Can you find the glitch in this story??

There is a glitch in this story. Can you find it? I am not talking spelling errors or anything like that.



Urban legends, pshaw! That’s what we all try to tell ourselves when something eerily real threatens our bubble of existence. This threat is “urban” because it is close to home, our home, and “legend” because it could not really be true, could it?
That is exactly what my friend Martin used to tell me. He was a thinker, always trying to figure out why and how, but not so much what. He was all facts and proofs, no conjecture. So when our hometown, Hillside, became afflicted with a panic-like fear of some unknown terror, he was the first to “pshaw” it.
A little kid, a cute one named Bobby, had been riding to school on his bike, when he disappeared. They found his bike in the middle of the sidewalk and his books scattered. The strangest thing was that all of his clothes down to his undershirt were in a heap as well. Some outspoken fanatics claimed that aliens had abducted him, but more commonly suspicions fled to the creepy idea of a pedophile, lurking the quiet streets of Hillside. Martin said, “Now, that’s more like it.” He liked the logic of this answer.
Bobby’s mishap occurred across town. It did not much affect us kids on this side of town. Martin and I continued our carefree jaunts to school. We were only annoyed when our mothers made us drive with them, the first couple of weeks after Bobby disappeared.
But, it happened again, closer to home this time. She was no kid, either. Granny Eplebor had been walking home from the grocery store in a hurry to make lunch for her grandkids. She never returned home. They found her groceries all around her dress and her shoes and even her dentures. While the town mourned, Martin explained to me his theories of why serial killers do this, and how they do that. He and I were not even afraid, certainly not us, we were far too logical to be scared of something like this.
This pattern continued on for a couple of months. As more people slowly disappeared in the same way, fear became an epidemic in the town. Hysteria seeped into every encounter. Furtive glances asked the same question or relayed the same fear: “Are you the killer?”
As hysteria increased, so did the disappearances. This proportional increase was very interesting to Martin. He, being the nerdy, mad scientist type began compiling data about the deaths and the town. He even took it so far as conducting interviews. At first he was just interested in how such tragedy affected the town. Then he began to get more involved. He would not tell me what was going. We stopped having so much fun together because he was too busy being smart.
Finally I bugged him enough about what he was doing that he consented to telling me. He told me that he would come over and tell me. He also told me that I would regret ever wanting to know. This time I said, “Pshaw, bring it on.”
He never made it over. They found him with his notes strewn about his heaped clothes. The notes were shamelessly broadcast in the newspaper. They were really only a few scattered words, “fear”, “contagious” and “combustion”. Goodbye, Hillside.

Another creepy story... especially for me

Bean was a tall, skinny boy, encumbered by all the most unoriginal mockery. His reaction to this hardship was a strange sort of perseverance. His real personality was strangled in public. Everyone saw a scrawny, huge kid with an upturned nose and a strange assortment of moles. He was all arms and legs and torso. Turn a mosquito into a human, and you would get something like Bean.
Bean lived in the sort of arrangement that would tend to produce normal children. He had a mother, a father, an older brother, and two younger sisters. Unfortunately, he was the odd one out. He towered over the males in his family and skyscraper-ed over the females. His arm length spanned a whole wall of his house. Basketball was not an option however. Bean’s gait was as awkward as trying to kiss your elbow in public. His manners were not much better, more like trying to touch your nose with your tongue.
One of his more odd traits was a strange fascination and adoration of his own feet. He kept them very well manicured as a child. As he grew towards adolescence, his fascination got weirder. He named each toe and got little suit for them. He could sometimes be found sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking at his wiggling toes. He would yell to anyone who happened to walk by, “Lookie, lookie! My toes are talking!” Most would hurry by, cringing in shame if related and shuddering in disgust if not.
His family tried to remedy his problem by taking him to gobs of psychiatrists and psychologists and chiropractors and counselors, but every time he persisted in his belief that his toes were talking to him. He would say that at night his toes got up and walked around by themselves, that they talked and moved like little creatures. His earnest story was met with concerned, stern, confused, and disgusted glares.
One day, Bean went outside, stepping lightly, so as not to put too much pressure on his darling toes. He was so concerned for them that he did not watch where he was going and got hit by a semi.
His family was stricken with sorrow, but not in the deep, soul-wrenching way. They were sad on the surface, but inwardly glad to be rid of their stigma child.
A couple of months after Bean’s funeral, the family began to notice mice in the house. They could hear the mice scurrying around and noticed food disappearing from counters. They set traps, but never caught any of them. This continued on and on with no success.
A year was coming up since Bean’s death. On the day of his anniversary, each family member woke up to the strange sensation of a new, perfectly manicured toe on each foot.

