POSSIBLY UNFINISHED, if that makes any sense.
This is just a quick piece I came up with after hanging around today and thinking. It's almost entirely off the top of my head so any comments you'd like to offer are welcome. Please enjoy this experimental humour story piece anyway.

"You know, things aren't really that different.", an associate was trying to explain to me. "We have all of these computers, all of these books at our disposal, but they're not really saying anything to me, it's a load of shit."
Being the funny man, the deadpan snarker and all-round unlovable guy who you've just got to laugh at in this act, I added, "Well, you need to read the material first." Unfortunately, he ignored my comment, and continued on with his thoughts as they poured out: "In the '20s, they had those bars. The speakeasies. Today, we have the crack vending machine on the roof, the little stone garden peppered with moss where we party every night and if the security men show up, we either cover the machine up in a rug, or welcome him in. It depends on what the looks on their faces are like, what their eyes are coloured, you know?"

"We still have the ones around that are just damned unpatriotic when it comes to the weather. Look at that, man, pure bloody England is what that is." I tried looking at England's renowned pastures, medieval castles and pleasuring cafes where a man can buy a pristine bag of jelly babies and enjoy an intellectual, yet morally questionable piece of Italian cinema from the early 1980s without the hassle of caring about the idea of public image. I couldn't see any of that, as much as my associate was beckoning me to agree with him. I only saw a force of powerful spray attacking the side of this "information centre" with splashes and splatters. When the powers above decided to rally up high for the next run, I could make out the trendy grey bars and plates filled with holes that dangled from the windows into the wet outside and someone in the car park attempting to protect themselves with a bare piece of paper that turned soggy from the jabs of the remaining raindrops and failed to protect their master.

The straight man informed me that life is about learning from things like this. You love what you can, and then learn from what you do. You do what you do and learn from what you love. He was getting metaphysical with me, and I enjoyed it. Metaphysics run me out of a job because they can answer quick remarks by relating it all back to me being unaware with everything real. Thankfully, they're not for everyone, sometimes they get booed off stage by the audience. "Learning is realistic." he was telling me, "We'll never know everything, so it's a realistic goal for everyone. We know there's not going to be a Heaven, so we may as well learn things now, just to get them out of the way." Then he went on to the metaphysical side of governmental policy, and I'll admit that he lost me. I'm not sure, but I think the Metaphysics were lost too. They should've brought a map.

Two thoughts grabbed me after our discussion. One was the (homespun) idea of repeating things over my head, once I'm dead, rotting in the ground, for some test I have to take. I could imagine, being so close to remembering what soft, healthy skin felt like, but biology was never a strong point for me, and I'd have forgotten most of it by then. I don't think biology is a strong point for many rotting corpses actually. Lack of interest.

The other thought was living to learn. That got me excited again, and started to consider that maybe, we don't just live to learn, but we die to learn, and learn to die and everything else in between. I sipped on some coffee in the library, and began to think: what if I died right now, and was taken to a very similar place?

***

The council could only afford to keep two libraries open in the afterlife. This was a better deal than you might think, since both libraries had everything in existence inside. Which library you visited depended on two factors: the bus routes in operation, and the Library Master's decision. The Library Master would read all about you, grabbing biographical details, compiling critical essays and taking quotes from the most extensive letters outside existence. While the Library Master only touched the world through paper, he knew it better than anyone else, and that's not because paper is infallible, but because there's enough of it and the printed text it holds to go around. What's more is that he was always aware that it was all recyclable, and if he ever made the choice to recycle everything in existence, he reassured everyone he loved that it was not out of hatred, but out of him wanting to do some good to the world he had put so much effort into guiding and chronicling from his strange-smelling room at the back of the old building.

Mr. Peterson, now past his prime, was given permission to enter the Manor Library, the most efficient and comfortable place to learn in my abstract world. Mr. Peterson, the quiet sort of chap he was this far into life, decided to visit his own personal collection, filled with books he'd read over ten times before and magazines following the deceptively not mundane, at least in the eyes of Mr. Peterson. On his first days, one could barely see his eyes. He sat back in his average sized chair, put his old hunter's cap on the table to his left, showed a big toothy grin and let his pupils swing back into his head, only the pearly white balls showing. He looked as adorable as the rest of Manor Library, and saliva dribbled down his chin.

Other parts of Manor Library were not as quiet as the part Mr. Peterson had taken a liking to, but they were pleasurable nonetheless. Some areas hummed with machines that spoke softly as their human users requested everything there is to know from their databases of all. In other sections, muffled melodies could be heard if you stood close enough. The good, loved people of Manor Library frequently listened to every record in existence, with eyes closed to absorb all of the intended effect. When their lids came up for air, blessed white marbles flashed out again to all, to show that Manor Library was fulfilling what it set out to fulfil.

The Library master's least favourite occupants of his favoured creation were the debaters on the bottom floor. They required too much attention, and forced him to step in and moderate when they question the validity of this bizarre otherworld. Some were better than others at self-control, a special sort of maturity, but the Library Master found it hard to differentiate between them all and just stuck them all in a series of small rooms furnished with a table each, a set of chairs each and a white board each, with an appropriate set of pens. In an early disaster, the Library Master had not ordered enough packets of pens, forcing at least twenty discussion groups to hold seminars on the question of who had taken the pens, and upon learning their distrust of each other had been a worthless exercise, someone had to bring up nuclear weapons, the suffering in third world nations of their respective times, and what particular forum moderators have for breakfast, in one sentence, and everything kicked off again.

Still, the best debaters weren't the worst library users in the world, since there is still Sunnyside Learning Institute to examine. The occupants of this building were not disliked by the Library Master, but he deemed it a necessary destination for the journeys of some. Sunnyside was, without saying really, less desirable than Manor Library. The material was all there, but the users tended to find the books they were looking for were recently taken out. Alvy, a newcomer, had found this out while reading about how to re-attach pieces of your finger to the main body (this defect was the Library Master's main concern about Alvy, and it was his main concern of Alvy's intense father, but that's hopefully not another story). He got five pages in to his relevant section, before getting confused and tired, putting the book back on the shelf. When he returned the next day, the top of his pinkie hanging loose from using his halfway knowledge, and with horror, he realised that the book he had used was nowhere to be found. He pleaded to the library assistant behind the entrance desk for any information on the book, only to be told, "I'm sorry sir, I'm afraid it was taken out yesterday. It will be available in a month.", before turning into a horror film demon for a split second, and then plunging into some more of Sunnyside's never-ending paper work. It was not the last time Alvy heard that line. In Sunnyside, you didn't learn things technically, but you drilled whatever pathetic, useless, and uninteresting (in your eyes) fact you could find right into your skull and call yourself learned.

