Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Big news, kids.


This has been a long time coming, but the blog is moving to WordPress.
I decided it's a bit like taking the training wheels off, and now is a better time than any. If this messes up something for those of you wonderful folks that follow me, I apologize! I just needed to make the change. I'll be switching out the link for this blog to that one on my Facebook page, so you can easily spot it. I'll give the address via Google+, Facebook, Twitter and Diaspora to make it easy to locate. While I enjoy the new changes to Blogger, I just want to move on a bit. Thanks a ton for giving me reason to have this blog in the first place. I promise the new address won't change a thing except location. I've imported all previous posts and comments.


Again, I thank you guys greatly for supporting my desires to write. I appreciate you very much for it. 


The address for the new site is just a derivative of my tagline: animalisticmagnetism.wordpress.com


I'll be editing it all day, so it'll change a bit if you happen to see it before I get that God-awful pink background to go away. 


Thank you!

A sort of meta rant.

Yep.

I've been working on short stories.


In my head. 


I'm trying to write a novel.


In my head.


None of this is helpful to actually getting it done, in reality. I like to think I'll actually commit these things soon enough, but that's something I am very bad at. I'm trying to gather people for yet another little series involving their stories, but trying to work around their availability and my own isn't always fruitful. (Speaking of, if you want to be one of them, dear god message me. I have time for you. I love you. I'll buy you coffee.)


I am trying to think of content and ways to promote a website that I'm part of while trying to further myself at the same time. All the while, juggling other needs. I'm viewing every little moment of my day as a possible thing to write down. I'm starting to feel like Superman, without the cool leotard. 
At the same time, I have this completed work of art for a show-- in my head. Yeah, still. Can't sell my idea of a drawing to someone. Just the finished product. 


Sometimes I read back on something I wrote and realize, hey, people won't like that. It's harsh, or rough. Do they want to hear me laugh at that guy who almost died because he did something stupid? No. Do they want to hear about how insignificant I think people can act? No. Nobody wants to read something with bitter undertones and realize they resemble what the writer is mocking. 
So I get caught, caught between what I want to say and what people want to hear. I write nice things on one website, only share my fiction (the tame ones) on the forums, only hint at the reality here. I keep a large, unread collection of my short stories hidden away from people. Those are the ones only a few would appreciate, and hopefully understand why I wrote them. 


I start feeling like these writing endeavors are going to lead me to that path of broke (sometimes) starving (sometimes) asshole sitting at Starbucks (which I am doing) not actually getting shit done (... FUCK.) One day, though, I'll put all my effort into self-publishing those hidden stories. 
I'll let go of those novels, throw them at readers and scream "I fucking dare you." 


People can find out what I did on those long walks alone, what I thought, and know what I don't say. Will they dislike me? Probably a few-- though I tend to keep myself in the company of less than sensitive people, since emotional wrecks seem to drive me crazy. Did you call your girlfriend smoochie-face and abandon all man friends to cuddle puppies with her in a field? There may be a reason I don't call anymore. It's nothing against love, emotion, or that person. I just have a low tolerance for bullshit. True, hard, deep love exists. I feel it. But the overlying crap people lay on each other out of insecurity doesn't do it for me.


That's the problem. Right there, right above. That's how I think, to a mild degree. That's what people don't like. As fascinating as it is to see from a distance, or even pretend you want to aspire to a realistic worldview, it's not safe for some to bother with it. It'll lead to depression some can't handle. Anger. Maybe even rage. If you're naturally this way, congrats, you ought to have a handle on it by the time you're beyond the age of 25. I hope.


Or not. It all depends.

I want to walk around some days just slapping people, shoving a sign in their hands that says "I don't bother to give meaning to my life. But look at my nice new car!"

I'm not saying that somehow, my life is better than anyone else's. I'm sure some people enjoy their existences, truly. But others, you can see that they are simply empty. They have stuff. They have uncaring people for friends. You get them drunk and alone, though, and they spout off how much they hate themselves. It's sad.

And that's what I want to say. I want to say what I mean to someone other than my notebook. I'm learning the hard way that people want something that will make them think, but not too hard. Never too hard. 

A while back, before I knew most of the folks I know now, I was berated harshly for some things I wrote. I was told that expressing the innards of others wasn't fair, or nice, and that the truth doesn't need to be shared all the time. Seriously?

That's fine. I know who I am pandering to, and where. It gives absolutely NO less meaning to what I write. Every single bit of it, every word, means the world to me. Just because it's on a website I consider needing tamer things doesn't mean I hate it. If I posted it, I cared about it. 

So, to those I once offended years ago, sorry. I hear Harry Potter is a nice series.

To those I never offended, I think you're pretty neat. 

Otherwise, it's taking a slight turn. I plan to update here four times a week, with one blog on the solecisms site and a story a week. 

It's time to get serious. 

This is an advert! A shameless one!

So you're aware, also, I've joined up with a brand spakin' new literary website (I'll be posting under the fancy name of Alexandria, how tasty) and I'd love for you to take a wander over there. The more people we reach, the more content we'll hurry up and write. Remember, she's new. Be gentle. 


http://solecisms.net/

When it rains... well, it gets wet, obviously. Jeeze.

It's been raining. Heavily. Here's a picture of some awful weather. 


I finally managed to escape the house to get to my personal favorite spying location near home. When I arrived, nothing seemed too off. Everyone was busily typing away on their computers, or randomly blabbing on a cell phone. One girl looked drunk, but this is Florida, so it's to be expected at 2p.m. 


It's about the time I noticed drunkypoo that something strange happened. 
People started getting nasty. A couple broke into an enormous fight at the table nearest mine, complete with the obligatory "you're not the man I started dating!" and "my mother warned me about girls like you!" kinds of insults thrown around like bad, bad step-children when daddy drinks.


I decided that I'd leave them to it and head inside for a quick bathroom break, but was met by another couple arguing at the counter, and yet another woman banging on the bathroom door for her slow (no, literally-- she has Downs) child to exit. I had a flashback to the mentally distressed child that once came into the Starbucks I worked for who fingerpainted with his own feces on the bathroom wall, and rapidly gave up my thoughts of stepping foot in there. 


Outside! No, no. Outside is now populated by violently arguing college students. One lady sits among us, rapid-fire talking into a cell phone about how many apartments she has in what states. One of the students snaps, telling her to "take her rich ass back to one of them, we're trying to get shit DONE." 


By now I am assuming I'm hallucinating some collapse of society, that a raging virus is taking over their minds, and not everyone can be this utterly pissed off for no reason. It's about the time that a man mumbles to his friend as they pass... "Fuck Monday."
Right. The working man's burden. That must be it.


But no. These people are not at work. Is the collective hatred for Monday so very strong that it invades the minds and lives of those without 9-5 jobs? Is there PCP in the coffee?
I have no idea, honestly-- but it's fucking funny to watch.


So for now, I'm going to sit back and collect their mutual annoyances for later stories. 
I feel pretty good, myself.