The Weird Writings

sightless hope chapter 11. war zone.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:00:06 PDT

Chapter 11. War zone.

When we had arrived home, a red car was parked in our driveway. When we
stepped out so did someone in their car. I heard a car door slam and watched
as a figure stepped out the car.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"It's someone from DCF." She said scared. This was the only time Barbra even
seemed a little bit frightened. As we watched the woman step out of her car,
Barbra and I looked at each other. Our gazes were clenched in the grip of
our fear.
"Did you clean the house today?" I asked knowing all to well what the social
worker was going to do.
"Yes. Last night when you three were passed out."
"And did you also get the stuff in the sink?"
"Yes." She said watching the woman like a hawk.
"So what's the story this time?" I said in a rush.
"The usual. Self defense. Besides, she has nothing on me."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah I am." At that instant, she fidgeted beside me. I wondered why she
did that until I heard the social workers precise primly body saunter over
to us. As the blur drew closer, I began to notice her figure. It was
delegate and petite with a round haughty face pinched together with thin
small cheeks. I couldn't see her mouth or her nose or her eyes. The blur in
front of me exclaimed with obvious fake happiness.
"Why hello there Mrs. Stout!" I rolled my head, which was my equivalent of
rolling my eyes at her voice. It was slightly preppy as if she came from
California. It had an air about it that resembled power. It also radiated
intelligence as if it were a wave waiting to be let loose onto the world. I
had a hunch that she wasn't as big of a dummy as she portrayed to others.
"Hey." Barbra snapped.
"So how are we doing this fine afternoon?" she tittered. I hated her
already, and I still couldn't see her face.
"I'm fine. What about you?"
"I'm doing okay. Work has been interesting to say the least." What the heck
was she doing? Trying to chat my mom up?
"Oh. That's a shame."
"I want to know something." I quickly jumped in. "you look very young and
attractive. How long have you been working for DCF?"
"Not too long." She dodged, "but enough."
"This is my oldest son, Robert."
"Nice to make your acquaintance young sir!" she gushed. I didn't know why
but I hated her even more just then. I didn't care if she dropped dead right
on the spot.
"Yours too." I said practically trying to kill her hand with mine. Her round
face gave me a smile.
"Well Mrs. Stout, I think you know why I am here, as I'm sure you do
Robert." I was quick to shake my head, but she nearly caught my mom off
guard.
"What do you plan to do?" my mom asked just in time.
"Well, standard procedure. I check out the house, and then I question the
witness or victims, in that case that would be the offspring, also known as
your kids."
"Just call us children." I snapped at her. My mom and she looked directly at
me.
"Are you sure, Mrs. Stout, that you don't know how the system works? What
about your kids?"
"This is the first time I ever had a call here." Barbra lied astonished.
"Oh is it now?" she swooned as if my mom had just told her a deep dark
secret. "Are you sure? Are you really sure there hasn't been any past record
of you?"
"Look, if she knew one she would tell you." I snapped. She instantly turned
towards me.
"You're very opinionated." She observed. "How old are you?"
"I'm 17."
"Oh. I have a son about your age."
"That's nice. Is he just a big of a nosey bitch as you are?" I mumbled
making sure she wouldn't hear me. I didn't know why I hated her so fiercely.
Her voice was very irritating to me, but lots of people had irritating
voices. So then, why did I hate her so much?
"So, why are you here?" my mom cut in sensing the tension between all three
of us.
"I just want to check out your house and everything, and talk to your kids.
Standard procedure."
"Of course. You want to butt in our lives." I mumbled. I was very glad she
didn't hear me.
"Last Friday," she began without even looking down at the clipboard in her
hands, "there was a case of domestic violence within this house. Usually
when that happens, normally children are involved, so, it's my job to see to
it that they are safe. I want to know that your kids are being taken proper
care of."
"So, since your obviously so skilled at this, how many cases have you had?"
I asked once again wishing she would slip up and tell me, so I can deduce
her experience level. She wasn't a dummy though.
"I've had my share of cases, but not as much as others I know. I'm quite
average. Now, Robert, perhaps you want to answer some questions for me?" she
didn't waste time.
"Can we do this inside?" I asked wishing she would kill two birds with one
stone by interrogating me while standing in a clean, polished house.
"Of course. It's quite hot out here don't you think?" she asked me as I
limped into my house. My mom and I both knew what she was doing. She knew
that we knew.
As we stepped into the house she looked all around as if she would
find some interesting foot resting on the couch.
