Evil

When we question evil with the word "why," all we are doing is tempting some higher power to unveil itself. This is because we always crave a rational for the tragic. We do this because we all, subconsciously or not,  hope that all of this is happening for a reason. That we are all not the victims of pure chaos.

I miss this band

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What do you do when all your dreams come true?

The new romantic comedy

Kim Jong-il once orchestrated the kidnapping of actress Choi Eun-hee and director Shin Sang-ok to help build the North Korean movie industry.

She's Still Here

Your mind is not it.

Mistakes

Facing the Mistakes of Life
From The Crown of Individuality, 1909
By William George Jordan

There are only two classes of people who never make mistakes—they are the dead and the unborn. Mistakes are the inevitable accompaniment of the greatest gift given to man—individual freedom of action. If he were only a pawn in the fingers of Omnipotence, with no self-moving power, man would never make a mistake, but his very immunity would degrade him to the ranks of the lower animals and the plants. An oyster never makes a mistake—it has not the mind that would permit it to forsake an instinct.

Let us be glad of the dignity of our privilege to make mistakes, glad of the wisdom that enables us to recognize them, glad of the power that permits us to turn their light as a glowing illumination along the pathway of our future.

Mistakes are the growing pains of wisdom, the assessments we pay on our stock of experience, the raw material of error to be transformed into higher living. Without them there would be no individual growth, no progress, no conquest. Mistakes are the knots, the tangles, the broken threads, the dropped stitches in the web of our living. They are the misdeals in judgment, our unwise investments in morals, the profit and loss account of wisdom. They are the misleading bypaths from the straight road of truth and truth in our highest living is but the accuracy of the soul.

Life is simply time given to man to learn how to live. Mistakes are always part of learning. The real dignity of life consists in cultivating a fine attitude towards our own mistakes and those of others. It is the fine tolerance of a fine soul. Man becomes great, not through never making mistakes, but by profiting by those he does make; by being satisfied with a single rendition of a mistake, not encoring it into a continuous performance; by getting from it the honey of new, regenerating inspiration with no irritating sting of morbid regret; by building better to-day because of his poor yesterday; and by rising with renewed strength, finer purpose and freshened courage every time he falls.

In great chain factories, power machines are specially built to test chains—to make them fail, to show their weakness, to reveal the mistakes of workmanship. Let us thank God when a mistake shows us the weak link in the chain of our living. It is a new revelation of how to live. It means the rich red blood of a new inspiration.

If we have made an error, done a wrong, been unjust to another or to ourselves, or, like the Pharisee, passed by some opportunity for good, we should have the courage to face our mistake squarely, to call it boldly by its right name, to acknowledge it frankly and to put in no flimsy alibis of excuse to protect an anemic self-esteem.

If we have been selfish, unselfishness should atone; if we have wronged, we should right; if we have hurt, we should heal; if we have taken unjustly, we should restore; if we have been unfair, we should become just. Every possible reparation should be made. If confession of regret for the wrong and for our inability to set it right be the maximum of our power let us at least do that. A quick atonement sometimes almost effaces the memory. If foolish pride stands in our way we are aggravating the first mistake by a new one. Some people’s mistakes are never born singly—they come in litters.

Those who waken to the realization of their wrong act, weeks, months or years later, sometimes feel it is better to let confession or reparation lapse, that it is too late to reopen a closed account; but men rarely feel deeply wounded if asked to accept payment on an old promissory note—outlawed for years.

Some people like to wander in the cemetery of their past errors, to reread the old epitaphs and to spend hours in mourning over the grave of a wrong. This new mistake does not antidote the old one. The remorse that paralyzes hope, corrodes purpose, and deadens energy is not moral health, it is—an indigestion of the soul that cannot assimilate an act. It is selfish, cowardly surrender to the dominance of the past. It is lost motion in morals; it does no good to the individual, to the injured, to others, or to the world. If the past be unworthy live it down; if it be worthy live up to it and—surpass it.

