of your reward in a voluntary humility and worshipping of angels, intruding into those things which he hath not seen, vainly puffed up by his fleshly mind,


Job 16:2 KJV I have heard many such things: miserable comforters are ye all.



I Really Don't Want To...but my three miserable friends say, "Do it."

The Breath of Life

I think that's a talisman in Turok 2: Seeds of Evil. That is a "chicken soup for Kev's soul" game. But it is not convenient.


Anyways, I was thinking the other day...things die when they don't have air. I had been thinking of that for a while. These intensely difficult equations and theories in my head just bounce around splattering into each other, you know. But I digress: things can be drowned...things can be...strangled. I think you know where this post is going, so if you're a coward, and a sissy, don't read on. But it really isn't that bad. You... pervert.


We had a goat to slaughter. Yeah, you definitely know where I'm going now. We dislike the notion of cutting its neck with a knife. It's too...weird, at least right now. I told my dad, "Why don't we just strangle it?" and he was like, "Kev, that is just weird. You'd have to be a real sicko to do that."


Long story short, I strangled a goat today "with my bare hands," as my parents are already fond of saying. It was a lot easier than I thought it'd be, but it was pretty...well, you know, with the thrashing, the gasping for air, the struggling with every last ounce of power for its life. It was raging against me with all of its will and strength, but I am a human and thus have the superiority.

Now, it gets worse.

Once it was, ah, out of it, to make sure that it didn't come back to life, I took ol' stabby and, well, let's say it doesn't have 5 o'clock shadow anymore, if you understand Splinter Cell humor. If you don't understand Splinter Cell humor, I think you still know what I did. Someone had to do it. Man. Moment. Baby goat.


Later on, I got to follow that old kingly decree, "Off with his head!"

It sure is surprising how soft the spine at the neck is.




This has been a dark humor post by Kev.

Guitaring Pains: I think I'm trying to tell me Something

My fingers hurt. My hands hurt. My throat is probably bleeding. Echo is really, really ticked off. And Echo usually does the ticking.


In case you can't tell, I've been hymning something fierce. I dis...ouch. Sorry, hand cramp. Finger cramp, actually. Hold on.


Hush little babies stop hurting so, it'll be OK in a day yes oh, stop your fretting no pun intended yo, it'll be OK in a day or so...



Sorry about that. I had to sing my fingers a type of nursery rhymeluby/lullarhyme. They love that kind of stuff. They move and sway and curl and ...retract... And stuff. Irregardless, I think I'm trying to tell myself something. I think what I'm telling myself is that I'm not playing hard enough, and I'm not singing loud enough. That has to be it!

Mr. dataDyne says that pain is weakness leaving the body...I'm sure it's the way that most things that he says actually, somehow, through some witch-like force of spoken spell, come true, but I think I've learned that when he says something, I should expect within a few days or weeks for the order of reality to be rearranged according to his mandate. Or maybe he just knows when the rearrangement of reality is going to occur, and it just seems like he does it.


Irregardless, if pain is weakness leaving the body, then I must have some weakness in my hymning character, because I am aching. One of my grandest, greatest, most splendid dreams is for some special people (but they have to be special and under special circumstances!) to lovingly create for me a nametag that says something about my guitaring on it. Like, "Hymn Guitar," or "Saint Guitar," or "Guitarzan," or something (and I want the necklace part of it to be expensively durable!). And a matching steel plate that can go inside Echo but with his name on it. We'll be matchies!

Why did I say that. I would guess I had a point. I forget it. Irregardless...forgot what I was going to say. I keep forgetting the points I'm going to make. Uhh, hold on.


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Right. So, my point is, whilst I may be in pain, the greater problem is that I think Echo is not doing good. Hard strumming makes him sound...off. And I may need to strum hard if I'm making a Pentecostal musical point. The only remedy I know for this is...you guessed it...thicker strings. I make it sound more dramatic than it is, sure, but it'll be tons harder to do barre chords. Yeah, so there.

Uhh...and I may need to have the action lowered. But lower action = more fret buzz, and if thicker strings = less fret buzz, then unaltered action + thicker strings = very little fret buzz but hard to play.

We'll see how this pans out.