And the rolling stack was an annoyance. Sunnyside held copies of every journal in existence, with historical records and newspapers and some artwork. There was an area set out for this, with comfortable cotton sofas and coffee machines, and areas suitable for both the sociable reader and the not-so-sociable reader. Only readers were allowed in there. No one ever went in there. The rolling stack was inoperable in Sunnyside, not because of a mechanical failure (the Library Master has a blessed engineering team), but because a young lady stood in an aisle examining its one set of journals: critical evaluations of Roland Barthes. She stood in shadow. She took her time.

And the potential readers of every journal in existence were unable to make her move on. She was taken away with her reading. The listings of all the journals winked at the would-be readers, and the numbers scanned all the way down the coffee-stained pages. "I want to read!" a man yelled, "Please madam! I waited my whole life to be able to read Literature/Film Quarterly on a regular basis!"
Another man wept, "I was once published in Writer's Forum, it was touching, a memento of my last few months!"
"Let's close her in!" a younger man exclaimed, "Spin the wheels! Engulf yourself in knowledge! Squish her guts! She's not real, none of this library is at all real!" and he tried to turn the wheel in order to open the rolling stack.

But it was no good. The object was locked in place somewhere. Every man and woman sobbed again and again. They had forgotten they had attended this ceremony several hundred thousand times already, and in a day, they'd probably forget again, and they'd cry and one of the younger residents would try to be brave again. Drying his blotched and colourful eyes, one resident, once noted for his apathetic nature in life, looked up at the ceiling. He found up there on the stale, custard-coloured wall, that someone had scratched a phrase in somehow. It read "Thou hast forsaken thy mind.", and the man took comfort in learning this.

Note: This is a pretty experimental attempt after ninety minutes of playing around with something that jumped right out of my head. I hope you enjoy reading this story anyway - it's not particularly complete (it's very short for one thing), but you know.

I experienced my first manic depressive episode in the prime of my teenage years, but luckily I was able to dig dig dig right into the spiritual mush of my brain. With a bit of excessive watering through my college years though, the seeds of this started to grow, at first representing nothing more than a one-off panic attack, but eventually blooming into a marathon of suicidal thoughts. I can't deny that as an unhappy, psychotic once neurotic, essentially unable young man, I was a pretty decent gardener. But, no, like what you're thinking as you read this note, you can't bring everything down to metaphors, as "creative" as it may be. I shudder to myself sometimes.

But not anymore, as I tell this story on the last day of my life, and that is no mere prediction. I am dressed in the finest suit I could ever think of affording: an open wool number lacking in tie, perfect for my performance here tonight. Years or even months ago, I would never have expected to have this situation set up right in front of me, so I'm looking to present myself in an above average fashion. My hair is tied back and it feels more stylish than ever as I run my hand through the straight strands, picking up an unusual amount of dampness for the situation. The stage curtain is directly in front of me and as it lifts itself mechanically, I step onto the stage with my hands in my pockets and an exaggerated Buster Keaton expression forced onto my face. The small studio audience clap. The rest of the studio seems blurry.

But this story is very quickly getting ahead of itself. It would be more interesting if I told you about myself or at least, my life after college, when my rut was at its extreme. It just provides some back story so you don't walk out on me like I walked out on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest in an effort to stem an anxious weed. I had moved back in with my mother. In reality I moved back in with both of my parents, but my father had made it house policy for him to dive from the nearest window whenever I was to walk into the same room as him, so it seemed as though it was just me and Ma. The one time I did manage to catch my father was in the front room as he sat by the neatly compiled fire with a bottle of whisky in his left hand. We glanced at each other, and as he turned his stare to an invisible object to my right, he muttered, "That's a good job there son. A good job.", the same words he rented to me on the day I left for college. He poured his whisky into a glass on the nearby table, and I regretfully let him be. I attempted to hang myself that night, but I've never been good with knots.

My mother tended to find my attempted nooses amongst the balls of paper littered around my room, a room which was once welcoming to me with screenshots from my favourite films and photographs dotting the wall, but at this point acted as a dated shell. As I beat myself, I concluded that convicts with over twenty years of experience on the inside would have a tough time adjusting to the chamber, though I admit to never really playing interior designer and sprucing up the place. My mother always pretended never to find the nooses I'd made, even when I left them in plain view after an unsuccessful night, in order to gauge her reaction. She never said anything to me, though I believe I could hear sounds through the wall which could've been shrieks of laughter or sobs of emotional pain. To be frank, it could've been either. Maybe it was both.

In college I had studied the art of writing, particularly the art of writing for comedy, intended for performance by me or someone in my trust. I was burned out on day one of the first year. Comedy is a real fertiliser for depression. I was instructed by every last one of my tutors to write from personal experience, and I argued that this in fact gave me limited options seeing as how this made me a cliché in the eyes of them all. After reviewing some of my drafts, one tutor laughed through his spectacles and sighed, "These would probably more appropriate in the medical science department.", as his laugh slowed down and his face took on a more serious character before quickly handing my short portfolio back to me. It was usually either medical science or cliché: I got two types of feedback from anything I could come up with and right now I'm starting to stagger around the garden trying to remember, so I'll try to move on.

Nevertheless I had taken the lesson of writing from personal experience on board, and I figured that anything I write in a darkly comical way about my social phobias, my tendency to attempt suicide four or five times a week, my complete dissatisfaction with my mother's cooking amongst ever other little piece of pain in my life, could be pushed right into a quick script starring me trying to help people with suicidal feelings.

At this point my mind is getting hazy, even though it seems as if these events were only happening minutes ago in identically hazy moods. I personally blame the mix-up of chemicals in my brain forcing me to rethink things due to my general misfortune in life. At this stage, things don't seem so vivid, which explains my train of thought in this story and the structure. Apologies to those reading this, but if you knew me, you probably knew what you were getting in to.

