I have changed quite a lot since I last wrote anything here.

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WOW! It's the tri-annual Sentence Marathon!

Heh. I am so inconsistent. I guess I've always been that way about online posting. I used to be called a ghost, way back when, on another similar website, because I was coming and going so randomly, with no visible sign as to my next return.

So, I've been busy, as usual. The film most definitely is not finished, and may need to take a bit of a hiatus, because all the actors have gone back to school. Not that we were getting a whole lot done, as the camera guy liked to shoot things his way and I am extrodinarily stubborn about perfecting shots, so we'd always have our dueling creative differences, because he edits differently than I do, and I had to continually reshoot scenes as I had to continually recast actors and WOW is it tough to shoot a film without a budget or consistent actors or muddafuggin' time and I think I'll just put this last clause on the end of this running sentence just for giggles and I have a bucket of fish in a jar hanging out on the lawn which is untrue, do you think?

*ahem*

Anyway, I'm working on selling a house, which is... well... as easy as selling house, which isn't easy all the time. I mean, it's not that bad, it's just, until you have your first sale, I need to work another sales job to keep some sort of income. Basically, the other sales job is one where I sell people subscriptions to the local paper at, like, K-Marts or grocery stores or whatever. It was an interesting place to start, as the people that started with me were about double my age, and had all done big-time corporate stuff as consultants and professors and lab technicians, and like, here I come along, a half-way through college kid with waitering experience. Heh.

Anyway, I've decided I really like the word 'anyway' as informal transition, and I feel it doesn't get the respect and attention it deserves.

Anyway, I've got my car working again, and I'm totally legal for driving, with insurance and everything. The starter wasn't starting, so I bought and installed a new one, which is the first time I've ever really worked on a car. It was kinda fun.

Also, I've been writing alot, and have the next part of Goddamn Destiny done, but not ready to post yet. Also, as we're taking a break from the Pride and Prejudice movie, I've had time to work on my other scripts, in addition to starting school again at the local college. Well, I'm working on it, I need to raise enough to pay for it, then I start.

So, I've been busy, and of course, I have more to say than what's here, and naturally my computer's internet still isn't working. This is just a note to make it clear that I am not dead, just somewhat MIA.

So, for those that love to read, sorry for no updates for so long, but I promise that they'll never just stop, you know, indefinitely.


So, more to come!

Stay tuned...

10 Things I Hate About Joanna Blueface

Hey.


So.


My internet is still being a piece of poop. A huge, stencheous, absolutely unnecessarily useless piece of poop. Anyone else smile everytime you read the word poop? It's just such a nice, roundish 'ooo-py' kind of word, like a plum, only flavored much worse. I mean, think about it. Poop is just plain fun to say. Like pooooop. So simple. And yet, so...


Anyway, that has nothing to do with what I'm intending to say, which is, I'm not writing this from MY computer, as mine is really very useless right now. I may need to just bite the bullet, wipe the gunpower off my mouth, and buy a new one.... maybe.... -just maybe- I'll get a laptop. Which would be amazing. As a writer, or even a real estate agent, such a tool would be invaluable.

So, ummm... anyway, I have no idea who Joanna Blueface is. I doubt she exists. But, my O my, do I sure hate ten things about her. Anyone else agree?

(More to come..............)

Shoot the Messenger

My internet is busted. Totally busted.

So, I'm writing on a computer that isn't mine, until I fix my stupid connection.

Just so you know.

(more to come!)

Hedgehog's Dilemma's Misplaced Title

....
Monte's Note:

Yo. I have absolutely nothing to say.

I'm such a liar. Anyway, today, it rained, like it did yesterday, and the day before. And by rain, I mean torrents. It just poured, all day. So, there wasn't really anywhere to go. So, while it's pouring down buckets, I went into the courtyard, and chopped down radishes and baby carrots for accuracy practice for the ninja convention tomrrow night after the ambassor's speech about Frosties and French Fries, The Age Old Union.

I lied about the last two items.

So, JIN:
who else would I fantasize over when eating chocolate cake than the food porn goddess?