mouse-tastic

“Good Morning…”, I yawned, the words sliding out of my tired brain like uncooked burgers. I can never articulate myself well in the wee hours of the morning. My mind is alert and aware, but my mouth is not. Any attempt at conversation with me is futile. But last night had been particularly fatiguing. I was thankful that I had nothing to do on this day. I was looking forward to some good reading and curling up in the couch. Then I looked down at my swollen, bloodied arm and remembered the harrowing events of the previous evening.
I had gone to bed, quite shaken by my discovery and disposal of a mouse in a mousetrap. I had found the mouse quite alive, but stuck to the unforgiving glue of a trap. It was my duty to remove the mouse from the house. I had to kill the creature first.
I had begun the evening with a desperate hatred toward the creatures. I hated their small beady eyes and how they just looked as if they were swarming with germs. My roommate had been the brave one in the battle so far, catching and killing four of the mice, which were infesting our apartment. Finally and unfortunately it was my turn.
I approached the wriggling thing, and my qualms melted from hatred to compassion. I did not want to kill the poor little thing. It was cute and furry and had such sweet little eyes. It even had a cute, little, white, heart-shaped spot on its ear. But it was stuck to a glue trap; death was inevitable. I think that my dissolution into sentimentality could be sensed.
The tea-kettle, our one heavy object, brought about a very humane death for the little mouse. I carefully and quickly got rid of his little body and then headed for sleep. Sleep was granted, but it was very turbulent. I awoke in the deep of the night to frantic, but deliberate scurrying around me. The noise echoed throughout the room and crescendo-ed, then instantly became pure silence. I began to think in that split-second, that it was only dream. But a piercing sensation on my bare arm destroyed any hopes of mere dreams. I looked down and saw five mice with their muzzles burrowed into the skin of my arm. They looked like huge mosquitoes. The pain became too strong, and I entered a trance-like state. I saw each mouse clearly, and one of them had the same white heart-shape on its ear.

It is not as bad as you think

Tonight I am going to clear up a little mystery for all you men out there. I have heard from various male sources that girls must be incapable of flatulating and defecating. I must admit, guilty as proven, we are! Girls are far too sweet and lovable and pretty and cute to ever, ever partake in such offensive activity. An analytical reader might observe that girls do eat however, and something must be done with all that food. I know that men do not want to know any more at all about the process, but listen up! It is better than you think. Girls get rid of food in the same manner that computers delete files. I do not see any waste dropping out of my computer. Computers just spryly dump their crap in the trash can and merrily go on their way. At some point the can empties magically, and all the contents are whisked into Narnia or some other dang magical place. Girls' waste proceeds at the same rate and in the same manner. Isn't it great being a woman?