After a few months of writing basic scripts, doodling my long-dead cat as a superhero fighting a team consisting of Hitler, Mao and the sadistic Jerry from the Tom And Jerry cartoon shorts, my mother stealthily yet noticeably poking her head down the hall at my room, I decided to take a challenge with the local TV branch. I wrote a quick draft about Donald Mathews, a therapist who makes "deals" with pissed off spirits of high school students who had committed suicide. It was largely played for laughs, though some of the references and the style itself may be lost in the process. My fondness for vampires in particular was also evident.

I approached a team of three smartly dressed people who were constantly wriggling their pens on little pieces of paper, two men and one woman in a conservatively long black dress. We were in a low-grade office, a concoction of cheap paintwork, stale cigarettes and after-hour tears. I felt uncomfortable, but maybe that's because I was being reviewed by television people. They taught us at college that it happens to everyone, though I suspect I was at a disadvantage in learning how to cope. The first man, blondie, looked up at me to speak.
"We've read through your scripts Mr. Michaels, and...", he trailed off and looked back down at his desk. The second man, silver haired, looked up and spoke to complete the first man's sentence. They always talked one at a time, as if that were the universal rule of this situation.
"We believe that suicide is a bit of cliché." he put it bluntly. I was a little surprised, my look showed it. The woman spoke up,
"Do you believe that you could write anything more to real life?"
"Well... miss, madam, miss, I do try to put life experience in, it was my... real specialty, James the vampire nerd bullied by the basketball team aside-"
"We're not saying it's garbage." said blondie, which was odd because I wasn't thinking that at all. "We're just saying that suicide is unrealistic."
"We've spoken to the television watchers of today..." started Silver.
"Not directly." the woman added, as if it were necessary by looking at me.
"The viewers don't want unrealistic things. They want things they can relate to, like celebrities exhibiting their talents or hard-hitting, yet non-lethal cynicism."
"Are you guys all there?" I burst out suddenly.

I was really not surprised that I found myself with an opportunity to get on television in the end, unaware of what was going on, given what happened recently in my life and how my life had pulled itself along without me realising it. I picked up a script I had been given in my private room (and it was marked with my name) for what I was informed was a pilot. I questioned the function of pilots in today's world in my mind, but for once I was particularly pleased with myself. My joy blossomed once I read of the plot to this first episode. I didn't deny this thing would be a hit, and I don't deny it now as I stand here facing the audience and their hopeful faces, lest they don't receive the treatment they came here for.

A camera is aimed directly at my face. I am well rehearsed in my bit here tonight, explicitly different from the usual dramedy you would expect out of me. The humour in my script is really quite incredible, and I'm unsure as to how I could come up with something so genius without suffering for it later via a headache or some sort of infection. I shuffled forward in the now silent studio, to a few giggles. The lights brightened themselves slightly. I have not changed my style since I set foot on this stage. I clear my throat.

"Somebody shoot me." I mutter, and the audience applauds and balloons fall from the ceiling and the sound people insert an effect similar to what you might hear in an arcade when you win on one of the more traditional offerings. My mouth slowly increases in size to form a grin without bearing any teeth, and I reach around inside my left suit pocket to pull out my handgun to shoot myself in the head.

I wasn't there to see the show, but it was apparently the most authentic suicide ever recorded in the area. My only regret is that the show did not go out live, and I was disappointed that the studio never got back to me on the audience's response.

Note: hey guys, I figured it had been a while since I unleashed any creative efforts on Newgrounds, so I give you this attempt. It's not long, and frankly, hasn't had much effort put into it, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed playing around with it. Feedback is, of course, appreciated! Thanks!

I tell the following story not only as a graduate of the General Conditioning and Growing Centre, but also as an employee: a devoted biological researcher for over twenty years. I believe I accomplished much, though what exactly I've discovered, thought about and made efforts to change within the institution will likely be unknown to you, reader, listener. This story, this brief snapshot of my twenty long years of examining the human body, eradicating all disease and standing in rivers as various fungi started growing around my ankles, is not intended to be used politically. I suppose a political application of this piece is, overall, inevitable but I do not tie myself to any ideology that intends to use this as some form of propaganda. I'm a political radical eighteenth and an establisher of solid truths first.

As you may be able to work out on your own, my position within the GCGC did not hold much ground, considering the fact I'm a biological scientist. Biology is the smallest department of the GCGC, the site where human beings are fed the best psychology for life, from conception to death. It's all relevant. I worked only in a small team, and at many points, our desks would be empty, the phones would be silent and the particularly ill babies dying together in a corner marked with bones and bodily fluids. Cleaning was not part of our jobs: in the worst times, I went outside to stroll around my greenhouse, admiring my vast collections of flowers while that task was carried out. Some have muttered to me many times when I bring this up, that the entire practice of enjoying the plant life is devoid of emotion; that flowers don't evoke anything like an old-fashioned pair of headphones do as the user gently absorbs all they can. Those people are correct.

And obviously, the developer and founder of the GCGC's ideals is Dr. Ned Macklin. Once a disillusioned biologist straight out of the average academic program of yesteryear, Dr. Macklin struck a chord with many in the scientific community when he took matters into his own hands over the case of Simon J. Fuk, a child who had an incessant crying disorder, by smashing the child's face with a wooden mallet, with full force from the right side. Simon J. Fuk's face was mashed in such a way where, as I have suspected once or twice, it was quite possibly impossible to make even the tiniest whimper, but nevertheless it was believed that Dr. Macklin had stumbled upon a marvellous psychological breakthrough. At the time, the building that is now the GCGC was a struggling private hospital with, as Dr. Macklin put it later, "incapable practices on how to manage human behaviour". Dr. Macklin's ideas were a big red button of safety for the place, and the senior staff, however "traditional" they were according to Dr. Macklin, loved it. With the technology soon produced to push Dr. Macklin's ideas more thoroughly, the GCGC was created as a way of combining the arts of teaching and informing every individual in civilised society, who they are, what they are, and why they are. The labels are automatic. The labels are also barely ever exchangeable.

One of my first jobs under Dr. Macklin's regime was applying the new speakers developed in the technology department to the growth of human embryos. The procedure called for me or another one of my associates to push the speaker into the mother's vagina and into the uterus, as we played motivational extracts from the healthiest thinkers and designations for life. That last point is a principle of Macklinism: it's easy to recognise someone today, because every individual is developed from birth with no complications. Nobody else raised here after Simon J. Fuk can cry because they have been informed that it is unnatural. The fact is that if you are flawed or even remotely subjective to living (the procedures aren't always successful, this has been accepted and shrugged on), you deserve to be treated like a dying cat, one that drags itself across a filthy floor, dirt sticking to it as it loses the strength to clean itself and eventually collapsing like the stack of sticks it will then be. Like I hinted at, monitoring this was one of the biology department's top duties.