Which reminds me, I have a considerably interesting story for a later post about a secret situation one strange time at the beach, complete with no *bleeped secret details.* But that's another post.

As for the story, Goddamn Destiny, I moved the entire chapter 2 to the last post (titled, "Gosh Darn Predestination"; it doesn't fit with this note in the same post), as it wasn't meant to be read in two parts; it's just I couldn't finish it then. Everything that is mentioned now in its ricochting format comes back later to satisfy this unusal use of foreshadowing. More to follow, and also to be moved to my literary blog, which is being updated every day now. I should announce that.

ANNOUNCEMENT:

StorywriterEposion, my literary themed blog, has been updated, and will be updated everyday hitherto!

ANNOUNCEMENT END.

There is a money clip with a ten and some ones in it and a can of peanuts and an empty Coke can on my desk, along with a two over-used notepads. One can learn alot about a person by the contents of their desk, such as, for instance, you just learned that I've run out of anything more useful to say than the contents of my desk.

Anyway, that's it, I'm done, time to sleep, I need to get to bed earlier, which is getting harder and harder, as my air conditioning broke, and I frankly can't take off anymore clothes than I already do to go bed. (Yup, that is, bedtime in the buff!)

Yeah. Just in case you wondered.

G'night!

What's on your desk?

Gosh Darned Predestination

Goddamn Destiny

Chapter 2

Off-tangent

"Where is my mind?"
How the hell should I know, thought Melvis. What the fuck kind of question is that, anyway? Instead, he said, "How the heck should I know?"
The brother wasn't the sort to swear in front of, not with his parents around, since they swore off swearing as a sacred oath broken only when it was most convenient. Until the Ray children grew up enough to handle the abuse of parental disagreement, they rarely used the words deemed vulgar by the insufficient, awkward language you happen to be reading right now. In fact, even after growing up, and moving out, for even the second time, the brother never decided to swear, as it seemed unattractive to do anything the mother did during one of her cruel fits of cursing rage.
"Don't you dare," said the mother on a dozen tense occasions, shocked that her selfless plans for her family that happened to be entirely filled with everything she solely wanted to do were being violated by a previous engagement one of her children had with someone that wasn't on her favorite's list. "Don't you dare. Fuck no! Don't you fucking dare! No one fucking cares about me! I do everything, fucking everything..."
Of course, the brother wasn't thinking about those things. Melvis the agent, lucidly aware of the dangers of swearing in front of the nonswearing types, as he himself came from such a background in the middle-of-nowhere Kansas, refrained from saying such base terms, substituting milder terms that meant the same thing.
"Frickin' useless, kid. It's frickin' uselesss to try and figure it all out. I dunno where you mind is, but really, you don't need it. Just don't think to much, you'll be alright."
"What?" asked the brother, confused for a moment.
Oh yes, sorry, I forget to narrate, and say, you know, details like location or whatever. Sorry I'm so late. Traffic was bad, or something. Anyway, the brother was five-seven or something, which makes him about fifteen years old. The brother and the agent didn't know each other, and would never remember this chance meeting years from now when they meet again, when the brother asks the same thing---only, this time, that wasn't what he said.
"That's not what I said," said the brother, as I kinda told you he would. He explains why, to you curious readers, but mostly to the agent. "I said," he said, "if I take this---" he indicated a chair at the table that Melvis had taken as his uncomfortable abode for that morning's coffee that came after a night of delirious insomnia and crack and exploding two-liters Diet sodas, "---would you mind?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, that's fine. Go for it." Melvis was the only one still at the table, confused about the idiotic question of 'do you mind?' because, he was saying 'yes' you may have the chair, but 'no' I do not mind. So, to say 'yes,' he had to say 'no,' which is confusing as hell at that hour.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, narration. I'm not so good at this, sorry. I'm new, really. Annoyingly so, to be honest. I forgot to tell you, I'm dead. Oooooo. Spooky, right? No, no, I'm kidding, I just thought that'd make sense to say there, you know, because narrators usually are dead or in jail or something in these lame narration things. I mean, it's like those damn movies where the guy just starts telling you when he was born and about that girl he loved or whatever, like you asked or something. I mean, who cares that he was born in 1932 and now we get to see his gangster life unfold in Chicago or something. I mean, at least that way you get to avoid a bunch of stupid flashbacks or something because noone's figured out a smarter way to tell a story than to use stupid, slow motion flashbacks in black-and-white and all fuzzy with people shouting out in slow motion stuff like, "Nooooo! Character's naaaaaaaame!" and that's somehow supposed to mean something to you, like, oh, good, now that I've experienced that event in blurry, colorless slow motion, I completely understand why he would want to wreak revenge on the guy who he is going to kill in about five scenes or whatever, and the drawn out ambiguous voice really struck a cord there, and now I totally have a tear-jerking emotional connection to Bufftom Henry or whoever the hell is the hero.