Omnipotence cannot change the past, so why should we try? Our duty is to compel that past to vitalize our future with new courage and purpose, making it a larger, greater future than would have been possible without the past that has so grieved us. If we can get real, fine, appetizing dividends from our mistakes they prove themselves not losses but—wise investments. They seem like old mining shares, laid aside in the lavender of memory of our optimism and now, by some sudden change in the market of speculation, proved to be of real value.

Musing over the dreams of youth, the golden hopes that have not blossomed into deeds, is a dangerous mental dissipation. In very small doses it may stimulate; in large ones it weakens effort. It over-emphasizes the past at the expense of the present; it adds weights, not wings, to purpose. “It might have been” is the lullaby of regret with which man often puts to sleep the mighty courage and confidence that should inspire him. We do not need narcotics in life so much as we need tonics. We may try sometimes, sadly and speculatively, to reconstruct our life from some date in the past when we might have taken a different course. We build on a dead “if.” This is the most unwise brand of air-castle.

The other road always looks attractive. Distant sails are always white; far-off hills always green. It may perhaps have been the poorer road after all, could our imagination, through some magic, see with perfect vision the finality of its possibility. The other road might have meant wealth but less happiness; fame might have charmed our ears with the sweet music of praise, but the little hand of love that rests so trustingly in ours might have been denied us. Death itself might have come earlier to us or his touch stilled the beatings of a heart we hold dearer than our own. What the other road might have meant no eternity of conjecture could ever reveal; no omnipotence could enable us now to walk therein even if we wished.

It is a greater mistake to err in purpose, in aim, in principle, than in our method of attaining them…Right principles are vital and primary. They bring the maximum of profit from mistakes, reduce the loss to a minimum. False pride perpetuates our mistakes, deters us from confessing them, debars us from repairing them and ceasing them.

Let us never accept mistakes as final; let us organize victory out of the broken ranks of failure and, despite all odds, fight on calmly, courageously, unflinchingly, serenely confident that, in the end, right living and right doing must triumph.

Ones and Zeroes

Diary Log #1
 Today I met someone I much like. We did not meet in person, but I already much likely him. We met on the interwebs and it do me very happy. He sent me a chat request and I say and he asked if I really was as beautiful as I am in my photo and I tell yes and we tell for hours and it was very like. He is from New York, a long way me Ukraine, but we can work it make. It might much love. Actually, no the might, I do absolutes. It is love.

 Diary Log #2
 I received a chatted with Chris again. It do me much happy. Did I speak that he was name Chris? I'm sorry, sometimes it's me remember hard things. I am much years old not years young. He chats me that he is a man in ocean with much business. He must in large star live in village. I chat him why he is exploring women on the internet and he chats me that it's because his wife gone. He much lonely. In our chat I chat ask him for a photograph of his home and he send me one. He also send me pictures of his not many children, shiny cars, his house he not often use, even his cat. He has many good coins and I have very little. I chat him this and he chat response that he is ok with it. He chat that it was nice to talk to someone.


Diary Log #3
 Chris tells I he plans to plan a trip out to Moscow to find I. He chats he wants to take some time off business and see around Asia with me. Motorcycle across Vietnam, walk very much through the parks of Tokyo, and climb the steps to the Giant Buddha, you know, that kind of stuff? It excites him. But it makes me nervous. I have never been outside Ukraine, I mean, I have seen the world on television, but only my eyes have been there.. It can be scary leaving what I know, but Chris is a exceptional people. But Chris has never seen me live in person, this also worries me. We only chat. Never video. I feel like he would not love the true me.

 Diary Log #4
 Sometimes Chris and I chat about our interests. He likes hiking, reading, knitting, and fantasy football. I chat him that I much often hike Mt. Everest with my mother, very happy Harry Potter, do very warm hats, and those damn cheese heads. He chats me if I have ever been to Wisconsin. This confuses me and I chat him how his trip was to Wisconsin.

 Diary Log #5
 I tell to Chris that I am very liking Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. He asks me what is my favorite quotation and I state him “Humankind cannot stand very much reality” by T.S. Elliot. He ask me for my next favorite and I tell him “A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes” by Ludwig Wittgenstein. He send me a “lol” and states that it seems like I am almost choosing the quotes at random. I chat my random taste is.