"Hmm. Interesting. Is your house always this clean?" I had a feeling
we knew pretty well she knew we would lie. That would be very obvious. I
opened my mouth ready to speak but Barbra jumped in.
"No. it's not."
"Very interesting." She said marking something on the clipboard she
held. "How much are you home Mrs. Stout?"
"Well, I work." My mom lied. "What do you think?" I wanted to laugh
at my mom's sarcasm, but she ignored it just as I knew she would.
"Where's your son?" she said looking for me.
"Don't you want to finish asking me questions first?" my mom asked.
This woman was good but she wasn't that skillful about hiding her motives.
She wanted to see if I would slip up and reveal something. That was fine
with me, I was ready for her even before Barbra was. I even wanted to step
right out in front of her so we can get it over with.
"I do, it's just standard procedure for me to interview the children
in this case." My mom laughed softly behind her back as she looked in my
direction by the stove in the very small square kitchen.
"What's your name again?"
"It's Robert."
"Ah. It's Robert. You know, one of my best friends is named Robert."
So she was going to try that route huh? It was time for me to shut down, as
I always did when these people tromped through our lives. If I shut down,
she could never know my emotions. It was the perfect defense against these
people.
"Okay. That's nice." I said with zero emotion. I could tell just by
her stunned reply that she didn't like what I was doing.
"Well don't you have anything more to say?"
"Nope. I usually keep to myself." I noticed a little too late how
badly I had screwed up. She smiled, knowing I screwed up, and just as I
predicted, she jumped on this like some life jacket that was just tossed out
to her. Her thin mouth cocked its way into a smile I hated just as much as
her high fake voice.
"Really. Do you want to tell me why?" her eyes were reaching deep
into me I knew, even if I couldn't see them. I knew they were probing eager
to change my life, to put me out on the streets. My anger took over.
"Yeah. Why shouldn't you know?" I said my brain turning way beyond
the speed of my mouth. It was a good thing I shut down because by now my
face would have shown how hard I was thinking.
"You better not make up any stories again." My mom called panicking.
The social worker looked sharply back at Barbra, who instantly shut up. She
then turned her complete attention on my mom.
"Does he always make up stories?" she asked with obvious eagerness.
She was like a power source looking for holes. She was looking for slip-ups.
She was very good, which meant we would have to be extra careful. I didn't
think my mom could handle her onslaught of questions, or her. I had to speak
up.
"I like making them up." I said before she could completely
concentrate on my mom. I began to realize how she worked. She was a skillful
people reader, as I called them back then. She far surpassed me, but her
issue was she could only do it with one person at a time, and it also looked
like she searched for emotion. Barbra didn't know how to switch off as I
did. She was showing this now as she snapped at the social worker.
"THAT'S RIGHT! He loves making up stories. Don't you tell her any
lies."
"I won't." I said signaling to her she didn't have anything to worry
about. Barbra didn't relax as I talked. Her emotions became carvings in the
stone slab of her soul. Everyone knew she was afraid. If I could sense it,
then I'm sure our blood hound could as well, and better than me. She had
experience on me.
"Do you enjoy telling stories?"
"Quite a bit," I smugly said. She took a note on her clipboard.
"What kind of stories?"
"All kinds. I just like telling them."
"Sometimes he gets a little out of hand." Barbra cut in.
"I do admit that I'm a good liar. In fact, I look at it as a sort of game. I
just want to see, sometimes, even if people will believe me." I wanted her
to think I had a behavior problem so she wouldn't take me seriously.
"Ah! Very interesting." She said looking hard at me. Her face drooped, as if
this were sad news to her. I was trying to plant it in her head that she
wouldn't be able to trust anything I said, I wanted her to automatically
dismiss anything I said in case I did in fact screw up. She got right down
to my level in the clean kitchen baked in the evening sun.
"I think you do it for attention." How did she know that? How in the world
could she know that? I had to make her go away. She knew way, and I mean
excessively way too much, even if she didn't know it.
"Yeah? You think so? You know what I think? I think the way you look is just
for attention too. Why are you down here anyway? Something you want to look
at that's not anywhere else. Looking for blood stains?" she didn't like my
sarcasm.
"Let me ask you something, since you want to talk so much. Are you a good
student in school?"
"Yeah I guess, if you don't count homework that is."
"He has an organization problem." Barbra jumped in.
"That's understandable." She said finally taking a closer look at the
cleaned cabinets. I could tell she was studying the bright brown with what
looked like new wood. I knew my mom was up all night the night before, and
I admired her for doing all of this. She didn't even seem tired. How strong
she was, and how determined. I didn't know anyone else who could do that.