I'm mostly irritated at the idiot writers that write that shit, like, ooo, look, I wrote a movie that's like the movies. I mean, most movies are shit, and you think you're good because you copied that idiot formula that for some reason is 'the biblical approach' to filmmaking, because no way can anyone be entertained by anything cleverer. But whatever, that's a movie, this is a book, and to reach this point in my logic you've had to been reading it, so at least you can read, unless someone's reading it to you, for God knows what reason---
ANYWAY, sorry, that was a tangent. I'm really bad at this, I keep giving endings away and try and tell who life stories in a sentence and, anyway, what do you care? What was I saying? Since I'm writing all this out, I can just read back. So, like, don't shout at the page or whatever---not that you were, you demanding bastard, reading and taking, not like I'd need your help or anything. I mean, you try writing a book.
Right, so, the brother was five-seven at that moment, because that's significant, and looked however the hell you want him to look. Yeah, so, he met the agent, ‘cause if you haven't guessed yet, all of the people are connected. I mean, probably. I dunno the fucking ending. I haven't gotten to that point yet. By the way, my name's Jorge.
Anyway, I dunno why my name should be attached to that paragraph. Man. I am way off-tangent here. Like, wow. I mean, I'd say off-topic. but like, I don't even know what the hell that is anyway, and I've spent the most time on some tangent, so I guess that'd make a great title for this chapter, since I'm one of those sorts who likes titles enough to put on every chapter I write. I also enjoy overwhelmingly long sentences, the epic length of paragraphs. Which reminds me, I’m forgetting to finish the story:
Despite the meanderings of the narrator, the brother went on about his life, returning with the chair to sit with his closely held family whose rulers were terrified of the world that they all would have to live in someday, despite lack of exposure, wisdom, or preparation. Eventually, when the brother began to dedicate his time to the experience of love and the sisters began to understand music and the exciting situation of dating and popularity that came with being the only beautiful girls in a school overwhelmed with boys, and the house filled with more and more people that the rulers didn’t understand because of their own disheveled experiences and their hard-earned distrust of both youth and their children’s ability to make right decisions, and a disbelief that any decision that the rulers hadn’t arrived at themselves was incorrect, the new barrage of opinions and obligations that suddenly occupied the children’s time was taken as a personal threat, and mistaken for a rift in the family’s closeness.
But not then, when the children were still children, and the adult’s pasts hadn’t begun their haunting, and the brother hadn’t yet met the attorney in training that would prove the meaning of friendship, and the celebrity was just an ordinary adolescent who knew more names of people that he didn’t know than people who he didn’t know knew his, all while the agent named Melvis sat back, relaxed, and sipped his coffee. Yawning he stretched his hands high above his head, when the handle of a baby’s carseat, complete with a cooing baby, flew into his hand from a severe collision between an ambulance rushing from another accident to the hospital and a topless beamer that had flipped and spun a dozen times in the air before landing on it’s wheels, unscathed with the exception of everywhere but the driver’s seat.
Melvis placed the baby seat on the table, and took a sip of his black coffee.
“Baby,” he took another sip, “you are lucky.”
Except for the Rays, with the brother sitting in the chair borrowed from Melvis’s table, the outdoor café was empty. The only Ray to see everything happen was the middle sister, who sat awestruck.
Melvis gulped his coffee, and walked off. The store owner, still staring at the wreckage, spoke to Melvis as he walked by. “That was amazing.”
Melvis shrugged, “Where is my mind?”
“I---what?--- I mean, that was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.”
Melvis shrugged, because he was used to it. Over Kansas, he was born on a Boeing 747, as it was crash landing into a field on which there was a massive meeting all two thousand murderers of pilots who flew Boeing 747s, who had amazingly convened by their own subconscious situations in that field by accidental membership in a club that didn’t exist because of a typo in a flyer that an exhausted teenager was too tired to proofread because her self-important chemistry teacher, who was also attending the nonexistent meeting, had given too much homework as a result of a severe inferiority complex because he was the only teacher that hadn’t traveled any further than the city he was born in because his father had died in a Boeing 747 accident.
The only person to survive the accident, a middle aged police officer, helped deliver the baby, and declared loudly, “June 5th is the most amazing day in all of time.”
“Time is an invention,” thought Melvis in the unspeakable language humans think in, while Melvis’s parents corrected the officer, “Today is June 7th.”