But I became disillusioned myself. Macklin's ideas, while convenient for those who looked down at the gaming table of humanity and held all the cards, there was very little opportunity for social advance, and I like social advance, a lot in a matter of fact, looking at who I am now. I was strong enough to change my label, let's say. Secretly looking through my records in the organisation department (the second biggest department in the GCGC), I discovered I had been set to low authority from birth. I became a biologist at the age of one week.

Where did I discover the idea of social, intellectual, cultural advance? I drew blood from myself, looked at my cells, chopped off a toe, examined my hair closely, measured my genitals, everything I could think of myself that might have been a potential factor in my new-found anomaly. I found nothing, as much as I wanted to force myself into that corner of the main lab, and curl up into a ball on the hard seats. It's a question without an answer even today.

The only conclusion I came up with was that Dr. Macklin had made an error all those decades ago. I looked through Dr. Macklin's book, Ways Of Thinking, the Bible of today, totalling in at about one hundred and fifty pages, and found nothing relating to advance needs or questions. I thought I should do this myself, with integrity as a man of science. It took a lot of persuasion to come to this in my mind: one half wanted to go right through with it, to confront Dr. Macklin in his office and tell it to him straight, for a good of people everywhere. The other half of my mind wanted to me to vomit as I lay upon the bed and go to work the next day, completely undeterred. "Two minds are better than five." I told myself, as I tried not to hypo-ventilate.

I booked an appointment with Dr. Macklin in the morning. His secretary told me he was easily available that day, as he had spent the previous night leisurely playing cards. I was incredibly nervous, and I believe it showed in my appearance. I had never met Dr. Macklin in person before, despite my twenty years of service to the GCGC, though I was familiar with his image off the back of Ways Of Thinking, magazine covers and stained glass windows. The secretary got me into the office quickly. The office itself was unremarkable, rather like the rest of the GCGC complex, but Dr. Macklin sat behind his desk with a cigar resting in his mouth. His tool gave the room a more unique aroma.

Leaving the cigar in, "Thank you Greta." he murmured, and hinted the secretary to leave us with his eyes. After the door closed, he looked at me more directly: "Great girl." he said, "One of my daughters I think. What assistance do you need today Dr..." he paused briefly and made a glance at my nametag, "Warner. I believe replacement and reparation of biological instruments can be taken care of in technical maintenance, though I understand the mistake given that you're new here."

"N-n-no, sir I b-believe." I stopped speaking to sort myself out. Dr. Macklin briefly rolled his eyes. "Dr. Macklin, I came here today to ask you personally about some of your ideas."
"Okay." he replied, his eyes now focused on a piece of paper in his right hand.
"Well, you see here, I was wondering why your science hardly allows for social advance and, well, questioning. It just seems a little alien to me, and I'm not sure why, sir. I've run biological tests on myself and-"

Dr. Macklin had started staring at me with gaping eyes and he had put the paper down.
"You see Dr. Macklin, aren't we all essentially children as a result of this? I'm not so good with psychology... I'm just wondering if you are comfortable with that theory, and all." I took a deep breath. My question was the one phrase I've had trouble saying in my whole life.
Dr. Macklin took the cigar out of his mouth, moved it into his left hand and started flicking through the pages of a copy of Ways Of Thinking that took up the centre space on his desk using his right hand.
"Where the Hell are you taking this from?" he asked slowly, still scanning the book's material.
"Dr. Macklin," I took a deep breathe, "It's not in the book. That's what I wanted to ask you about-"
"-Oh, I think I understand Mr. Warner. You're a bit ill, a sudden irregularity has come over you, yes? You feel slightly unwell, yes? The biology labs will do that to you Mr. Warner. The atmosphere's no good, there's always a weakling, a failure in biology. The whole thing's too negative."
"But sir, it's what I've studied with all my colleagues-"
"Was there anything about using my time on tape 16B: biological study, Warner? Let's see, human biology, plant life, study of the environment, microbes, genetics, I don't see it Warner."

My patience hadn't been lost with Dr. Macklin, but I'm not sure if there was any patience to be had anyway. He had chewed me up by this time already, and I knew my time at GCGC was over, and therefore my thinking was over, as GCGC is essentially a brain that has swelled to the size of a significant building. It was made clear in the first years of life what this sort of thing would do to a man, and my risk had so far been fruitless for all.
"Listen here Warner, you currently have two choices as far as I'm concerned, and trust me, I'm not surprised at your little outburst against society here, people have come and gone before you of course. Now look, two choices: you go back to the GCGC nurseries and learn arithmetic with more informed individuals at the price of private humiliation given your conditioning thus far, or you get as far away as you can from the GCGC by the end of the day."

My response was so ridiculous.
"Can someone tend to my greenhouse when I leave?"
"Your greenhouse?" he responded, progressively angrier, "Your greenhouse? Where does your god-damned greenhouse fit in here?" he held up the copy of Ways Of Thinking and pointed at it. "No no," he kept on, "I might just take my pair of umbilical cord scissors, that I've stored as a memento to the early years, and cut the stems of every last hydrangea or whatever the Hell you've got in there. I don't care, and obviously by and large, society doesn't care."

I stumbled out of Dr. Macklin's office, struggling to breathe. I was unsure of what to do now: life outside of the GCGC is something I only grew accustomed to after many years, and still every little thing I learned from the institute bully my more independent thoughts until they are forced to move out of my mind. The new world of opportunity was definitely more daunting than the authoritarian science of Dr. Macklin, in bizarre ways that you might not be able to understand with or take as a realistic prospect in your life. Dr. Macklin was right about how to really perfect society. But then I saw Greta, the secretary.

I have no idea what came over me at that point. Greta had just been watching me with a slightly concerned look on her face, but I knew there was nothing she really could do to help me out at that point. Something inside me though had lit up like the fireworks on St. Ned's Day. Greta wasn't particularly attractive and she hadn't really made acquaintance with me at all: this was no physical thing, and maybe it had nothing to do with Greta at all. I went down several floors into my home, the biology department.