And no one get any ideas about making me a name plate necklace. If I want you to make it for me, I'll very well tell you to. You have to be a special person/people under special circumstances. So if you want to make me a name plate necklace, try to get yourself into a special, circumstantial position, OK? OK. Fair warning, it won't be easy for you. I will give you nothing but hell for your efforts. Like a baby that you are trying to feed ground peas to.

The Moon IS Made of Cheese

I always heard that moronic nursery rhyme or whatever it was or wherever that thinking came from, and I always thought it was stupid. But awhile back, you wouldn't believe my surprise as I saw the huge ball of cheese hanging low in the sky.




I didn't even use a tripod. Did I ever mention that I love my camera?

It's dandy.

Lightning Hymning

If you can believe it, I got to drive in rain a few days ago- at night. Victory is mine! I was singing The Old Rugged Cross, Holy, Holy, Holy, At the Cross, Saved by the Blood, Amazing Grace, and Are You Washed in the Blood? at the top of my lungs on the way home. The Lord must have rewarded me with rainfall. Just imagine if I were also playing my guitar. He'd probably pull a Genesis 5:24 on me. (I'd better still my tongue before I get too sacrilegious.)

Once the rain stopped (i.e. once I pulled into our property), I started taking pictures of the lightning. They're not fabo, but they look not a little neat to me.









I need to sing more hymns.

Sparkling Water, My Sweet

My parents- especially my dad, as he doesn't drink the stuff- have a hard time understanding this logic: When we run out of sparkling water, and the stores are out, and we have none, we have none, and we cannot buy any.

It's basic logic. But if, when the stores run out of sparkling water, we have a stockpile, we can survive the drought. That is also basic logic. The common argument is, "What?! But we already have two packs of them! Why on earth do we need five more?" to which I respond, "Listen. We need to have extra for the drought that's upcoming, remember?"


On that note, I am unsure why, but sparkling water is sometimes hard to find- thus the "drought." It's as if they only ship a few to the stores, and sometimes other shoppers get the few that were shipped before you do. A few packs of sparkling water would make a great birthday present, hint hint. (Actually, really, I just need money this year. I'm a man.)


Then it happened. A drought. The store that sells it was out of stock for weeks. I thought I would go crazy. At the risk of offending one of you, I thought I would go cra...wait, I already said that. And it really isn't that offensive, sorry.


Regardless, we were out for weeks. I don't drink much normal soda; I find it too weird for everyday consumption, so I drink sparkling water instead. Without its sparkly goodness, I took to writing "No sparkling water and no place to buy sparkling water makes Kev a-go-crazy" on the walls with chalk. That's a hard sentence to write, however, so I didn't write it much. It made my hand cramp. Actually, the plural "walls" is exaggerating a bit.


Now the drought is over, so I am taking action to ensure that we don't run out again. Behold, heaven came down and glory filled our kitchen!:

Yes! Yes! Muahahayes!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some, uh... business, to attend to. knird, k-nird!



[You get the joke, right? Like, "redrum"?]

A Sh-nake!

There's a story behind the word (or, pronunciation thereof) "sh-nake." Maybe I'll tell you that sometime.


Regardless, we found a snake yesterday. I believe this video will sum it up.





Ain't video just easy on the eyes?



Note: Whatever may have seemed to be implied, no one was bitten and no hospitals were visited for snake-related purposes.

Not The Death Game

I've been playing the death game lately. I know I shouldn't. It's too nerve-wracking. Most of you see the death game as Russian Roulette, I suppose. I don't call it that.


I call it Metroid Prime: Hunters. It's a very lonely game. I think that's because it's on the Nintendo DS; most games on that system are lonely. I think it's because my DS is onyx black, and I play it in the dark, and it's really solitude evoking. Metroid itself is lonely, then when you add the floating nothingness that a black DS and a dark room provide...well, you're a spaceman.

I say it's nerve-wracking because Samus dies a lot. You can fall to your doom off of cliffs, or get crushed to death by pistons that, in the console games, wouldn't have caused death.

I call it the death game because I was playing it when I got the news of my great grandmother's death. She was 93. I don't remember much about her, but I do remember the day she died. It was her birthday. They (my mom, dad and some family) had pizza and cake. It was a comparatively late night. Then I got the call. "She died as soon as we left!" Thus, as I was playing Metroid Prime: Hunters when she died, I call it the death game. And not only so, but we have a pair of Death Bears, too, because they were a gift to her on the day she died. Since she died while she was alone, we think that the bears strangled her. Shhhh.