Melvis’s parents, always practical minded, decided to buy the field and the crashed Boeing 747 hull as their permanent residence. The moment he was born, he said his first word, “antidisestablishmentarianism,” and proceeded from nursing to learning how to read so he could figure out what that word meant. In one year, he had learned twelve languages, only to realize the word belonged to English, which was the last language he attempted, because he thought it was the most boring. At the age of two, Melvis had learned to play classical Sebastian Bach on the Piano, ancient Psalms on the lyre, modern Louis Armstrong on the saxophone, and hypnotic Spanish on the guitar. A year later, he developed a post-modern literary style for his eighth novel, independently reinvented algebra, calculus and geometry, and learned to play chess mentally without a board or pieces until he understood computer programming enough to create the world’s only invincible computerized opponent, which incidentally also united quantum physics to ordinary physics as the unstoppable force of Melvis’s chess-related intellect met the unmovable object of the computer’s invincible brilliance. He appeared in every magazine, journal, newspaper, tabloid and (years after he was dead) history book as the world’s greatest prodigy. By seven he had the physical maturity of a twenty year old gymnastic martial-artist track-runner, after mastering gymnastics, basic kung fu, and the four-hundred meter dash. By age nine, he had written an exposé on the meaning of death, drafted an ideal government, proposed a valid solution to peace in Africa, and comprehensively studied medicine well enough to save a bypass surgeon with bypass surgery on the ski slope the surgeon had suffered a heart attack on, while an avalanche cascaded down from the jealous mountain.
On his tenth birthday, he forgot everything, and returned to the normal intellectual value of a ten-year-old. With nothing to do but sit around, while every scientist and representative from every gifted student school in the country and government agent attempted to intervene on the tragic loss of talent, he also lost his incredible physical aptitude. Eventually, they performed a surgery, the purpose and result of which he never knew, and left him with an irreversible feeling of solitude. He asked his dad one day, while they sat together on the side of a river, after catching the largest fish ever caught in Kansas, what the surgery was for.
“You don’t have a brain.” Melvis’s father said, lighting his pipe, “Turns out you were so smart you didn’t need it to function normally.”
“Where is my mind?” asked Melvis.
“Probably wherever in Sam Hill everyone else’s brain has gone to these days.”
Secretly searching for Sam Hill, Melvis wandered into the police station two towns south from his home, and spoke to the police chief, who was the police officer that survived the accident and would later become the governor of Kansas, before leaving to California to pursue his secret passion to be a talent agent.
At birthday parties, Melvis would eat the entire cake himself, down five dozen pizzas, or bring gifts he happened to find on the way to the party. One time, he found a Lamborghini. Another time, he found the world’s largest diamond. Another time, he found a mechanical device that could read minds and turn the bearer invisible as long as he thought about what it would feel like to cease to exist.
The more amazing the things that Melvis did, the more popular he became, and soon sky-rocketed into the top circles of celebrities and politicians who learned the value of surrounding themselves with amazing people. Out of no desire of his own, Melvis became a people-person, because people were simply stunned with how amazing he was, ignoring his desperate questioning for the location of Sam Hill. Without fail, wherever he went, disasters occurred that ended with the dazzling conclusion of miracles, moments of spontaneous charity and love would break with such competitive frenzy that non-profit organizations had to hire the military to protect its volunteers from the leagues of Samaritans desperate to donate. Once the land on which the Boeing 747 crashed and became a home was discovered to contain more oil than all of the Middle East, Alaska and all seven oceans combined, Melvis suddenly was wealthy enough to eliminate the national debt and restore value to gold in such a way that all currency down to the penny could immediately be resold for more than the currency cost to create and sell for a profit. The entire nation was immediately rich with such immediate liberty that the Disaster of the Pennies overtook the country in week’s time, transforming it from paradise to hell and back again until everything restored to the way it had been beforehand, with the national debt now twelve dollars and eighty-one cents larger than it had been before.
Melvis changed his name twelve times, had fourteen facial reconstructive surgeries, and learned to speak twelve languages again all in the hope of avoiding the overwhelming popularity, so he could seek Sam Hill and find his mind again. It wasn’t until the emergence of the Celebrity, whose overwhelming popularity allowed Melvis to slink away for a final surgery and lifestyle alteration, settling this time for the position of talent agent, when he ran into the old police officer-turned-chief-turned-governor-turned-talent agent, who promised not to tell anyone else in the entire world who Melvis had become if he took over his job as an agent so that the old police officer could finally retire and raise a garden of watermelons as he had always wanted.
“Life is meant for watermelons,” the police officer declared on his way out the door, with a large smile, a huge hat, and an illegal cigar. “And even if it’s not, it’s better than any damn job I’ve ever done.”
Melvis sighed, and sat back, and relaxed, because for the first day in his life, nothing amazing happened. Shocked at the sudden realization, he shouted after the old officer, “This is the most amazing day of my life!”
“Well,” he shouted back, “Of course it is; it’s June 5th!” And then he left.
Melvis looked at the calendar on his new desk, and sighed. It was June 7th; anyway, Melvis didn’t care, because it really was the most amazing day of his life.