Setting up my last experiment took me a considerable amount of time, but I was enjoying a period of euphoria where I was unable to doubt myself. Not unlike the maddest of mad scientists you hear rumours and maybe read stories about, I adjusted the technology in the embryo classroom, hooked up a microphone we had once used for hearing tests into a system and began preparations for some home-made instructions. I also recorded everything I said into the microphone in that dark room. I sipped water from a decrepit glass and jotted all of my speech to paper. My most trusted colleague, who was aware of my imminent departure from the business of life already, came in to check on me. She removed her glasses after she had finished reading my transcript and I gave her a tired grin of confidence.
"Have I read this correctly?" she asked me after a minute, quite possibly doubting my sanity at this stage.
"Yes you have." I responded slowly. "The next embryo to be examined in this room will grow up in this world believing they are a traditional garden pond frog, because that is what I've told them they will be."

Two or three years later, I was sitting in my new home, a plain flat with one bed, one chair and one table, when I first heard news on the development of Jonathan Froggart from my former co-worker (and now also, mole, though that's nothing to do with tampered conditioning equipment). In toddler nursery, Jonathan Froggart had outdone all of his classmates in terms of activity, by licking a girl's hair after spotting a fly land on it. The same girl later screamed hysterically on account of Jonathan Froggart, after discovering the bottom of the toy box had been filled with dead flies, for supper (several friendly spiders had latched onto Jonathan Froggart's stash, I was also informed). During the next week, the teacher was unable to prevent Jonathan Froggart from jumping around and hurting the other children, and the week after that, Jonathan Froggart jumped into the pond just outside the GCGC nursery and rolled around in the slime when taking breaks from hopping. His human biology, unable to take so much on board, had problems adjusting to the lifestyle of the frog, but it would cope, because that is what I told it to do. People will be whatever they're told to be, even if that someone is a pond-loving amphibian.

The next week, my true friend had a piece of good news and a piece of bad news. I asked for the good news first, and I've got to admit, I giggled like an unconditioned, immature infant when I heard the tale of how Jonathan Froggart had attempted to make grounds for laying his gelatinous frogspawn masses in the nursery classroom, but the bad news was obviously much more depressing. My friend, who had visited me in secret once a week since I was ejected from GCGC, put her hand on my right knee and told me the GCGC officials had led Jonathan Froggart out to the pond earlier that day after the rest of the class returned inside following outside playtime, and while he frolicked in the sludge and splashed around, they had shot him dead. Jonathan Froggart's face after being shot, while going unseen by me of course, was described my contact from her view out of the biology lab: "Unchanged, with bulging eyes outlined with gunk and a zipped, thin mouth: the face showed no signs of pain at all."

I know not what will happen to Dr. Macklin and GCGC, if anything. I am hoping, from the point of view I now share with you here, that eyes will be opened more frequently. I'll leave it at that.

And that was the story of Jonathan Froggart and GCGC: the organisation responsible for the death of a young child, for being something he was not meant to be.

First blog post in over a year, yay!

Very brief, and I'll probably be a little embarrassed over this later (I'll have forgotten something, been too serious, etc.), but eh. Skip to the end if you want some sort of gist.

I've noticed recently that I've been coming off as a two-dimensional, smug complainer who could also be seen to have ulterior motives at times. This post is an attempt to clear myself up a bit, because I'm not happy with some of the things I've said on Newgrounds either more recently or dead in the past (yes, it all deeply, deeply matters). If you don't care less and see the Internet is a place exclusively as a place to show another side to someone, it'd probably be best to stop reading now. Seriously, that's to save your time, not mine. I've already written this silly thing.

Let's have a look at what I'm interested in. First of all, there's literature. I love reading and writing... they work for each other I think. I'm just starting on my real writing life, but I'm a bit of a believer in the notion that great writers will read too. I've got about a dozen copies of a writing magazine where professional writers are interviewed and are saying the very same thing. I've not got a lot of my own writing online at the moment, but... let's just say I'm hoping to have something done soon that will appeal to a sort of reader of this post. I don't think I've been reading as much recently as I could've done, but I have my favourites still.

By the looks of it, I seem to only love writing about myself.

I'm into fiction most of time, but I enjoy reading about sociological or philosophical theory too. I just like learning about how we could change things for the better, and perhaps have people getting along with each other for the best. To a degree, I like this sort of thing so much, that I slot it into areas where it's (seemingly) irrelevant. It's me, I learn from what people have wrote and try to form my own opinion on something using the influence.

I'm a bit of a film-lover too. Some might have picked up somewhere down the line that my favourite period of English-language film is the "New Hollywood" era of American cinema. I like the films of that time because they're a little more "down-to-Earth"; they tend to show quasi-realistic things that weren't shown in film before the time, or indeed after the time in quite a few cases. Amongst my favourite films are: Bonnie And Clyde, David Holzman's Diary (an independent production), Easy Rider, MASH, Five Easy Pieces, The French Connection, Harold And Maude, Raging Bull and tons more. It's a bit odd that I'm usually a fan of story telling, and that quite a few of these films do away with the whole concept of a story and just shows what's there. Those are just examples of course, and I like films both before and after that period. If I had been online while this thread was alive, you can bet I would have quickly taken a picture of myself in my bath gown with a cup of coffee in my hand while doing my Tarantino face, for the sole purpose of making a reference.

I'm slowly trying to learn Japanese. I like learning about other countries, and I'm interested in Japanese culture. A bit typical of some sort maybe, but it works for me. I haven't gotten very far yet, but maybe I can make something of it.

With that in mind, I'd obviously love to go to Japan. I've been to Tokyo before, and my Dad was paying the bill so naturally I got around a little bit. I'd like to go to Tokyo again, but I'd like to see some of the other cities too, and some of the less uber-urban areas. I have a bit of a thing for Asia in general anyway... I'd like to go to China and Hong Kong, Korea, Vietnam possibly, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand. My Dad has a thing for Australia which he's passed down to me. There's the US and Canada too. Maybe it'd be easier if I listed the places I don't have much of a desire to visit...

I like just sitting back and watching some TV, like a lot of us. I'm a re-run loser addict: I'll watch the same episode of something time after time and still end up convincing myself I loved every second of it. I like sitcoms and a few dramas too... see the userpage banner. Did you see the one with Phil Collins in it? That was cool.