"You done looking at my house?" Barbra snapped letting the blood hound know
we both didn't want her there.
"Almost. Well, your house looks very clean. But there's something that's
been bothering me."
"And what's that? Your existence?" I snapped. Ignoring me, she concentrated
on what seemed to be the weakest link. Barbra stared her down as she asked
in a clipped voice.
"Mrs. Stout, the domestic charge last Friday involved alcohol. Now, you may
not have it open here and now, but it doesn't take a dog to smell something.
You do drink, so how much?
"How much have you drank in your youth? I know you're not a saint." I shot
at her. She turned slowly to me giving me a smile wishing I would shut up.
"I'm asking your mom some questions young man. When I need you, I'll come
find you. Go on now. I'm done with you for now." I grinned, very pleased
with my acting skills. But this bitch was going to come to the Florida
School for the Deaf and the Blind. I knew she was. I had to know when she
would talk to me again.
"When are you going to.?" I stopped mid sentence. My anger almost let it
slip that I knew she was going to come to the school. I had to keep myself
calm and collected. That was harder than it looked, since I hated her so
much I imagined my hands around her throat. She turned and glanced at me as
she firmly said
"I'll get you when I want to talk with you." At least I got her off my back.
I was happy but at the same time worried. Was my mom strong enough to handle
her? I stayed as they talked because I wanted to hear what the social worker
would ask. I wanted, also, to be prepared so that I could follow my mom's
line of answers. Of course they wouldn't be exact but I wanted to get a
general idea so I could stay on one road, even when I swerved a little.
"I bet you will." I mumbled.
"Excuse my son. He doesn't have many friends." She lied. I had no idea she
knew what my plan was.
"It's quite alright. Besides, I have to get statements from all your kids
anyway." She said with a smug attitude. It looked as if she had won. Barbra
stood there completely rigid, she didn't even move once as the blood hound
sniffed at her emotions. I was worried. Normally it would be the opposite,
with my mom worrying about me letting something slip, but I wish I could get
this bitch alone. I would tear her limb from limb. I would strip her of her
will so fast she wouldn't know what hit her.
"How soon will you do that?" my mom answered doing our usual routine.
"Oh Mrs. Stout, I will do it when I'm good and ready to." She seemed to
tower over my mom as if she were god herself. The bloodhound could obviously
sense that my mom was on edge. My mom was clever, but when it relied on her
emotions to keep a secret she was like an open book with bold face type.
"I believe I have a right to know when you're going to intrude in our lives
and my kid's education." Barbra snapped as fierce as a raging bear.
"Mrs. Stout." she faltered then shot back with "not if your kids are going
to. tell stories." I could sense her smiling all the way from here.
"So you've had a lot of cases then? Since you obviously predicted that my
children, who you have never met by the way, are going to lie." This was a
fierce battle between two damn smart women, and I didn't want to miss not
even one millisecond of it. I moved to a corner of the very cramped living
room so I could get a better view of the two pawns, each fighting for their
own personal king. They both were equally matched, but it was an interesting
thing to see all the same.
"Mrs. Stout, you're correct. I have had tons of experience, but I don't
think I should tell you any of what I used to do."
"Then are you finished here?"
"I still have to check the rest of the house." Barbra stopped dead in her
tracks. Our bloodhound sensed, just as I did, that something was very wrong
with what she said. My mom, as strong willed as she was, was nearly in
check. I then realized why my mom was so on edge about her looking at the
rooms. She hadn't cleaned them as meticulously, or didn't clean them at all.
I had to do something to keep the bitch from going back there. Barbra
couldn't handle her all on her own. I could though. I even wanted to.

"I think I want to look at their bedrooms. I just want to know what they are
interested in." she chirped acting as if she had just found gold in
someone's pants. I knew what she was doing and I didn't like it at all.
Furious, I stepped forward determined to make her leave. I didn't want to be
thrown in some foster care, and have no one there to care about me and guide
me. If we did end up going into foster care, that could be nothing but bad
events and people. It would be like reading the series of unfortunate
events. No matter what we did, it would only make our situation worse. As I
stepped up to her, my brain was kicking into super hyperactive drive.
"Mrs. what the heck did you come here for?" there was a long pause where
both women stared at me.
"I already told you Sir Robert. I'm here to investigate the events that went
on last Friday."
"okay." I cut her off so fast she recoiled, "then you tell me, you go ahead
and tell me what the heck that has to do with our damn rooms?"