Gullet Club for the Gravey

Goddamn Destiny, Chapter 2 moved to next post, "Hedgehog's Dillema's Misplaced Title."

....
A note from Monte:

Hey! Yeah. So, hi. I haven't said anything much about reality, or those other issues, political ones and weed ones and the nature of all things ones, and stuff like that. Well, sorry about the intangible issues meant for abstract reasoning, can't do those now.

Anyway, not much to say about reality. It's basically the same thing I said earlier, progress of the film, progress of the scripts, progress of real estate, lots of ultimate frisbree, you know, only a week or two or whatever older.

I was supposed to go to the beach today, but it got pushed back a week, to last all of the week after the next. Instead, tonight, I had two parties at the same time... both at six. I forgot, and commited to both. So, one was at my house, which I stayed until it was nicely underway enough to disappear-- (I disappear ALL the time. I have so many friends that have nothing to do with each other, such that it's like, other worlds almost, and I just dissappear from one to the other. I dunno why, I just do that.)--- and reappear, late, to the other party. I stuck with them, and we made plans to have a porno party later on the week, after first meeting for a yuppie lunch date with all sorts of young attorneys and the future political faces of... this state, at least.

I just ate some chocolate cake. With milk. I have this strange carnal rule about drinking things with my meal---it's like, desperately required to have a drink that 'matches' my food; otherwise, I just won't enjoy the food. Like, coffee or ICE COLD milk with pasteries, or red wine with filets, or root beer with pizza or soda with a hamburger or whatever.

And wow, I'm sleepy. Time for sleepin'... Ha.

OH. Right. So, that story, up there. I guess I should put it on my other blog made for that purpose, but... well.. I'll put it on my to-do list. I mean, if I ever bother to do that, too. Man.
Anyway, the story is a thing I won't discuss much, and will just let unravel, and critque is appreciated, and YES, it's all planned out already, and YES, I just lied. So. I dunno.

Wow, I'm tired. I'm not even going to proofread that last paragraph; I hope it came out right. ANYWAY. Goodnight!

It's raining outside.