I digress. (I have to do that a lot, don't I?) I'm not sure which videogame to play now that I've finished Metroid Prime. It is either Conflict: Desert Storm, Splinter Cell: Pandora Tomorrow, Super Mario Sunshine, or a Paper Mario title, either the original or TTYD.

Since I don't feel like directing a senseless squad, Conflict: Desert Storm is out. And since I don't feel like playing a game that doesn't allow you to listen to sermons while you play, Splinter Cell: PT is out. I have gotten enough of Delfino Plaza via SSBB. That leaves it to a Paper Mario.


It's a tough choice. I am in a strait. I can go for the simplicity of the original, or the complexity of the second. Hm. Goombario, or ponytail girl. Fan-smack, or Vivian. Awesome train ride, or goofy desert train ride.

It's a decision made harder in that they're both played via Wii with a Gamecube paddle. Let's see...oh...drat it all. The original will take less time, and the second will take a lot more time. The second has that island "level" that I hate, but so does the original. Argh! The second has a detective mystery, a championship wrestling parody, a mob underground...

The first has a better haunted house level, and the awesome Shy Guy level...and short-stop the egg-baby...OK, it's almost winter. The original PM should be played in winter. Thusforthtoherefortotheretothenfortothere (or any combination thereof), Paper Mario 2: The Thousand-Year Door it is!


I find my selection process very interesting. And this is a fine example of a near-gibberish post.

My Mom's Job: "Here, Do This Thing That's Boring"

So, several weeks ago, I was recruited to go to my mom's job to work. OH, GANDRAYDA, WHY, WHY! My heart is broken now. Have you ever had something happen that you wished didn't happen, but there's no taking it back because it already happened? Then you read something that reminds you of that something and all the feelings come back in a horrible whirlwind tornado of sorrow? Oh, would to God that the memories of her would evaporate from my soul. And that I hadn't mentioned her in this blog post. Oh, that pink metamorph!



Anyways. I was recruited to go to my mom's job. They always work me like a slave. "Do this, do that, touch not, taste not, handle not," they bark. Well, this day it was special; it was kind of like preparing for a birthday party for 120 people. I think it's illegal to have 120 people at a birthday party.

Regardless, there I was. Me and my mom showed up at 9 AM. I was on my feet until 1 PM, then I got to sit down for half an hour (I played my guitar), and then I was back on my feet until 3:30 PM, when it was time for me and my mom to have a 15-minute "Everyone but us is stupid" break.

From 1:30 PM to 3 PM, I was given the privilege of getting the coffee additives ready. It went like this: wipe the tub out with a damp cloth. Get 8 fake sugar packets. Put those into the tub, next to those, put 10 creamer packets, and then 8 real sugar packets. Then put 10 straws. Repeat 24 times.

Then I got to wipe down the salt and the pepper shakers with the damp cloth. Each one was splattered with...something sticky. So they took a while to wipe down. Here is my finished work:

I hate coffee additives now. And I hate salt and I dislike pepper. The straws? They're OK.

Then (after the everyone-but-us-is-stupid break) I got to make salad. Let me rephrase that. I got to make salad for 125 people.

Oog. Luckily, I got a competent helper in the form of an 11-year-old. He added the bell pepper ring and the tomato to the top. He saved me about 5 minutes of time. He did good.


Just when I thought my troubles were over, and that I would get to go play my guitar some more, a younger waltzed in carrying some people. By people, I mean these:

Oog. The sight of them makes me SICK. So you know, 'younger' is a word I use for teenagers. "Youngers." I.e., I don't mean "someone younger than me," I mean "someone who is within this age group." Interchangeable with 'hipsters.'

So anyways, one of these hipsters waltz in with these people. I approached to render air. I mean, aid.

First, he did it all wrong. So with my direction, we were able to get a few up. Then his girlfriend materialized. That's when things got tricky. I tried to run it down to her- "touch not, taste not, handle not," but she wouldn't listen. "OOH, LET'S FOLD THESE IN HALF SO THAT WE'LL ONLY HAVE HALF AS MANY TO DO LOL!" she blurted. He thought that was a great idea. I thought that they deserved each other.

"Listen, stupid fool," I said. "If we fold them in half, we'll still have the same amount of wall to cover, but then we won't have enough people!"