And music... well, I love music. I enjoy too many different artists and styles to bother posting much of a list here, but I can be Scarabrief. I like a lot of the rock of the English world from the '60s and '70s, as a general statement. I have a thing for some alternative rockers too, from the late'80s up to the '90s. I'm slowly getting into more jazz, "jazz fusion" and blues too, as well as a bit of that early '70s funk sound. I'm still working on this area, so I'll be getting myself acquainted with some of the better sounds of the genres as time goes on. Something that's almost completely unrelated to those latter notes: my favourite American singer-songwriter is the late Warren Zevon.

I still have a place in my heart for video games of course. I don't play around as much as I used to, but my brother has an Xbox 360 so I'm fairly upto-date. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only person on Earth that thoroughly enjoyed GTAIV. Sure, the examples of humour are sometimes few and far between, and a considerable amount of the missions are really dry in what you actually have to do, but I think it's generally an interesting and fun creation all the same. Also in the area of newish games, Dead Rising, as much as a I suck at it. Something that's essentially an interactive version of Dawn Of The Dead? I'm so there.

Some people might know that I drink a fair amount. It's something I'm always trying to push out of my life. Seriously, it's ruined more than a few of my relationships (though I'm to blame, not the bottle) and when you hear yourself described by someone you know a little online as a "drunk"... well, it should speak to you really. I'm not saying that people shouldn't be allowed to drink or anything extreme like that, but I hope most of you can just have fun with it, rather than forcing yourself to write a blog post for Newgrounds.com as a bottle winks at you. I'll say now that my favourite drink is generally vodka, but I like quite a few whiskies too. I like to drink the Russian stuff (although I don't think I've ever had any vodka that's actually from Russia) straight at the moment, but I'll sometimes add it to something if I feel like messing about.

Anyway, that's me. How are you? How's your day been? Drop me a line if you read this and feel like talking to someone about something; we all know we all know that anonymity helps, wink wink. I hope you enjoyed my pretentious attempt at showing what I see as a different side to me. That's depressing in itself to write, but yeah... :)

Edit: I've added a few more things, either because I forgot it before, or I saw it as a bad image... erm, or something. Also, here's an entirely relevant video:

And finally, the cast of Gaki No Tsukai review my blog post.

Update: I'm currently really busy, so there will be a lack of new material for a bit.

I actually submitted this story for a competition (a struggling young writer's best friend) this month, but I haven't heard the results yet. I'm pretty doubtful actually. This was also a formatting nightmare after many problems.

Title: Tamed.

Neither Dickens nor Wordsworth could be comprehended in the racket raging around the room. The young man closed his eyes slowly, pleading with his brain to switch off his ears, so he can fall head first into the abyss of literature.

It didn't work; all he could hear was taboo, all he could smell was a vanilla redolence and all he could see was a collage of bulky, smiling faces. Their mouths moved to speak, but the only thing that could be heard was "Blah blah blah blah."

The young adult shuddered, compressed his eyebrows once more in the hope that his teacher would arrive any second. Of course, it didn't help that the teacher's office was on the other side of the school, sheltered in a sound-proof tranquillity, and adorned by the oak desk with its single drawer containing a bottle of Islay whisky.

The worn, middle-aged teacher stumbled in, his tie slack and jacket elbows patched. In his state of slight exhaustion, he looked neither content nor restless. A student slobbered as he lobbed a paper snowball across the room.
"All right, all right, settle down please.", asked the teacher. Some students on the other side of the room snorted quietly. The young man in his wobbly plastic seat reluctantly put his gripping read (albeit, unreadable in the classroom) away and sat up. "Get your texts out please guys.", commanded the teacher, in an emotionally-scarred fashion. The young man already had his text out, but there was still a conundrum of rustling bags, paper and texts.

"Let's start were we left off last time."
"What about the register sir?", interrupted the boy on the back row. The young man saw a look of "I don't do it like that" on the teacher's face, as he ignored the boy with a sigh.
"Anyway...", continued the teacher, "Lucentio, I believe it was your line."
Lucentio sighed and looked randomly through his text until Grumio nudged him and whispered the page number. Lucentio cleared his throat.
"Sir, give him head...", and the class gremlins erupted into laughter.
"Yes, quite.", muttered the kind-hearted, but pushed teacher.

Fifteen minutes and half a page later, the teacher decided to take a break from reading to discuss the first act.
"So, from that first act, what can you tell me about men's attitudes to women in the sixteenth century?" The silence that followed was deafening and unsettling to the young adult on he front row. He stretched his legs weakly and slowly so no noise would be made by him. He even struggled to keep a cough from exploding out of his throat.
"Well, what does it get across?", rephrased the teacher, "What are they saying? What are they doing?" The young man stretched his hand into the air. He got a few looks across at him, of curiosity or of a mocking nature. The teacher gave a slight frown, trying to ignore the stretched arm in the corner of his eye. "Erm, Danni?", called out the teacher. Danni, at the back, was slightly startled, and her chemical fragrance momentarily disappeared.
"wel i fink,", she started, "dat dere ryt sxist."
"Explain.", encouraged the teacher, with a look of hope on his face for the first time of the day.
"dere sellin wimmin 4 mny n shit." Several gremlins hyperventilated with unheard laughter.
"Yes, marriage was seen as a business back then.", explained the teacher, with that shining hopeful look gone. The young man had now lowered his hand and wondered how long it would take for a prostitution joke to spring up (or a joke about things "springing up", he wondered).

The teacher's speech had begun to echo in the young adult's ears, and it began to drone like a vacuum on its lowest setting. Hand gestures and language tips began to fade away into the back of his mind. Everyone else around had monolithic eyes, gawking at the teacher and his mind-bending phrases. The young man's eyes were almost closed and everything in reality went out of focus. He moved his right arm to his blazer pocket, pulled out his gun, and popped himself in the head. The fillings of his cake head leaked onto the floor and walls like jam as the teacher continued to lecture, and the kids continued to gape at the teacher uninterestedly. The young man's remains were still on the floor, waiting for the BBC to arrive.

The young man made his way back to reality in such an instant, it was unfortunate for him.
"So tomorrow we'll, stop fidgeting Alex, tomorrow we'll move onto the next scene."
As Alex, the young adult, sat motionless in his chair, staring into space, tamed.