Goddamn Destiny

It all started with a superhero. He didn't really have a name, you know, like (InsertRandomArticle)Man until after he died. That's the thing. You see, he figured out how to make some sort of magnetic armor, basically to dispel bullets, and he had this staff that had the magnetic strength of ten men or something. But it didn't do a thing to help his real life. That's where he died, in an accident as random as the mugging that distracted him from committing a robbery he built the suit for, becoming something noted as heroic.

"Goddamn word, 'hero.'"

"What's wrong with hero?" asked his date the next night after the incident. He didn't answer, and instead reclined in his seat, lit a cigarette, and took a sip of the glass that he’d left there a few minutes before. As he lifted it to his lips, expecting Jack, he tasted something else…

"Water." He said.

"What?" asked his date.

He ignored her, and instead thought about his drink. Huh, he thought, I drank all the alcohol, and the ice melted, and now it’s just water. I haven’t tasted just water for a long time. It’s good.

Anyway, that was just a distraction, to keep his attention off of the irony that he said the same thing during that unheroic, serendipitous night; it was snowing then, obviously, when he showed up on top of a random convenience store, where he heard someone getting mugged or something below. Jealous, he swept down to prevent the cops from arriving earlier than was necessary. In a bloody explosion, he crushed the first man's skull that splatted onto the snow with the glimmer of a Christmas tree. The other two men knew they ought to retreat, but met similarly overviolent ends.

The victim, a carmel prostitute with almond eyes and dark hair, stood up and lit a cigarette.

"You're a hero."

"Goddammed word, 'hero.'"

"What's wrong with 'hero'?" she asked, standing beautiful and erotic in the snow.

He didn't answer right away. Then, bluntly, "Wanna fuck?"

"No."

He approached her, and she shot. He was, of course, impervious to bullets.

"You had a gun?"

"Yeah. Forgot." She shrugged. With similar bluntness, he said, "Lend me a smoke."

She gave him one, lit it, and then they fucked anyway.

She was a sweeter lover than his date the next night when he accidentally tasted the frigid flavor of water, so he never bothered to remember his date's name as he left her in her drunken, exhausted stupor in the sweaty bed in the expensive hotel meant for celebrities like himself.

Weeks later, his agent called far too early in the morning, "Wake up, Joe. You got work to do."

"Goddamned name, 'Joe.'"

"What's wrong with 'Joe'?"

"That's not my name."

"Whatever. Put on a suit, we've got a party to get to."

"What the hell kind of party are you talking about?"

"It's in Tokyo."

Later, while a the party, the agent was about to light a cigarette, when he finally found the drive to quit.

"Why quit?" asked his celebrity client, the secret super-hero.

The agent didn't answer; he was focused on someone else.

You see, at the party was the love of the agent's life, elegantly marrying into a software conglamorate. She, of course, was torn between love and poverty and love and wealth and, more than anything, between what she could have and what she couldn't, and whether it was any different than what she shouldn't have. Neverminding morals, the agent ignored his own girlfriend, to nightly send coded correspondence to his Oriental desire-de-amor, which the Tokyo police meanwhile mistook as references to the agent's secret hobby of grand theft auto and his love's fiance's secret business of importing stolen cars. Having never met in person before, neither knew that they worked with each other.

To distract his love's fiance, the agent introduced his celebrity client, who was, of course, the superhero now dubbed "Fate" by the growing media legend that the hero had gathered for himself in the past weeks of attempted robberies that accidentally turned into the heroic slaughter of unfortunate criminals. Rumors surrounded his arrival in Tokyo, but of course, no one knew he was Fate.

As the agent made love to his fatal female, her fiance interuppted with just enough time to realize this was the worst day of his life as the police invaded, and began shooting. Everyone died, including the agent's celebrity client named Fate. Before dying, Fate lit his last cigarette, and sighed, wondering how his carmel prostitute was doing, which was the first time he ever thought about anyone before.

Meanwhile, no one knew that Fate was actually dead, as rumors filtered out until they reached the eldest child of the Rays, the brother, as he sat back, smoking a cigarette and drinking Jack, wondering who else in the world also enjoyed such things.

"If I could give you immortality, would you take it?" asked the attorney in training that sat next to him in the hazy, red-brick-walled den of the jazz club.