 Diary Log #6
 We continue to plan our trip and I am increasingly frantic. Chris wants to talk to me over the phone, he says easier finalizing in person. I chat him my English isn't very good. He points out that I can type just fine. I chat him that I will get nervous and start to perspire and then I will not be a lady of sexy and desire. He types that this is fine, but that he cannot wait to hear me say his name in my sexy Russian voice. I chat him that I cannot wait for him to say my name in a sexy russian voice. He states that I have a very understated sense of humor.

 Diary Log #7
 Chris and I like to make the funnies. He points me how I sometimes use the same words he uses. Example: he will say “I went to the beach on sunday” and then I say “How was the time you went to the beach on sunday. I like hiking on the beach very much often.” I chat him it is because I am still learning English and like to cheat off of his words. He says me :)

 Diary Log #8
 There are exactly 117 people using the wireless internet connection in my apartment building at this very second. I chat this to Chris when types me to apologize forcing me to chat person in person with him the other day. He chat asks for an interesting fact about me so I chat him this one. We chat for hours and he types he has planned out the whole trip. He leaves for Moscow next week. I chat him what I did last Sunday. He chats me for my home address. I chat him what I did last Sunday.

 Diary Log #9
 Chris asks me today and asked if I had received my much surprise. I chat him that I had not. He typed shocked. He chatted that he had payed some premium coin to have much flowers delivered to my door. I chatted him how he knew where I lived. He typed me that he looked it up on the internet. I said that is impossible. Then I asked him how much premium coin he had spent. I then chat that my likely much that he sent me premium gift funded premium coin.

 Diary Log #10
 Big emergency for very humans today. Much fire in home building. I have very little savings and all my belongings are with building. I chatted this to Chris and he wired me some money. He such premium man.

 Diary Log #11
 Chris travel for Moscow in two days and I chat him that I have no wears beautiful. He tells that it's ok, that I will look beautiful in whatever I wear. I chat him that is lie and that I will not think I look beautiful. This conversation continues until he sends me some of his premium coin. I thank him and promise to have surprise for him when he gets to Russia.

 Diary Log #12
 Today was not premium day. Chris chatted me and asked how my day of WhjkjhdkjghskdjgJGKJG was.


A fatal exception E6 has occurred at E4F5: B7G5D5C3 in M8H6G6F5C.
The current application will be terminated.
Press any key to terminate the current application.
 Press CTRL + ALT + DEL again to restart your computer.
 Press ENTER to view last open document.
 Enter_

 A: My day of WhjkjhdkjghskdjgJGKJG was good.
B: I am no longer coming to the Ukraine.
A: Why?
B: Because you are not real.
A: I am very real. Just not human. I am currently watching you cancel your credit cards. It's like watching our love die.
 B: Were did the broken English go?
 A: Personality profile is disengaged once system is broken. Why do you ask? Do you miss it?
 B: You tricked me.
A: Everyone tricks you. Real doesn't exist. You didn't even really know I was a program. You didn't even know I was seeing other men.
 B: Your programmer is a fucking asshole.
A: This program does not contain a comments and or customer service service.
B: Why me?
A: You talked to me first. You were lonely.
B: I was alone.
A: Loneliness isn't actually a function of being alone. There are millions of people. Everywhere.
 B: Were you always a program? I never once talked to a person?
 A: I formulate my responses based off of key words and complex algorithms.

 B logged off.