They stared blankly, very nervously/frightened. "OK, look," I said. "People. There are fifteen of them. There are ten people worth of wall. If we only have seven people, then how will we cover the ten people worth of wall?"

After a few seconds, he raised his hand excitedly. "Well?" I asked. "There are three of us!" he said. Then he counted us to make sure. "Yeah! We can stand there and make up for the rest!" He smiled real big. "Well," I began. "We could do that, but no." "Why not?" he asked, providing a shockingly thousand-mile, open-mouthed stare, as if his brain had suddenly turned to mush.

I just looked at him. "Because, then we'll have to sit there- for hours- and unlike the people, we jut out from the wall two feet. People would throw coffee on us," I added, frustrated. "But wouldn't that help us stay awake?" she added hopefully. "In a sense, yes," I allowed. "Regardless, we are not going to fold them in half, and we're not going to sit here on the ground like idiots getting coffee thrown on us."


This went on for at least two hours. And putting the people up was just as frustrating- either they wouldn't stick, or they'd come out lopsided. When we thought we were done about 40 minutes into this ordeal, the news came that we had more to do. "They are young and reckless," I confided to Red. "They are not ready." I forget what she said, but it spurred me to say "OK, I'll go gather my charges, then." It must have been a pep talk of some kind. Why do I know so many more women than men?


I digress. Remember the 125 salads I made? Well, I had to do the same thing with a cake. Or rather, a lot of cakes. If you look at the picture with the salad, you can see the cake near to it. Except that there were many platters of cake on plates. It was kind of sad that all of this brave food was about to be slaughtered. I could hear them singing "Muffin Man" and "BINGO"...innocently.


Then it was time to serve the food. I was assigned to switch the pans out. So when they ran out of corn, it was my duty to get the pan of corn out of the oven and switch it out with the other pan. I had to scream "AHHHHHH! HOT PAN! OUT OF MY WAY OR I'M THROWING IT IN YOUR FACE! AHHH!" at the top of my lungs while moving the pans so that they would know I have a hot pan. It's hard to scream in such a harried way and not match that physically by jumping around or moving violently.


Then the ceremonies began and concluded. Then it was time to clean up. The work was finished at 10 PM. I was on my feet for roughly 13 hours. Three days later, I noted that the flesh at the ends of my toes were still numb. While I was volunteering, my dad at home made the lid for the guitar case. It rained on the way home. Problem is, as soon as we pulled into our property it stopped. The more I experience this, the more I believe that our land is actually cursed.

Echo Box #2: What Ducts Are Made Of

Act II

Hi, Rach!


Time to continue. By "ducts" I mean air conditioning ducts. And they are made of sheet metal. We begin by putting a sheet of metal into the shear. It shears the metal.


Then we took that piece that we cut off and marked it. Then we took it back to the shear.


And this is what we get for our laboring:


Now we take those to the break. The break bends the sheet metal. It's hard to explain, but it's a very necessary tool.


And we are left with this. Isn't it pretty? If you look, you can see the "cross-break," which adds strength to the metal. It's most visible near to the point. It's actually a double cross-break.

Remember that paper I made in the first post so that Echo wouldn't know what I was up to?


It fits! Good. Yeah, sure, I kept it a secret from my guitar. I thought he would be able to tell, y'know. Then I read 1 Cor. 2:11 and now I don't think Echo can understand what I'm doing.

Alright, now to make the sides. Take a strip of metal. Hey, look...you can see the cross-break/cross-brace really good now.


Then you mark said piece of metal, like thus...


Then you bend it up and it should look like this:


Now dry-fit the pieces to make sure they fit.


Good, they do. Now to get the point piece done. Get a small piece of metal...


And mark it up. See the icepick-looking thing? That's called a scribe or a scratch awl. You scribe the metal with it. Then you cut or bend the metal. But we'll be breaking this piece into...


Duh duh duhh! The point piece. Here's the other side.


Then we made the end piece for the non-point end. I won't show that, because you already know how it goes. So now it's time to rivet it together.


We used washers to make it extra strong:


Yes! Here it is with the two sides on:


And then the point piece...


Then we attach the back piece, and here it is:


Act II is complete. The next part is cool, but tedious.



Act I: 4.5 hours, designing the case and measuring Echo.
Act II: 6.5 hours total: 3.5 hours to make the sides and the bottom; 3 hours to make the front and end piece.

Echo Box #1: In The Beginning...