"Well," she said with a shocked smirk combined with a little girly titter,
"I have to investigate the scene where it happened, and the-"
"So did it happen in my bedroom? I don't think so."
"Gosh you're very opinionated." She snapped. "You interrupted your mom and
me."
"Mom and I." I shot at her. I felt like being a complete bastard to this
woman. I then suddenly heard a light footstep, then another. I didn't pay
much attention to it, and she paid even less to it than I did, or at least,
she acted as if she didn't even notice it. I couldn't think about my
overactive imagination however. I had to stay glued onto this person. It was
the only way to make her go away. She was used to flitting from people to
people so she couldn't show any weakness, and try to strip someone of the
truth. Her strength lay in numbers. Mine lay in one, and that was she. I had
to think of her, and nothing else...
"Look Robert. It's my duty is to conduct a-"
"Investigation. No duh. You kind of made that real clear. You were supposed
to check out the witness and victims, and not pry in anyone's personal space
and life."
"That's where you're wrong!" she boasted. I knew I was, but I wanted to get
her emotions up so she would miss anything incorrect I said about the home
or, for example, what we usually have for dinner. I wanted her emotions to
drive her head.
"No. I'm right."
"Your not!" she insisted looking at her clipboard. "Interview the people
involved, and checks the area." I had her. She read off exactly what her
directions were, but was she that stupid? On the other hand, was she telling
me a lie to see if I would pounce on it?
"Who wrote that?" she was getting her wits back and that was something I
didn't want to have happen.
"My boss."
"I noticed it didn't say anything about the surrounding areas." I suddenly
sensed that she and I were the only people in the room. I looked around the
space, curious why I didn't see Barbra.
"That's true, but that's just a summery." Of course she wasn't going to tell
me every single order and restriction she was placed under. I had to try to
trap her in a corner.
"That may be, but you, again, don't have the right to come sniffing through
our personal items. That's off limits. You can check the damn scene where
the violence took place, but you got to have a reason to investigate
further."
"Lying is a good enough reason!" she snapped her voice rising a little.
"You have no concrete proof that I have even lied yet!" I shot back just as
quickly. Barbra entered the room again, her blonde hair slightly disheveled.
She was breathing hard. I was about to finish this bitch off when Barbra
opened her mouth and gasped
"Do you still want to look at the rooms?" what was my mom doing? I was
working on getting her to leave and here she was practically giving her
permission to investigate. Was my mom seriously that stupid? I couldn't let
her take up that offer.
"I don't think she has to." I quickly cut in giving Barbra a what the heck
are you doing look. I then knew why my mom was so out of breath. She had
cleaned the rooms enough to where the bloodhound wouldn't notice anything,
but I still didn't want to take that chance. I didn't like chances, and with
her around we sure as hell couldn't afford any.
"oh. You sure Robert?" Barbra asked astonished and pleased.
"yes. Your son is right. I shouldn't go back there, but if I have any reason
to investigate further, Let's say, lying, for example, I will come back, and
with a warrant."
"police can only get warrants." I jumped in yet again. She just shook her
head tired of me. her high voice was beginning to drop in energy and pitch.
I grinned as I listened to her talk. I had won. or so I thought.
"oh Mr. Kingett your quite wrong there." I seriously wished she would shut
up with that nonsense. I knew she could get a warrant if she ever so wished,
but I wanted her to get so excited she would loose her game. Barbra sensed
what I was doing and pounced on her.
"so your assuming then? I kind of thought you weren't supposed to assume.
You know, innocent until proven guilty? I think your discriminating here.
That won't be good if my lawyer hears about it." the bloodhound stopped dead
while staring at me. I gave her a grin. I had to deliver an uppercut, one
she would never expect.
"you know someone else who won't be happy about it? Her supervisor." She
jerked her head slightly as if she wouldn't believe I could make such a
threat.
"you don't know who that is." She boasted.
"oh. I'm sure it's no problem to find out, yah know? it'd be very easy. I
just look online at your company name and there you go. I'm sure there's
only a handful of you who cover the area, so it won't be hard to just look
up your supervisor." She cleared her throat.
"you can't make the call young man."
"no, but I can." My mom piped up standing right in front of her. "we can get
you for harassment, big time. You did what you needed to do, but then
assume, even accuse, without solid proof of lying? I think that's blatant
harassment." The bloodhound sighed heavily. She was being drained of her
will and emotions fast, and she knew it.
"look. Mrs. stout. In my job, you have to assume the worst."
"that's understandable, but you don't have to assume with us. We obviously
have nothing to hide." I lied giving her my best smile. I continued, my grin
getting even bigger.