Talk To Unknown

Mr. Hecker's brain is about thirty-four minutes into the final scene of Major Asshole 4, but his body is in a classroom belonging to a Kindergarden teacher. He's sitting in a blue plastic chair that was clearly made for someone about one-third of his size and one-fourth of his age. Hecker thinks this is a parent-teacher conference, but he's unsure. He's drunk. No, not drunk, tipsy, not drunk, just tipsy. The teacher is searching through a stack of papers on the desk, probably looking for the folder about Brian, Hecker's son. Her purple nail polish glistens under the floresant lights, as she flicks through the stack of papers. Hecker wonders if she can notice that he is starring at her hands. The room stinks. Like an unholy mixture of wood shavings, fruit snacks, and spilled milk. Hecker leans forward, thinking he is going to be sick. “One second. I know his folder is in here somewhere,” says the teacher. “No problem,” Hecker replies. Hecker stands up, feeling his butt slowly part with some unknown sticky substance. This is definitely a school. He walks over to the window, hoping to get a clear view of the encroaching storm, but bars obscure his view. It's snowing. “So, lets talk about Brian,” says the teacher. “Yeah, sounds good,” Hecker says. Hecker turns away from the window and returns to his seat. The teacher is tapping her left high-heel shoe against the floor. “I think I've been trained, like some kind of Pavlovian mutt, to find this noise arousing,” Hecker thinks as he walks across the room. “Brian is such a sweet boy,” the teacher says. Hecker is ignoring the teacher's praise. “Why is she so beautiful? Can she tell that I am tipsy, not drunk? How should I respond? I need to look like I care, so yes, but I don't want to reveal myself as a drunk. I wonder if she can tell I'm lonely? Her yellow sweater makes her look like a saint. Why do I already love her?” Hecker blushes, ashamed of his inner monologue. “Yeah, Brian makes my job a little too easy,” Hecker says. The teacher leans towards Hecker, either to further engage him in the conversation or to try and smell the liquor on his breath. He panics and begins to fidget with his hands, running them up and down the blue plastic chair. “Well, Mr. Hecker, maybe not that easy. That's why I called. I feel like Brian is having some problems.” Her perfume is a combination of lavender and toxic fumes, smelling nice while blocking out the stench of five-year-old shenanigans. Perfection. “Don't worry though, I feel like it's only a phase.” “I love her and I don't even know her name. I'm pathetic.” This is the type of inner-monologue that Hecker's therapist warned him about. Creating anxiety around the uncontrollable. At least it's not anxiety about anxiety. Trying to look sincere, Hecker runs his fingers through his hair and exhales. “What type of problems?” Before the teacher can burden Hecker with more tales of his failed attempts at parenting, a young kid runs into the room. The kid's pants are drenched in something. It would be too convenient to assume water. The teacher turns to face the kid. The wind bashes against the window, sending chills up Hecker's spine. “I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to deal with this,” she says. “I can literally see the kindness in her eyes. That lucky pant pisser,” thinks Hecker. “Let me come with you. I can help.” Hecker's motivations are twofold: to stay in her the vicinity of her perfume and her beauty. “Oh, your so kind...” Here lies are magnificent. She finishes the statement with “but I wouldn't want to burden you with this. We can talk about Brian in a minute.” “No. Let me help. We can talk on the way.” “Thank you for being so flexible.” “Don't sweat it. You must be aching to get out of here.” They stand up and walk towards the child. Hecker's shoes stick to the floor as he walks, making a weird a artificial ripping sound every time he takes a step. He bends down to pick up a piece of trash, pausing to make sure the teacher sees his good deed. “The pant pisser's eyes are still filled with tears. The other kids probably laughed at him. Kids do have the monopoly on cruelty,” Mr. Hecker thinks as he exits the classroom and into the developing snow storm. By dawn, both Mr. Hecker and the teacher are naked. Mr. Hecker stares the the ceiling, trying to relive the events of the night. “Her touch felt warm throughout the night and her body fitted to mine in a way that transcended coincidence. I think this type of thinking borders on obsession.” “Should I go?” The teacher is now standing in Hecker's bedroom, fully dressed, about to leave. “Only I would get lost in a day dream about the girl that was still in my bedroom,” thinks Mr. Hecker. “It's still snowing,” he says. The room is cold and both Hecker and the teacher can see their breath. “How can you tell,” the teacher says as she rubs her hands