Saturday, October 29, 2011

In The Spirit of Halloween

As many of you may have noticed, the pagan ritual of deception and disguises festival is once again upon us. A friend (a very involved friend. Do you remember "there's, like, nothing"?) has advised me to share unto all of you what is known as a creepypasta. To the best of my knowledge, this is nothing more than a childish ghost story (Or story of similar hauntingness, be it deranged axe murderer or mildly unsettling demonic television station) told to spook young internet-goers into thumbs-upping or fanning or favoriting or liking something the author approves of (usually the author.). Now, I shall title my humble attempt at this "creepypasta"

By Your Friend, Anonymous

Frederick was having a bad day. Well, most days were bad for Frederick. He was what many people would diagnose "a grumpy old man". His favorite pastime was prunes. There was a person. He was chasing Frederick. Luckily, Frederick kept his big old fashioned camera with him at all times.  He snapped a photo.
Obviously, a person was chasing him. This person had his arms outstretched. Frederick was breathing. Heavily. His heart pumped. Pump. Pump. Pump. This man, with his arms outstretched, ran Frederick from the city, where he had previously been, to a rural area. It was filled with cotton plants. If Frederick had more time, he would have picked a piece of cotton off the ground, but he didn't, because a man, very scary, was chasing him. The blood was running through Fredericks veins at an extremely fast pace. Frederick knew instinctively that this man wanted to drink it, which was the reason for him running. Frederick realized he was running towards a warehouse that was in the middle of the field. It was covered with mold and moss and mildew. It was a place one would normally avoid, which was, as Frederick realized with great chagrin, unfortunate, because if this terrifying man behind him wished to cut him to pieces inside this warehouse, people wouldn't go near it, because people don't usually go near places such as that. However, Frederick was not able to veer his course because that might cause imminent death. Once he reached the warehouse, he was tortured brutally and killed. They say his ghost still moans.

I think we can all agree that I am Edgar Allen Poe incarnate.

(I am so proud of myself. Although this post was not the best thing ever, it had a TOPIC! PROGRESS!)

Friday, October 21, 2011

One Post

I realize how incredibly depressing I am. I have made one post and then neglected my readers. You all have been screaming at me "Byron, Byron! You're posts bring joy to my eyes! I laughed, I cried, your first post was wonderful! I can't stand another second without an addition!" and so, I have decided to appease you mobs of email-flinging fanpeople. Of course, I can't yet again ramble for another page, and a good friend of mine says (and I paraphrasing, I do not have fantastic memory) "your wordwall is amusing, but it is nevertheless a wordwall, and that will not do. Splice your posts with links and pictures, it makes all the difference." And since he is a good friend (recently, he said, and I repeat verbatum "It's without, like, anything." So), I shall take his advice and format, because format is the key to success. I shall now add a picture.
 As you can see, I am a fantastic photographer. I will tell you that one of these legs is mine, and I know plethora of people you are, one of you will have a supercomputer connected to CIA databases that will analyze this picture and the combination of camera type (based of the string hanging down into view in the bottom right corner, which I allowed to happen because it makes it rough and real.), shoe type (you can see two different kinds in this photo, I will not tell you which is mine) and oddly colored floor fuzz, and tell you, supercomputer controlling fanperson, exactly where this happened, and who I am, and how to find me, along with specific instructions of how to kill me (the CIA always studies the weaknesses of those under suspicion. Of course, since everyone is capable of crime, everyone is under suspicion.)That was a very long sentence. I rue the day I will be asked to read this at the signing of my award winning book composed of blog posts written as a smaller person.)
Argh! I told myself I wasn't going to ramble, and yet here I am, looking at my past ramblings! What can I talk about? What is there to speak of? The world? Boring. Fictional dream-world? Nonexistent. And boring. Reality (and fiction, for that matter) continues to stump me. I know what is interesting. Lies. And I already hear your thousands of voices, squeaking at me incessantly "But! You already said fiction is boring! Lies are the same thing!" No! No, I tell you! They are different. In fiction, you know you are being deceived. You are allowing your brain to be tricked. But lies are inadvertent (although, for the liar, it is quite on purpose) brain-tricks. So I think by peppering my posts with lies (as well as fiction, to keep you on your toes.), I will give to the world something interesting. And interesting has been in rather low stock recently. The most recent memes have been utterly uninspired. I call for a cleverness revolt! The citizens of the world need to break the chains of oppression! And who has been the slave-master? Quaker Oats! Down with the Man in the Wig! The oats they feed us in cookies and other "delectable" treats are actually mind controlling cell phone rays that are transmitted from the secret mafia radio in the head of the Statue of Liberty! The more oatmeal cookies we consume, the more we are in their hands! We must break free, otherwise... All hope is lost.

Oh, and