"and, really now. Does this house look like it's been neglected in any way?
It's spick and span." She hunched a little as she spoke next.
"I can see that." she said thoughtfully taking one more look at the house
looking as if it were neat as a new pin. "I guess I'm done here." I gaped.
What the heck was this, a two second motivation change? Why did she just
abruptly switch gears like that. she did, after all, sound exhausted, as if
I alone had stripped her of all motivation. I was happy with this, because
it meant that she didn't have the energy or will to continue! I did it! My
mom apparently didn't like this sudden change, because she stuttered
"are-are you sure?"
"yes. I'm quite tired, and I have conducted my investigation. Besides, some
people," she said her voice turning to me. "aren't even going to let me go
beyond my call of duty." I guessed her huge round eyes were glaring at me. I
whooped and yipped inside. I was the king, and no one could mess with me!
"oh, and I'm deeply apologetic, but for the most part I do agree with my
son." Barbra lied showing the bloodhound all her acting skills.
"it's okay Mrs. stout. I will interview the individual children within a few
days." She didn't even care what sort of information she gave us. It looked
like she was spoon feeding us the information on purpose but I could also
hear just how tired she was. She wanted out of here, and I didn't blame her.
I would be exhausted as well.
"thank you Mrs. Stout. I will be going now. I'm so sorry if I caused you any
trouble." This was all very weird to me, but I watched as my mom, barely
able to hide the "ha bitch" tone in her voice, shook her hand triumphantly.
"no problem. No problem at all." The bloodhound turned and trudged out of
our house. I watched her get in her car and go, and as I did so, something
was sinking in as quick as a wave. This wouldn't be the last we would see of
the bloodhound, I was sure of that. I sort of wanted her to talk to me one
on one. I knew then that I would definitely get her away, and cause her to
dismiss us. I couldn't wait until she interviewed me at the school. I was
ready for her.

Authors note. I don't know if I should end the Chapter here or not, but
below there will be the rest I want to add, or should I put it some place
else? I would seriously like as many opinions as I can get. I'm not kidding
here folks. It would be a huge help.

After she drove away Barbra and I sat on the couch, exhausted yet happy.
"I'm so proud of you! You drove that bitch away so fast she didn't know What
the fuck hit her!"
"I know. She didn't want to mess with me at all. that was pure awesomeness!"
I loved making up my little words and phrases.
"I know, and who the hell did she think she was? Bitch. Prying into our
lives like that." Barbra and I sat facing each other on the couch our faces
looking just as tired as we felt. Barbra hugged me tightly, and I hugged
right back, resting my hair on her shoulder.
"I'm very proud of you!" She stroked my back as I laid there, wishing to
just fall asleep. I was more exhausted than someone who had just ran a flat
mile.
"thanks. Yeah, what the heck was she thinking trying to do that gay crap." I
said, my eyes nearly closed.
"I don't know. Damn bitch. I'm keeping my kids, remember what I've been
telling you ever since you moved in with me?"
"how could I forget. We're a family! We won't be separated."
"that's damn right! you made sure of that didn't you little man."
"yes I did."
"hey. What do you want for dinner? McDonalds?" I looked up in pure shock.
"really?" she held my gaze.
"yes. I won't drink tonight. We can have a family night. Just you,, me, and
Michael and sissy if they ever get here." Her bright eyes stayed locked on
mine, and I felt so happy I hugged her again.
"are you really going to do it? Call off your friends for the night? You
won't go visit them?" she smiled, and my heart skipped a beat. Was she being
serious this time? was she really being serious? Could I at last, trust her?
"I promise you, no drinking tonight." She kissed the top of my head. She
wavered at my still questioning eyes.
"I know I've said it before and I know that I haven't been true to my word,
but I promise you, tonight I won't even go see them." She found her keys and
went on her way. As I watched her go I had the biggest smile on my face.
Maybe there was a slim chance of her not drinking just for a night. It was
the worst when her friends would come over because that's all she wanted to
do. When they were in a mob they fed off each other. It didn't help that my
mom loved to be the center of attention in her community. her multiple
boyfriends everywhere she went was huge evidence to this. There were other
times like this, and she never kept her promise. That's because one of her
brain dead friends made sure to bring a six pack with them. I had high
hopes, but there was a part in my heart that loudly said
"you better not get your hopes up. She's never going to do what she says.
She never has. why start now?"
"You've got to have a little bit of hope right?" I counterd, arguing with
myself.