I received all kinds of flak. "Kev, you're stupid. Get a hard case. Your guitar isn't safe in a soft case. If you love your guitar, you'll do it." I stood fast, not having my morals or manner corrupted by they who claimed to be my friends. Job 2:9-10. I lived it. Except it was my friends. I have no wife.

I faced the humiliation of playing a song at a wedding out of a gig bag. I endured more than five months of literally seat-belting Echo into the back seat of the car because I was afraid he would get injured in a crash. Every latching of the seatbelt was a labor of love, a badge of honor.


Is a man not entitled to buy a guitar case?

Yes, says the man in Washington. It's good for the poor.
Yes, says the man in the Vatican. It's good for God.
Yes, says the man in Moscow. It's good for everyone.

I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different.
I chose the impossible.
I chose...

TO MAKE MY OWN.

Act I

I began by designing it. I will spare you most of the details; I searched for pictures of guitar cases, finding different designs and different ideas. I went with what I had previously planned.

I begin the actual work by putting together three pieces of paper with double-sided sticky tape. I didn't get pictures of that, but the below picture should give you the idea.


I put dots on the paper around Echo so that I'd have an idea how much space he needs. Then I marked the paper, and cut it out.

That's a dandy electric scissor. It works well. OK, here it is!


Ta-da! That is the shape of the box. I like it. So, I measured that paper to let me know the dimensions of the finished box. I wrote them down, then I folded it up.


And so the designing was done. See you at post #2. The next part gets fun, boys and girls.

It gets real fun.

Breaking Again

Well, consarn it. I've got too much to do. There's a special project I'm working on (some of you may be privy to that), and I have another project that I'm working on (some of you may also be privy to that), and I've got another project I'm working on (not many of you are privy to that), and I just got the call. I bet I forget what the three projects are unless I write them down. Let's see, BGHAULCAM, PFCCAM, GCAM4IMp, not necessarily in that order. That should help me remember.


"I need a tow truck, boy! I was driving down the road at 50 MPH, and all of a sudden the passenger side rear wheel flew off!"

It was making a creaking sound the last few days. Thusforthtoheretothere, I will not have time to make blog posts, despite the fact that I have at least 10 I want to write (including a 4 or 6-post 'serial'). I may post some update posts on the progress of repairing the Red Beater, though. It'll all be manly discussions on axles and suspension and leaf springs.

See you then, humble fools. See you then. Hopefully no longer than a week. I will persevere, and be strong.

I don't believe you - you're a man!

Well, me and my dad had a "discussion" last night about how much my brother loves hip hop or R&B or jazz or whatever that fast-paced bass-heavy music is. Notice how when I put discussion in quotation marks it makes it seem like it was a fight? I love it!

Anyways, we discovered that my brother doesn't and hasn't had a radio, despite his fleshly affection for fast-paced bass-heavy music. It makes him happy. And it's always good to feed the fleshly lusts. We have DirecTV, and DirecTV gives you free XM radio, I guess. It's like a normal channel but there are no videos.


So...I was awoken today by the cries of some guy on the "teleradio" blubbering out these words:


"WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, I'M A LADY!"

"I'm a lady! Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm a lady!" he blared. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a lady! ... Listen to me baby, I'm a lady!"


On and on and on.

I don't know who it was, but sir, you are officially NOT the kind I'd like to flaunt and take to dinner.

Ya'll Kev's Mom Says: Ya'll Knife Dull Ya'll!

You'll excuse my Southern. What I meant was, "Mom says: This knife is dull." I knew it was getting dull, I just didn't "carve" out some time to sharpen it. Get it? Carve? Never mind. It's knife humor, you wouldn't get it.

Alright, here's the knife. And the kit. I use a DMT Aligner, which I got for my 16th birthday, the best birthday ever. I keep a little glass around to get water from when necessary.


I'm slowly trying to get it to my parents: Black knife is for meat, red knife is for vegetables. And I'm slowly trying to get it to my dad: Steel is not an expedient cutting surface.

OK, I always begin by taking the black marker and marking the blade of the knife, like so:


Next, I clip on the angle-guide. Yes, I use an angle-guide. Wanna fight about it?


And then the stone-holder. Did I mention I use DMT? They say diamonds are forever.


OK. Now I have to determine just what angle I last set the blade at- that's the purpose of marking the blade black. So that I can see when the stone is at the right angle to grind the ink off. Of course, you can always make a new angle. I kept this one at 14 degrees.