gymette

I happen to conjure up enough willpower to get my body to the gym on occasion. Well, in my case, I head to a wellness center, not a gym. What is the diffence? Well, gym is short for gymnasium which has to do with gymnastics, gymnasts, gymnosperm, and gymnosophists. What's the root word scholars? GYMNO! Gymno means naked. So when your buddy says, "Hey, I am heading to the gym!", he is actually saying, "Hey, I am heading to the naked!". This could cause quite a stir with the Trinity faculty and student body, who eat in the "little naked". I have stopped going to any gyms, as I believe it promotes disturbing behavior.
I hate to admit that the wellness center also has spawned some weird behavior. Don't blame the center though! Blame the patrons. A new form of exercise has become apparent amongst the wellness center patrons. It is called THiNK! It is based on the studies of a Doctor P. Pan. The theory is that if you think exercise thoughts, you will begin to exercise. Now I have nothing against this logic, but these people should know how ridiculous they look! I saw one of the followers with her eyes shut tight and thinking hard. She was laying on a floor mat (Now seriously, what is the purpose of a floor mat? The mat is just as hard as the floor and way more full of previous user's stink.) ANYWAYS, she was laying on the floor mat and all of the sudden, her legs, head, and arms began moving in the air as if she were riding a bike on her back down a mountain and around a curve at a good clip. I blinked, twice, and then pondered my life.
Wellness centers, although not naked, are still pretty depressing places. Everyone is running or cycling or ellipticalling or THiNKing towards the one and only TV. It is like a bunch of soggy, red-faced people trying to catch a TV and never quite making it. Everyone has this serious look on their faces, saying "Yeah, I chase TVs, wanna make something of it? Don't smile at me, I have muscles bigger than your head!" Then the occasional sweet exerciser flashes a grin. You recoil: "What?! No smiling in here! We have to focus on that darned TV. I hope no one saw that for your sake." Then (for their own sake) you spray some of that mysterious sweat-drip cleaner right into their sweet smile. Ugh, maybe we should all join the gym.

Great Song...

Here's a great and, I think, little known song. I heard it at a Providence play once. It's called "Try To Remember".

Try to remember the kind of September
when life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
when grass was green and grain was yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
when you were a tender and callow fellow,
Try to remember and if you remember the follow.

Try to remember when life was so tender
that no one wept except the willow.
Try to remember when life was so tender that
dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender that
love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember and if you remember then follow.

Deep in December it's nice to remember
altho you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December it's nice to remember
without the hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December it's nice to remember
the fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December our hearts should remember and follow.

Oh and YAY!! I will be spending the weekend in CO, skiing hopefully. Much fun!

The End of an Era

The time has come. I always knew that it would someday. But so soon, so heartbreakingly soon! I must bid adieu to my claim to fame, my brief moment of basking in the brand-new of a brand-name. My Apple G4 Powerbook has been forced to abdicate his throne to the saucy newcomer Macbook Pro. Now really, who is going to want to say: "Yeh, Yeh, I have a Macbook Pro." It just sounds so cheap, so chintzy. No one will utter such, such, such CRAP. They will get no business. No one except the occasional LOSER will even think about getting one. And all those loyal Powerbook owners will bear the scorn of betrayal in smooth silence, losing no shred of dignity.
This issue holds such a place in my heart that I decided to interview my jilted laptop. He goes by the name of Junior. He has a dazzling 15.1" widescreen display, a smooth scratch-resistant Titanium case, a 1.67gh superdrive, and a great personality. (Sorry, Ladies! He's taken!)
--begin interview--
CM: So Junior, how do you feel about the the newcomer on the marketplace, Macbook Pro?
JUNIOR: It's 12 o' clock.
CM: Do you think that you and your kind will have any major conflicts with the Macbook Pro?
JUNIOR: It's 12:15.
CM: I know, I know. Stop being so antsy. It's not like you have anywhere to be.
JUNIOR: You are now running on reserve battery power.
--interview cut short--
Sorry for Junior's taciturnity and lack of focus. You can clearly see how obviously stressed he is by the unfortunate turn of events. In fact, gosh, I think that he has stopped taking his pills...
I knew that this day was inevitable, but Junior, poor innocent Junior was unaware. He was caught off guard by the tragic announcement of a replacement for him in the Apple family. And now he is on reserve battery power. People should really start to think harder about the trauma they incur in the name of innovation.



PS: Thanks to Tim for post ideas.