"you don't have to have hope. Hope is what makes people unhappy." This was
true, at least in my case anyway. When I wished for something, and it didn't
even happen. I lost all faith in hoping. As I heard the car peel away I
couldn't help but feel sad. It was a good thing I checked out a book at the
library, but still, there was a very, very slim chance. I had stopped
believing Barbra when she would tell me repeatedly that the fights between
her and her boyfriends were going to stop. Ever since 13 years old I stopped
believing my mom, but maybe she was right this once.
"no." I told myself out loud. "she's going to drink tonight. Don't even kid
yourself." now that I had come to that conclusion, I slinked back to my room
feeling as if I was going to faint. I was so exhausted that I plopped on the
bed with a huge thunnk. I couldn't sleep though. today's events kept racing
through my head. They all seemed like a million years ago. Meeting Travis,
the IEP meeting, En-vogue's house, they all seemed like a billion years ago.
As I watched the sun slowly sink in the dark blue sky, I suddenly remembered
that I had math homework. Oh well. Mr. Morse wouldn't care if I didn't turn
it in. I never handed it in anyway, and I really didn't have to do Mrs.
Fonda's English homework because I knew all the vocabulary terms. Tomorrow
morning before the bus arrived, I could do them. I then remembered the book
I had checked out at the library. I started listening to the giver, liking
the plot and the themes. I don't know where I learned about the significance
of plot, character development, and other materials a book should have. I
didn't learn them in English class though, because when Mrs. Fonda was
explaining foreshadowing to the class, I even jumped in with some examples
some very good books used. She was doing "the lottery" and right away I had
caught about three foreshadowing techniques he used. I also pointed out why
this item or person symbolized foreshadowing. She was quite impressed.
I listened to all of the giver that night, subconsciously
criticizing her use of symbolism, metaphor, and flashback. In the beginning
of the story I knew something was off, and it took me a while to figure out
why. I played the beginning chapters again, and noticed something very
strange. The people had no color description. This was fun for me, solving
puzzles in books. Intrigued, and doggedly determined to solve the mystery, I
kept listening.
It wasn't until the chapter where the giver explains to Jonas that
he is seeing color did I get it! I knew it! He was color blind!
The rest of the book was good, better than good. I found only few
pet peeves with the plot and character development, but they were things I
could look over. I hoped Mrs. Fonda was doing this book in class. I thought
the use of literary elements to enhance and propel the story were clever,
and I know Mrs. Fonda would agree with me. my friends didn't understand and
or care about the crap like this I found out about books. I had no one to
seriously criticize the book with. I longed to talk about it with Mrs.
fonda, because I felt like I was on the ball with my analysis. I also felt
like I was the only person in the world who did this sort of thing for fun.
I couldn't wait to discuss this with the class! I put the cassette back in
it's case and just laid still, replaying the story from beginning to end. It
wasn't long before my peace was interrupted. Everyone was home. I could hear
Michael's heavy pounding footsteps stomp through the house. I could tell he
hadn't lost much of that bowling ball stomach. a dirty hand covered my eyes.
"guess who." I sniffed the air. It smelled bad, like body odor.
"Michael."
"no shit dumbass." He snatched his hand away and I was glad. He tapped his
foot as I lay there looking at him.
"so, are you going to get out of my room now?" I silently left our room.
Trinity rushed into my arms, her blonde hair and round cheeks glowing just
like her mood. I hugged her skinny body.
"how are we doing today?" I asked with a smile. Her perfume wafted from a
toss of her glowing blonde hair. Her skinny body was even less built as
mine. She was only 12, and she was near my chest. Her charming young lady
smile told me that there was something for me.
"guess what. we have McDonalds!" she started jumping up and down.
"don't you ever shut the hell up?" Michael's gruff voice shot from our room.
"don't you ever know anything?" sissy snapped back with attitude. :anyway.
Let's go Robert. You coming Michael?"
"no. bring the damn food to me." shrugging. We made our way to the small
falling apart table in the kitchen. The table was very wobbly, so it was a
wonder it looked like it was brand new. I looked around for Barbra.
"um, sissy? Where's Barbra?"
"oh yeah. I like forgot to tell you see, like dire consequences happened.
she like stopped at Jessica's house.
"aw crap."
"yep. guess what? She's like drunker than a monkey. Oh, and mike is his
normal self."
"I can see. Who'd he hit today." I said joking but then she answered
seriously.
"he called someone a derogatory term." She went on sounding like a mother
might. "and he didn't think about the consequences of his actions, so that
like got him in trouble."
"what was the term?"
"nigger."
"ah. Funny. You know, Barbra met a black kid today."