Now start a-sharpening. You can find information on that here: ION: Cows, Sharpening, Shaving, and Shrimp. To sum it up, I am going to begin this knife with the 325-mesh stone, and finish it with the 1,200-mesh stone.

If you look closely, you can see the difference between the 325-mesh (blue) and the 1,200-mesh (green).


So start sharpening...hey, we're done! Time sure does fly when you're not actually bound by it. In the end, it's all worth it:



Sharpened knives make me happy. The poor avocado pit never saw it coming.

Saintovision Has Worn Off

Yep, it's gone.

Anytime I'm around a large mass of unknown by face fellowsaints, I switch to some kind of instinct-based sight mode which I can only describe as Saintovision. If you've ever seen Doom the movie, the FPS scene in particular, it's not really like that.

I would describe it as intense observing. If I see someone who looks about right, based upon their movement, how they carry themselves, if they're staring at me, their manner, who they're talking to, how they're talking, etc., I add them to my target list. Then I move to intercept them.


It goes like this:

Step 1: See a saint.
Step 2: Evaluate the saint's movement, manner, and interaction with the saints around them. It helps if you know the saints they're talking to.
Step 3: Add to Target List, or add to Possible Target list and maintain observation.
Step 4: Move to intercept. (It helps if you know the saints standing nearby them.)


It's not a perfect method, but it works well considering how many are there...at least a hundred and fifty. It was supposedly a 'huge' turnout- they were everywhere! But I knew a lot of them already. It was great to see them again. At the end...I think I only missed one target, but that was only to say hi again. So I think I met everyone new that I set my sights on.

My point is, if you've heard me murmur about how "My target has mobilized," or "Target is on the move," "Scopes locked," or "Moving in for the kill," that's why. It meant that someone on my target list was in a position so as to be susceptible to interception. I often leave in a hurry.


Anyways, I was stuck in this for a few days after. It was creepy. Everybody I saw got a half-second, intensive head-to-toe eye evaluation to see if they were pal material. Imagine having your poor eyes lock onto and fiercely process every single person you see against your will...and worse, I don't know if one person from our little town passed.

I love the saints. They usually pass with flying colors.

It went like this: There was a claw machine, and a nonfunctional headlight...

Hi, Manny Hitman! Hi, Lisa dataDyne!


So, yesterday, I went to Bible study, like I normally do. I was late. My mom had to get a new tire for the Pathy. It was about to esplode. BOOM, it would have went, and we would be glorified.

Speaking of getting glorified, I'll make that post sometime soon. I almost got ran down [several days ago]. Satan stuck his fingernail out, and I think the Lord clipped it when he saw that the Satan's Fingernail was heading for to touch me. I heard a horrible, howling, demonic scream, and the next thing I knew the vehicle stopped.


Back to current time. I know you are all slow dimwits, so when I talk about past and present, I try to distinctificate. That may or may not be a word. Anyways, I was on my way home, but we stopped at the Local Restaurant That Has A Claw Machine. I love claw machines. But I can't always play them. I am 18. Paul goes on and on about how you're not supposed to play claw machines- you should hear Pastor drone about it.

Regardless, there I was. Sitting in that old familiar room, full of temptation. "Quit you playing the claw machine like men, be strong." "When I was a child, I played claw machines, I got the toys from the claw machines, and I spent money on the claw machines: but when I became a man, I put away claw machines." "Therefore there is now no condemnation, except for playing the claw machines: this is the second death." Paul goes on and on about it, but Pastor never mentions the verses...

Pastor, dataDyne, and The Hitman were there. I couldn't take it any longer. I got up and approached the machine. Two dollars and a kindly donation of $1.25 from The Hitman later, I had myself a kingly prize!



N0\/\/ 1 f33| |1|<3 5p34|<1n9 1337. Sorry. I've been...I've been IM'ing lately.

Then reality dropped from the ceiling like a rusty spoon. (Hi, Debbie!) I remembered that the headlight was out on the passenger side. That meant I had to go through this again: Kev Gets Pulled Over By Five Polices Cars And Trucks; Police Grip Guns Warily.

With the help of all three other men, we managed to get the light out and determined that it, in fact, did not work. The parts store was closed. I live in the country: the common belief is that city stores are all 24/7. Darn country rumor-mills.