"Sure." Said the brother.

"Oh, also, I've got something to tell you... ever hear of Fate?"

"Yeah."

"No, no, I mean the guy with the name, Fate."

"Nope," said the brother, because he hadn't, and knew less than anyone that Fate was dead. That's okay, because none of those stories had ever occured to anyone in the Ray family, as their understanding of fate had nothing to do with a dead superhero. Instead, they lived life trapped in a place of oblivion. Mom was oblivious because of her selfishiness, as she would sit indulgently on the couch demanding everything that she hadn't time to do herself because the soaps were more important.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" asked her second daughter.
"Like that, like it's my fault." They were agruing about the second daughter's permission to go away for a weekend.
"I don't understand what you're talking about! You're always saying that stuff, I don't understand, what did I do? It's not like you're perfect!"
Mom glared, and looked to her husband. "Don't let her talk to me like that. Do something. Well? Say something. You just gonna sit there?"
"Don't talk back to your mother!" said the father.
"I think she should be grounded---" said the mother.
"Why should she be grounded?" asked the brother.
"Oh, you shut up," said Mom to her son, "You always take her side. You never take my side. Never. Until you have kids of your own, I don't want to hear it.
"Mommy, I want a monkey! Can we get a monkey?" said the youngest daughter.
"Oh, shut up! Does that have anything to do with what we're talking about? Does it? Did I say monkey? No! I didn' say monkey, Mom didn't say monkey, no one said monkey, becasue we're not fucking talking about a monkey!" said the second daughter.
"---Oh, is she ever grounded!" said the mother.
Eventually it would escalate to a yelling match, and everyone would leave angrily, leaving just the father alone in the living room, to contemplate what was right. Dad was oblivious because of his idealism, as he would pace through the house, between his basement lair and his attic room, where he would spend hours contemplating the the immorality of the world and the nature of God. The next day, he went to work, and the Mom cheerfully decorated the house, without cleaning it first, greeting everyone as though no argument had happened.
Not present in the arguement was the the eldest sister, because she had left the house. She was oblivious due to her enormous sense of practicality and mathematical obligation to what wanted to do, without much care as to what that even was. She was the second to move out.
The last sister was oblivious because of her immaturity. Contrary to her immaturity was the negative influence of her mother's lazy selfishness and the postivie influence of her mother's care for everything but a good influence. Also, the last sister had an unnatural maturity to her body managed by an incredbily young age; by four, she had her first pimple; by seven she needed an adult bra; by twelve she had the look of a twenty-year-old goddess, with the simple, childish, immature innocense of a ten-year-old. The result was a dire need on the part of the father to shelther her from her immense popularity at the local middle school.
The first to move out, the eldest of all four children, the brother, was oblivious and aware in a bazaar combination of clairvoyant understanding and stubborn idiocity. Early, he was interested in the important things his philosopher father taught and tolerant of the demands of his worldly mother, but naive to the nature of the world. Then, in response to his overwhelming lonliness, he fell in love, and suddenly learned the entire nature of the world in one morning of passionate kissing, as everywhere, churches held their normal services. From that point on, he fought with stubborn blindness to hold onto a love he believed in stronger than love itself could handle; he was oblivious to everything else, because that's how he thought love should be. Years later, after the enormous exhaustion of a failed relationship finally overcame his stubbornness, he returned to his old home, wiser and sadder. Just as he was the first to leave, he was the first to return.
The only one who hadn't ever been stuck in a state of oblivion was the middle sister, who understood things better than anyone else, in a way that frightened the adults in the family. The mother's response was a cold sense of jealousness against her daughter, as though she were the popular newcomer upsetting Mom's delicate popularity, like in high school. She got ignored, as a result, but blamed for the mistakes of the first daughter.
Nevertheless, time went on while the family went on living on a pile of unresolved problems and enormous potentials that hadn't quite yet been met.
"I've got time," said the brother.
"You do? Good." Said the attorney in training. "Alright. It all started with a superhero. He didn't really have a name, you know, like (InsertRandomArticle)Man until after he died. That's the thing. You see, he figured… "