Flowers

Apples To Apples

Apples To Apples: Entertaining fun for kids of all ages! Party Pack edition
This is the delightful game that I played tonight. It is basically a work of the devil. Everyone is dealt cards with nouns on them from "cleaning the bathroom" to "socks". The "judge" then draws a card with an adjective on it. Some common examples of these adjectives would be "sultry", "sexy", and "sensual". The premise of the game is to read other people's minds, namely the mind of"judge" and pick a noun that will win the ruling of aforesaid "judge". The chosen card is then given to the winner, and this adjective is supposed to describe that person's personality. Okay, so far, we have many abominations. We have mind-reading, relativism, three different s-words, cleaning out the toilet in your socks (Gross, who does that?!?), horoscopes and murder and cannibalism and stereotyping. All of these things combine to make one of the most dangerous games for the youth of our day and age! (Is it dayinage, dayanage, day in age? I don't know.) I reluctantly took part in this mind-weakening drivel in the name of research! In the end I found out my true personality: Callie Miller is Firey, Refreshing, Useless, and Senseless. I think that makes me a Powerade flavor. So in the end I leave this dilemma up to the confidently reasonable reader: Is Apples To Apples evil? or Is Callie a Powerade flavor who should not be commenting on the morality of Apples To Apples?

p.s. A troubling question: Does pizzeria rhyme with diarrhea?

Don't forget.

Have you ever missed something so much that you don't even know how much you miss it? Do you ever wonder why people who have suffered greatly are able to be so seemingly detached? I think that the reason that outsiders are confused by this detachment is because they can let themselves be touched by your pain. They can feel it for themselves when they are with you. They let their emotions run when their hearts are briefly touched by compassion. The pain of the sufferer is not merely touching their hearts, it is surrounding them. The heart is sunk, not just stepping lightly in a puddle. They must live with this condition every day. Is the detachment really a detachment then or an acceptance of the inevitable? That's just the way it is. I suppose the key is not to become numb and not to escape it. Avoiding the temptation of escape is really hard though. It is much, much easier to just put a filter on your brain and only let the good stuff come in. Just keep the bad stuff on a back burner.

I want to enjoy every minute of my life that I have been given. I don't think "enjoy" means always be happy either. I want to realize the richness and love it. I wish though that there had been more chances.

"This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved." -Held
Love is the sacred in life. We must cherish love, it connects us to the divine.

DON'T shoot the breeze!

"Love is like the wind, you can't see it, but you can feel it."

Love is the greatest of the theological virtues. Its bond lasts from the mortal to the immortal. Thus, it bonds souls. If souls can transcend the barrier between Heaven and earth, then love must be able to as well. They who have died still love us who are alive. If this is true, then love is our link to the divine. Love between beings is our heaven on earth.

The Stars

The stars were splendourfully out tonight. It has been so cold and cloudy recently that we have not gotten to see those little buggers. But they pulled through the hard times and peeked out at us tonight. I can't quite explain my fascination with all things twinkly. I believe that it is purely a personality quirk, but what if it isn't? What if it is some strange, non-hereditary disease that plagues 0.00005% of the population? What if I am about to die due to a strong case of sparklitis? This could be dire. I will break out in a sparkly rash which will result in star-shaped boils and eventually explosion. Sheesh, I hope it is just a personality quirk.

WARNING: Typically annoying college-student couple sighting! There's too-cool-for-school college student female with a short trench coat or some other such stylishly world-wise apparel, sporting a pair of slug-boots tan, slurping down a skinny fat half-caf grande latte machiatto frappaccino coco loco mocha in a decidedly brand-name paper cup with sleeve , and dejectedly dragging on a straggly cigarette. She wearily eyes her slouchy boyfriend who has straggly brown hair underneath some strange thimble hat with the colors of the Jamaican bobsled team. His canvas shoulder tote is thrown across one of his droopy shoulders, and there are some soy-products poking out of one of the pockets. His pants flare at the bottom, but unfortunately, they are not quite long enough to cover up his brightly-striped tennis shoe. Yep, he actually just bought--no, his parental credit card just bought-- brand new expensive, personally designed nikes from justdoit.com, and dangitall they are not quite world-weary enough yet. The girl walks like an ostrich, with her boot-laden legs leading the way alongside boyfriend, whose long stride is only hindered by his terrible posture.

Me photo

This is me. HeeHee!

Hello!!

Ahh.. what am I doing? Help me!