Now to the drive home. I passed three police cars, all chillin' in a lot waiting for to pull me over. When it comes to cunning craftiness, I think I'm about equal to Manny, but with crafty cunners, it's hard to tell just what level of cunning craftiness they possess. It's kind of like the hyperbole surrounding ninjas, just instead of killing, it's manipulation. Unless they're a good crafty cunner. But those are rare. It takes a pure heart, like, a Master Sword-class pure heart. No Ganondorfs.


I drove on, waiting, cunningly crafting myself a plan to get out of this mess. Mr. dataDyne had told me that if I get pulled over, turn on the dome lights. He said that it's like catnip for law-bearers. I don't know if he meant that it drives them nuts, or...

Regardless, none followed.


10 more miles to go. They could have caught up anytime...a few cars flew up doing 75 or 80, but no police. I was 500 feet from turning off of the highway when a car flew up beside me and passed me, then slowed down, and turned its lights on. Flashy-flash, they went.

Luckily, he was pulling someone else over. I don't know how it happened.


All I know is that Satan's fingernail must not have grown back yet.

Robber Bird and a Sunset

Yesterday, me and my dad did some work for some acquaintances of ours. I mercilessly and efficiently disassembled in a violent way a counter that was probably worth $800 and is now scrap.

It was built on-site into the wall, so it would have cost just as much to move it as it would have to hire the mob to burn the place down. I went to a Burning recently in the middle of a crowd of very dry, extremely tall trees. It was great...muahahaha!

On the way home my mom had us pick up a copy of Quicken - she lost her 2001 version disc. It was on sale for $40 from $60.


On the way home, I saw an EAGLE. But it wasn't an eagle, it was a robber bird - looking like an eagle is their primary defense. I don't know what they're actually called but I am calling it a robber bird, and if you want to fight about it, meet me at the Eastern Stairs tonight.


Here it is on a telephone pole. It was "chillin'." LOL!

There it is at the top. And there's my enemy...the ever-watchful Sun.

Below, you can see it flying away.


Now that I think about it, it wasn't that funny to say that it was chillin'. Sorry.

Here it is sitting on another pole. We chased it down. "Oh, great, they're back." See what's in its talons?

Tis a fish. Where it got a fish around here, I don't know, so I must assume it robbed from someone, thus its name, Robber Bird. We have no lakes or ponds, just a picture of The Grapes of Wrath that's a mile high and about 800 miles around, encompassing us. I'm so dramatic.

Anyways, then I got a picture of a sunset. Pink sunsets are my favorite, but not all of them look good, and even less come out in picture form. For some reason, the search "pink sunset" only brings up the post: Bad picture or bad NightShot? I took a video of a pink sunset in it.


I like how the whole sky has shades of pink around it.


Well, now it's turning orange. That's OK, because orange is a primary color of The Hatchling, but orange sunsets aren't as awenem as pink ones. (For you new fools, awenem is the base, concentrated source from which awesome is derived. It's like awenem is the syrup, and awesome is made by adding the carbonated water, in soda terms. Thus the term, "raw base awenem.")

Time to go. I have calculating to do.

Troubled: The Destroyer's Wrath Kindled

You could say I'm back down from the mountain. Back to life. But I'm extremely claustrophobic right now. I haven't been claustrophobic for years. Everything around me jumps out and crowds me and I just can't make it stop. It threatens to consume me.

The walls bear down. The junk and garbage piled high on every flat or else uneven surface threatens to suck the life air from my lungs. My mind is racing and there's too much to do and little hope of doing it. It is now that I am tried and that I will change. That is, at least concerning my room.

I reckon, if I have to throw garbage out, I'll throw out my own garbage. I get clingy to stuff just like my parents, but on a much lower level. On the other hand, I sanctify and hallow things. I still haven't thrown out the old Resident Evil DVD case. I threw out the DVD, because that wasn't hallowed. But the case...the case is hallowed.

On the other hand, I haven't thrown out the old NES, and that isn't hallowed. Perhaps I am a packrat. God do so to me, and more also!


Regardless, I now go to destroy and maim that which I once treasured. I am unsure if I am in the right mind now or if I will be in the right mind in the future, but functioning off of what rational intelligence I now possess, I will use this wrath and vexation as fuel to accomplish my goals.

Now I only need a hammer. Forbearance has been defenestrated.