Well, this the pointless blog for February 2008. The past month hasn't been much of a rollercoaster, other than finalising the story for a NG-themed piece scheduled for Pico Day. Yeah, not many people will read it, but meh, it's getting somewhere I suppose. I'd also like to say this story won't be using any real users names, and it will be focusing around an unkown user.

Other than that, other pieces are on the way, two of them currently available for viewing on Fictionpress. Some more should be available shortly, as well as a poetry collection! Weee!

I guess this links directly to me not sleeping. Don't get me wrong, I don't have to be staying up to write, but it helps. That said, I'm seriously minimising any of the crazy, paranoia, horror parts of my early stories (2004-2005). This is a good thing, believe me. I write so badly in these particular styles, it's a waste of time. I'm probably going ot add dates to Fictionpress submissions too, so I look like less of an amateur :)

College tests have been harvesting my brain over the past month. I think I've done fairly well in the ones that matter, but I think I've done terribly on the tests I did last week. Oh well, can't win them all can you? Also, driving tests. I was meant to be having my second attempt this month, but I've put it back, because my instructor changed car.

So yeah, a pretty slow month. I made some money though, so it can't be that slow :)

Please enjoy.

Story: Pink Cap.

It was a normal day.
"Do you want to come over later?"
"Nah, my mum says going to your house is a distraction."
"She smells."
Dan laughed, "Sorry, can't though."
Dan and James were going through their usual conversation as they came face-to-face with the icy, steel school gates. The gates were only a subordinate to the fence that enveloped the entire school. Topped with deceptively sharp spikes, they weren't exactly the most comfortable school ornaments ever made my man. "Welcome to the land of daisies and cranberry chewing gum", is what it said to visitors, parents and children alike, with a big smile. The Suits enjoyed it though.

Dan and James were not bad students at all, but they had lapses in concentration. Homer Simpson, Will Smith, Sonic the Hedgehog were all heroes for saving the un-noteworthy lessons. The real experience of school was on the field, and both kid and teacher knew it.

The field was vast. Standing at one end as a child, it would go on forever. After this mirage, the field's decorations would appear; the trees around the side (being eaten by the fence, of course) and the black ashes of the November bonfire piled up to the right. Bits of wood were still lying around it, and they were great for swordfights.

Dan and James always hung out at the far end, in the shade of the July sun. It didn't matter if it were against the rules: this way, you stayed a healthy milky white, and you could look through the fence's jaws to the park outside school. Dan and James started their long walk to the shady ghetto,
"Did you hear about that guy?"
"Who?"
"Tony Blair."
"Oh yeah."
"My mum and Dad voted for him."
"What?"
"Haha, you're a twat."
"Damn, you got me."

Jason was already down there, grinning, with his hands in his pockets. He smelt of banana and peanut butter.
"I kissed Jess in Literacy." he blushed, and stood on one leg slightly.
"Aww.", Dan and James chimed in at once, mostly uninterested. They laughed all together for a minute, until Dan brought the crumpled ham sandwich from his lunch box.
"Where's Rich today?"
"He's here. He was in Literacy."
"He'd better be here soon. We need our planner for plans."
Rich and his bright apricot hair were visible at the other end of the field. The whole image was shaking like a hallucination, and it seemed as if Rich's hair had just fallen out; his head had turned into a ham colour. The lines painted onto the pencil grey playground beyond Rich were all dancing in the air in the very distance. It had just got to the part where the hopscotch grid and the snakes and ladders table attempt the tango, before they all screamed in fright, running onto the passing bus. The playground was empty now.

It was soon clear that Rich's hair had not fallen out. He was wearing a pink cap and a casual, but nervous smile. The fence warned him not to get closer with teeth fully baredm and ready to bite.
"Rich, what are you wearing a cap for?"
"It stops my neck from burning in the sun."
"It's pink."
"My Daddy bought it when we on were holiday."
"Are you gay?"
"Do-you-lick-a-dick-a-day?"
"What?"
The other boys laughed harder than they already were. So did the fence.
"Well, you don't need it in the shade. Put it here."
Rich reluctantly placed it on the lime green grass and stared at it briefly.
"The new password is pink cap.", Dan proclaimed, finishing his ham sandwich. James and Jason giggled like girls.
"I thought I got to choose the next password?" muttered a confused Rich.
"Shut up."

The field now hosted fairly sparse groups of gossiping girls, bigbad bullies, boisterous boys and synthetic psychopaths. From the ghetto, you had a view of it all. The only other shady area like this was a benched area cluttered with dust, dirt and girls.

These breaks from fractions and similes almost always revolved around the same things. Dan informed everyone about developments regarding his quest to get to Mannaheim and James talked about the discovery of more syringes in the park, though Rich didn't quite understand.

The fireball beat down onto the field all afternoon, torrid and sweltering. As children danced, played, jumped and thumped, minions of the fence were spawned to keep watch. The minions made sure no one left the boundaries of the fence, and all those within never left the boundaries of the fence.

The minions never believed the guys from the ghetto. They saw them as trouble, playing too close to the fence, as if some day they might knock it down and disrupt order once and for all.

Jess danced past the gang with her friends. They all wore irregular daisy necklaces, held each other's hands and were reeling all around the field. The perverted fence snarled . Jason, as if in a trance, stood on his two legs and floated to where the girls were now still, smiling wickedly.
"Oi, Jayc, where are you goin'?" called James, as Rich looked away into the shade. It was too late: Jason had left safety and fell into the fence's trap; Jess and her devil kin were now lying on an aquamarine field, biting into Jason, in the cool nude.

Dan blinked, and they were all gone.
"Oh my God, they killed Kenny!"
"Those bastards!" finished James and Rich, though Rich didn't quite understand it.

The pink cap was the gang's own instrument of order for now. Dan and James played pass with it for as long as they could. Before Lewis arrived.
"Haha" , wobbled Lewis, "Pink cap!".
"Fuck off Lewis," moaned James, "' surprised your body could make it down here." While James made his threat, Lewis moved surprisingly fast, taking the cap of order into his hands.
"My Daddy got me that!" yelped Rich, who stood up, truly concerned for Order's well-being or just the cap. Lewis "ran" off, with all three of the gang following closely behind.
"Look at the gays!" yelled Lewis excitedly, huffing and puffing in the heat. The various boys all around the field laughed. Jason and the girls laughed. The fence laughed. A tear came into Rich's eye.
"Give it back Lewis." warned Dan.
"Oh, sure." replied Lewis. Lewis got on his knees but he didn't return the cap. Instead, he filled it with mud. Everyone and everything pointed and laughed harder; the Sun beamed. Rich's lip trembled.
"You gays probably don't want this back now." Lewis skipped over to the dried bonfire remains, and produced his Dad's lighter from the pocket of his school trousers.