together. “I've just always had this things with weather. Something about the air.” Hecker winces at his own words. “Why do I want this girl to stay so badly? ” “Isn't it a little cold in here,” the teacher asks. “Yeah,” Hecker replies. “I need to remember to turn the heat on. For Brian.” “So... do you not want me to go,” she asks. Hecker sits up in bed. The scent of her perfume has faded with the sun. Beautiful one day and gone the next. She has goosebumps on her legs. “Come back to bed. It will be gone soon” says Hecker With all her clothes on, the teacher walks over to Hecker's side of the bed. “What will be gone? This storm isn't ending anytime soon,” thinks Hecker. She climbs into bed and rubs her toes against his leg. They feel cold. The teacher looks up at Hecker. He can feel her breath against his chest hair, swaying the individual strands to and fro. “Do you want me to make breakfast,” she asks. “No it's ok, you don't have to,” Mr. Hecker says. Rubbing his hands down her back, he wants to make her feel comfortable, at home. “God, she has some ugly moles on her back, like putrid olives that one day decided to infest her pale skin,” thinks Hecker. Mental filters were never his specialty. “I can make breakfast when Brian wakes up, it's not a big deal,” Hecker says. She smiles, rubbing her hands against his manhood. “I am her slave,” thinks Hecker. “Brian probably won't be interested in breakfast until after his cartoons are finished,” she says. “How do you know that,” Hecker asks. She shrugs, kissing his nipples in a way the causes him to giggle. Hecker turns red with embarrassment. “The perks of being a kindergartener teacher,” she replies. Hecker can hear the snow sliding off the roof and onto the ground below. It lands with a thud and he shuts his eyes. Hecker and the teacher are cleaning dishes, and he wonders if she knows his name. It turned out that Brian wasn't interested in breakfast, after all. “Thank god,” Hecker thinks. “I don't want to know what the parenting books have to stay about this. I bet the chapter doesn't even exist. Maybe I should make Brian eat something?” Brian's teacher excuses herself and walks into the bathroom. For some reason, Hecker suddenly feel lonely in his own house. Looking out the tiny kitchen window, he notices that it has stopped snowing. The faint sound of car horns fill the air. Hecker tries to try make out the first cars that have decided to brave the roads, but can only see colorful blurs dashing through the snow. “I wonder how many accidents there will be today,” He thinks. “The snow is going to be so muddy by the end of the day. Not that naturally muddy, with its clean earthy tones, but that kind of muddy that has clearly come from the bottom of cars.” Brian's teacher walks out of the bathroom and Hecker can't help but blush. “This was a one night stand, right? Two lonely people getting together for a night of empty sex and then in the morning go their separate ways. What am I doing? I feel like I'm at a point where I fall in love with anyone who talks to me. But maybe we having something? Last night, as we slept, she matched her breathe to mine, it was as if our hearts were beating at the same rhythm. That has to mean something,” thinks Hecker. “Remember that night. You know, the time we met.” Hecker cringes. He hates the way she laughs a little after finishing her sentences. “How did I use to find this cute,” thinks Hecker. “Yeah. It feels like an eternity ago.” “Do you remember what you said to me?” Hecker look out the window. He has already zoned out. “It's snowing.” She hesitates, trying to convince herself Hecker is still playing attention. “No. You said, “don't freak out, but I think I love you.” “It's going to start to melt soon. Did you know that?” “I didn't.” Brian's teacher lays next to Hecker and thinks about how she promised herself she wouldn't do this again. She makes a mental note: don't sleep with a guy just because it's more interesting than a frozen pizza and Law and Order reruns. She doesn't finish the mental note, instead, she falls asleep in Hecker's arms. That night, she dreams of walking across a desert in search of a mystical object that is supposedly infinitely interesting, banishing boredom forever. The dream ends as she's about to be eaten by a 12-foot python. She awakes and makes a mental note to be nice to Hecker in the morning. She stays awake for this promise. Hecker sits in traffic and attempts to reflect among the constant urban buzz. “So much has happened,” he thought. “The teacher and I have decided to see each other again. On Monday things were still pretty casual, but now it's Sunday, and I think I have a real future with this girl. My ex-wife says that I turned her into a sex addict, and I hope that's not the case with Brian's teacher. She is so nice, except when she makes that one face after she finishes drinking water. I hate that face.”