"Uh oh. Who?"
"new kid named Travis."
"bet that transpired like smoothly." She then made a tisk sound with her
mouth. "I feel very sorry for Travis,"
"she kept her cool." I said.
"cool. Totally shocking, but cool."
"and how's your boyfriend? Barbra doesn't know about him does she?"
"nope. Obviously, because if she did we would never hear the end of it. You
know Robert, he likes you. thinks your cool."
"really?"
"uh, duh." But she was grinning at me. "he likes you better than fat Albert
in there."
"well he hates everyone." I said bored with him. I didn't even want to talk
about him.
"so tell me about travis. Is he hot?" I choked on my coke.
"you have a boyfriend."
"I was just kidding."
"and your only 12!" I said exasperated.
"so? I like older men. Past the teenage phase you know? I want to be able to
like, sufficiently trust them."
"I agree, but no. not your type. Don't ask about him again. He's to old for
you"
"damn." She said finishing her food just as I did. Barbra had already come
in, and she was lying on the couch.
"are you two finished in there?"
"yeah." We both said.
"I want to call a family meeting." Sissy and I looked at each other. We all
had to plan, think, and act. We had to rehearse what answers we would give
whatever social worker who would question us. Barbra sat up, the smell of
beer wafting from her like some perfume.
"oh boy!" my sister snapped. "rehearsal time! hadn't had this in about a
month!"
"that's because you weren't fucking here at home," my mom snapped. "where
the hell is Michael?" she yelled for him.
"where you think?" I shot back. After Michael loped into the room, Barbra
looked at all of us in turn.
"first off," she snapped then hic up while laughing. When she was able to
control herself again, she spoke a little louder than normal, as if the
drunken state was making her deaf.
"first off. why the hell weren't you two here?" Michael and sissy both
looked like they were caught murdering someone.
"I dunno." Michael answered.
"come on mom. She didn't want to talk to us yet."
"actually she did. Robert and I took care of her all by ourselves while you
two chicken shits were out having fun!" she stod up, and towering over all
of us, shook as she pointed at all three of us. Her voice bounced out of her
mouth radiating power, but you could tell she was drunk.
"you two were out fucking around, and leaving me to dry!" Michael just
looked at her while sisy retaliated with
"no! you do this to yourself! If you hadn't had J C over here this would
happen!"
"oh shut the fuck up you ungrateful bastard!" Barbra towerd over sissy. "I
want to see us stay together, but you don't care about this family at all!"
she was getting even louder now, and my sister was starting to break down.
"I do care mom! I do care. Why do you think I told the cops what I did that
night?"
"no you don't. you wouldn't care if we were on the streets. I bet you'd like
that, on the streets with all the men in the world." She got real close to
sissies face and shouted in her face, while grabbing fist full of her hair
"you know. the world doesn't revolve around dicks." She yanked sissy to the
side, and was left with a clump of hair in her fist. Sissy started to cry.
"why don't you just grow up! Get rid of J C! that would be the smart thing
to do, but I guess your stupid!" my mom spun around and grabbed her cheek,
making it red. When my sister started crying She started on Michael.
"hey fat ass! While you were at the god damn store stuffing your god damn
face with chips. we were actually saving eavh othe! Do you seriously want to
see me go to jail? God damn Michael. Wyg it I going to amount to? Anything?
You going to be like your dad? Do you even know why the ell I left him? I
left him because he didn't do god damn shit. All he ever did was sell
crack!" after about six more minutes of this, he was finally breaking down
and crying, and she then locked on me.
"and you!" she said jutting a shaking finger at me. "What the fuck? Not
turning in your homework? Schools important idiot! You don't want to be
bagging groceries for the rest of your life do you? Oh, and that social
worker knew What the fuck you were doing, and now she's never going to
leave. The, nice going. Real nice going! I mean, I get it that you hate me,
but come on Robert. Your just trying to cast us on the streets!" I started
to cry, and I didn't even know why. What she had said struck a nerve. I was
feeling guilty again as I always did. She didn't know anything! I loved her
with all my heart. She just didn't like us. She liked her drinking buddies
more than us, and this was the result. She grabbed me by the hair.
"I swear to god Robert. If you hadn't opened your god damn mouth she
wouldn't even be coming back at all!"
"hey I saved your ass from getting a piss test again!"
"no you didn't stupid. You didn't. now she's going to demand one all because
you had to open your mouth." She slapped me but I didn't even feel it.