Rich started crying, and could not make much out after that. He sat in the grass as dark objects filtered away from him gradually, the playground markings reappeared on their homes. After minutes of sniffing and weezing, one figure came toward Rich. He took a long blink.

A thing with black eyes and razor sharp teeth stood over Rich.
"Get into class." it growled, and walked off, as Rich sat still and confused, colder than he'd ever been in his whole life.

Poem: Rabbits or Cats?

I can sit in my room all day, every day,
my computer blinking at me:
"There once was a suicidal turtle" , it reads
and I sigh at my own misguided surrealism.

Screeeeee-
In the next garden, a noises comes
and I screeeee- writing,
screeeee-trouble-screeeeee

I could do that job,
standing naked on the fence, with my hands raised high, and one leg up bent at the knee.
"Get away from this garden, you little bastards."
It requires less concentration and effort.

I thought perhaps it had been a while since I did a blog on here. It might be because I'm busy, or it might be because I dislike the word "blog"...unless Newgrounds is included in the sentence of course! As for busyness, I wish I could keep coming on Newgrounds more often like last year, where I had the "advantage" of being out of work and out of education. I was talking to WilliWowza the other day, and memories of the almost-defunct Newgrounds Paltalk room flooded back to me, so I'll probably give the Newgrounds Chat a try when it's ready!

Back to that education point, at this point, I'm facing two exams this week. Tomorrow and the day after, sociology and psychology respectively. Why am I not revising you ask? Well, I've honestly done so much today, I could draw an accurate map of Talcott Parsons' digestive system and tell you why Stanley Milgram's shock generator study is offensive to Hindus, but let's not go there. Hopefully, I'll have a slightly calmer period after this with more time for writing or BBSing. BBSing in my case means writing things that don't make much sense to anyone other than myself.

Or does it? Not right now, since I'm banned. I'm not complaining though, as I'm guessing it was a fair ban. In summary, I got slightly stressed or whatever and started drinking while on the BBS. Trust me, those aren't a good mix. Anyway, fair play to Jercurpac on that one. My thing about drinking when depressed is something else, but it's no biggie, unless you're a friend of mine and I'm suddenly an alcholic to you now.

In terms of writing poetry/prose (I know it's banned on the BBS now, but some people still ask for my writing, which is reassuring), I've recently finished the 20th out of the 50 poems on the next collection... of course, I'll definately change some of the existing ones. The stories are more cynical perhaps now, with a touch of wry humor. At least it's wry humour to me, we shall have to wait. While Tom himself has commented on writing stuff, it's obviously not a big priority of any sort, so I encourage any budding writers to look through Fourth Perspective, because it's largely used by other Newgrounders, and I heard it's not doing so well. By the way, if you are a writer and you want something read, feel free to share it here :)

Also, I'm tired at the moment, all the time. Luckily college has a coffee machine. 50p a coffee is pretty good for this day and age. So, woo.

Hope you enjoyed reading this installment of boredom.

I'm starting to wish I changed my name to "The-Pompous-Cunt" before the redesign username lockdown.

Yeah, I know. It's strange because everyone's always moaning about how stupid NG is, or is becoming. Hell, even the contacts on my MSN or AIM from Newgrounds tell me how it's going downhill. But I'll tell you now: being unemployed, out of education and staying on Newgrounds all day is much better than going to college too tired, coming back too tired and doing bugger all else.

Obviously I have to make something out of something, unless you could become a "professional Newgrounds user". That'd be great. Tom could make a section at the office for us all, a bit like a now-old-fashioned smoking room...but I don't see that happening. Brace yourself, it's time for a blog...if it's not already started.

Anyway, for those of you who don't know me (which is a fairly large amount I might add), I spent most of my time on the BBS, mostly the General forum but also Wi/Ht and Politics, with odd posts in the C&C now and then. If the BBS was on "wave of stupidity", I would sometimes go to the Paltalk room where I met some...interesting people, and the e-drama sometimes never stopped. Of course, they're all probably topped by the day of the redesign (me being NG-obsessed and unemployed, I was on Paltalk all day), and I don't think it needs explaining, but I'll just say it involved Wade Fulp, The Final Countdown and increasingly frustrating welding noises. But we all survived right?

Before I started jabbering on about Paltalk, I was going to say something about the good old BBS. Yes, it's possible to have decent discussions! Yes, it's possible to make "e-friends" with those big old nasty moderaters! Erm, it's not possible to write stories...but I'll go into that later a little. I any case, it's still my favourite collection of forums probably. Don't think I'm benevolent on the matter though; I don't really miss "lol i ddnt red da rlz rlz r 4 nrds lol", but you get the picture.

As far as writing goes, I could be mean to the BBS mods and say the No Writing Rule put me off Newgrounds (not that they would be offended by a pointless rant anyway). I don't think that's the truth, though I was a little (slight understatement actually...) pissed off by "Find somewhere else to write stories about vampires and zombies" from a mod (I can't actually remember who, or what the exact phrase was). Anyway, regardless, I'm still hoping to get into creative writing (I'm doing all the right courses I think, got a sane amount of passion, and I hope to be using far more brackets in the future). I might release a story collection, non-NG obviously, in the near future so watch this space!

This was supposed to be a paragraph stating I signed up in 2003 and remember when Madness Avenger was no.1 in the top 50. That would be lame. Lamer.

Anyway, I'm ill at the moment, so I'm writing this out of boredom. You can still see my hideous gob on page 3 (haha) of the webcam section. Sometimes it doesn't work because my site sucks or whatever. I do try to update it every week/two weeks.

I hope you enjoyed reading this. In fact, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. That's somewhere near indifferent.

Okay, so I made a new user piccy with my new Webcamupdateyness (special thanks to BlueFlameSkulls). So, vote on it!

1.) Still ugly as sin.
2.) Awww, cute.
3.) ur ghey lol
4.) Other.

What a good way to waste away the afternoon.