Warped @ MindSay

ok so this is weird...

so in the morning after i had gotten ready and showered and stuff i walked by the stairs.. and i heard voices downstairs that where all interogatey... (sp.? is that even a word?) and i looked down the stairs and i saw the back of a policeman.... and i was all wtf did i do now?!

so i just minded my own business and went on getting ready, leaving whatever was happening to happen by itself and i was sure my mom would tell me later...

so half an hour later she comes up to my room to explain....

so my grandpa has this like nurse person who comes sometimes to like check things and prescribe things and medical crap like that... and she usually takes him for a walk...

so it turns out that some crazy asshole backed out and hit my grandpa and the nurse!!

like not really hard, there was no major injury (or so my mom says) but some idiot drove a car into an old man and a doctor?! is there a worse sin against humanity?! *goes insane* *kills Dr. Phil*

weird.... i don't see how no one was hurt badly... but that's how it is..

So I went to warped yestrday. I had so much fun and got to meet the guys from AIDEN!!! OMG it was amazing!!!

 

 

I wanna do something tonight, like get drunk or something...I need to get wild n crazy sometimes don't I???

 

Possible updates later

so yeah warped tour was yesterday..

 

pretty fun..lots of sunburn though =[

 

so yeah not too much to say right now..

 

<3Alan

Since everyone in the class seemed to sit in the back and keep their heads down, refusing to raise their arms to answer any questions – in other words, since no one told us about themselves in the last post – I guess I will have to talk about myself (again) in this one.

I’ve been a writer my entire life.  Literally.  As soon as I knew how to construct sentences I’ve been putting them together to form thoughts and stories.  

I started writing my first novel my freshman year of high school.  It was about two different groups of people in the Caribbean becoming caught in the same hurricane/cyclone and ending up in an underwater city – the lost city of Atlantis.  The catch was that when the city sunk, every citizen died anad became a ghost.  The book took the reader through three haunting chapters of frightening adventure.  And then my computer crashed, and the book was gone forever.

My first recognition in writing came long before my computer tried to send me a hint that writing wasn’t for me, however.  It came when I was twelve.  My 7th grade English teacher had us write a story that she was going to submit to a writing contest.  I centered the story around my grandma’s house, which when I was young was about the most frightening place a child could imagine.  I filled the story with as much imagery and symbolism and Edgar Allen Poe ripoffs as my young little mind could concoct.  If I read it now I'd probably think it was laughably bad.

But I suppose for my age it was at least slightly impressive because I won third place in that contest.  I don’t know anything about the other two little pricks that finished ahead of me, but I’m sure by now they're homeless and living in a gutter, sipping on Hurricane malt liquor still tucked inside its brown paper bag.  I’m not bitter, don’t worry.

I continued to write for the next two years, but I didn’t enter another writing contest until I was 15.  A hockey equipment company was giving away some major equipment for the best story of a hockey game.

Now, I had some great stories:

-My team used to play in a men’s league every Wednesday, and the ref became a really good friend of mine.  In one game this like thirty-year-old guy kept riding me, and finally he dropped the gloves and came at me with his bare fists.  I freaked out.  This dude was more than twice the size of me.  But I couldn’t wuss out.  If he dropped his gloves I had to drop mine.  So boom, with a slight flick of the wrists my gloves were on the rink, and my bare fists were clenched and hanging in front of my face.  I braced myself for a massive fist to dislocate some of if not all of my teeth when…

The wind kicked up around me.  A gust of air blew by?  What the hell?

The ref came out of nowhere with lightning speed and jumped this guy.  He was on top of him throwing fist after fist into the man’s cheek, shouting, “He’s fifteen you son of a bitch!”  He spent the night in jail, but I kept my charming good looks.  

-At one game I had forgotten my helmet, so a teammate of mine offered to lend me his…with the caveat that if I scored a hat trick I had to do “the dance” at center ice.

Now, “the dance” was this crazy thing we came up with where the “dancer” glides on one skate while sticking his arms out in front of him and moving them up and down as if half having a seizure and half dancing to a B-52’s song.  It’s really quite awful looking.

Meanwhile, this kid’s helmet was massive and looked like a giant bubble on my head.  I kind of looked like Toadstool from Super Mario Bros.

So two and a half periods go by and I have two goals, and I’m making sure not to score a third so I don’t have to embarrass myself at center ice.  Then, as proof that a God exists and has a wicked sense of humor, I’m streaking down the ice and one of my teammates gets hit into the boards.  He tries to flick the puck away, and somehow it lands right on my stick, ricochets off it, and glides directly into the net where the goalie tried to neuter himself but didn’t kick his leg out in time.  The red light behind the net turns on, putting off a magnificent rouge glow, but my cheeks were a much brighter red.  The screams coming from my bench signified that I had to do “the dance.”  There was no getting out of it.

So I go to center ice.  I look toward my left.  I look toward my right.  I point at my bench.  And I start spazzing out.  I’m gliding all around the ice, bobbing my head, throwing my arms in the air, and just all around looking like a complete jackass.  My teammates got a chuckle out of it, the other team really had no right to talk because I had scored three goals on them and we won 4-2, and I thought that was the end of it.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Three days later I was in my house when I got a call.

“Dude, turn on ESPN 2!”

“What?  Why?”

“Just do it!”

Apparently ESPN 2 had sent a camera crew to film the tournament we were in.  There I was, on national television, doing the seizure patient/B-52’s dance.

But I didn't choose any of those stories.  I figured everyone was going to tell true stories, and I wanted to stand out, so I put my imagination to the test and told a tale about how, after being named MVP of my league’s all-star game, I was abducted by a group of totally outrageous aliens to whom I proceeded to teach the beautiful art of hockey.

First place never tasted so sweet, even if all I beat were a bunch of dimwitted hockey jocks (myself of course excluded from that club).  

I then continued a long history of writing short stories and poems that were printed in various publications, won my “Oscar” at the La Salle film festival, graduated, and started writing novels that I was able to finish.  That’s where this blog comes in – the sad telling of my feeble attempts to get one of those novels published.

And now you’re completely caught up to speed with my writing career, or lack thereof.  Sure, I get paid to write at my company, and my articles for that job get published all the time, but that’s not the type of writing career I’m talking about.

You see, I started writing a novel ten years ago, and someday the finished version of that novel, as well as all the others floating around my warped mind, will be available for purchase at your local bookstore.    

This isn’t a success story, but it’s the story of a future success.