"all of you get the hell out of here! You all can die for all I care! I
honestly don't even want to see you anymore." She then started yelling
incoherently, and even tossing a few things at us, but other than that it
was the usual. My sister and I raced into her rom, leaving Michael to fend
for himself. After everything called down, sissy and I talked on her bed.
"I hate her! Oh my god I hate her so much I wish she were dead!" my sister
sobbed, her fists balled up. "what a bitch." Her hair was wirey, and her
face had a huge welt where the blow was dealt.
"your face is red too." She said looking at me. I touched my cheek to
discover that it had a scratch on it. I was just as angry as sissy was.
"see, now we're going to have to make a new god damn lie to cover these up."
I snapped. "god what a fucking idiot. I hope she gets cirrhosis and dies.
Screw her."
"I feel the same. Fuck her." She flopped on her bed, the sound of her
sobbing blending with her hateful words.
"oh yeah mom. I have a black boyfriend, and you know what? He treats me
better than you do! God damn, I'm tempted to tell the truth when that worker
comes. You?"
"yeah. I am." I stood up and kicked the wall.
"stop It!" my mom screamed so loud her voice cracked.
"oh just go to hell." Sissy and I said simultaneously. After a while, we
heard her stumble into her room, laughing about us, and how we will be the
ones causing her to eventually land in jail.
"hell can't be worse than this." I said touching my bruised and scratched
cheek.
"I hear you. all them other girls at my school don't even have a clue."
"does Jamaal know?"
"you seriously think I would tell him?" she snapped. We sat in silence. I
thought about the days events and how she switched from being so proud of
me, to hating me and damning me to hel. At least she gave us a treat
tonight, but I knew she was going to do this. I knew it Al along. My face
burning, I crawled on the floor.
"toss me another pillow would you?"
"mmh." A pillow landed at my feet, and I fell asleep next to sissy. At least
J C wasn't here, because if he was we would be on the streets because god
damn Barbra would think he wouldn't let her come in the house.
With nothing else to do I played back the whole day. I didn't care that I
didn't do my math. School was so unimportant in my life. While all the
teachers had fancy degrees, a good income, and a happy healthy happy home to
be in, I had to worry about food, the bills, my safety. I didn't care that I
didn't hand in some stupid math assignment, I didn't care at all. why should
i? they didn't deserve anything out of me. I slammed into sleep, still
pissed at the world.

Crying eased it's way into my brain. I looked over at sissy to see if she
was crying, but she wasn't. as if in some weird dream state I stood up and
automatically went to the kitchen where the crying was coming from. I could
see someone huddled on the floor. I also heard the crying from that area. A
sighted person could have known who it was. I didn't, so I had to guess. I
walked over to the general area where the light switch was and flicked it. A
very dim bulb turned on, but I could adjust my eye to the dimness. I knelt
down beside the sobbing figure and touched her. I knew instantly who it was
just because of the strong body build. It was Barbra.
"go away." She said softly. I didn't want to. On the one hand, I wanted to
laugh, and say go ahead and cry. On the other hand, this was my mom, my soul
source of survival and life. I couldn't see her like this.
"no." I sat beside her, and her head rose, tears splotching her face.
"go away Robert."
"no."
"why not?"
"why are you crying?"
"why the hell do you care?" she did have a point. I didn't very much care,
but still something in me hated seeing her on the floor like this. In my
eyes, she was always powerful. Evil, mean, or not, either way she was the
strong one. This was so weird to me I couldn't leave.
"I don't like seeing you like this. Look. You've had a hard day, but that's
no excuse to come home being an ass." She was racked with sobs again. I was
sort of glad.
"I know. I'm sorry"
"are you? Are you really?" I asked, my gaze hard. I don't know if she saw
me.
"yes. I'm sorry." She said tears splashing my hand on the floor. "I just
drink because. because." she faltered, and didn't finish her sentence.
"no excuse." I firmly said.
"I know, but if you kids would help me out a little we wouldn't be in this
god damn shit whole.
"us help you out? Where are you a when we're hungry? Where the hell are you
when we need homework help?" she didn't answer me, just as I knew she
couldn't. she didn't know how.
"look. I'm sorry, and I know you hate me," my blood boyald.
"I don't hate you.. I just don't like you"
"go fucking figure."
"can you blame me?" she started sobbing again.
"you really don't know how hard I try. None of you help me at all. none of
you do. I have to do everything by myself, with no fucking child support!"
"you don't get rid of the people who come here Barbra, on school nights when
we have priorities. You wonder why I don't turn my homework."
"you don't clean your room!" she snapped at me. I guess that was true. She
was dead on the mark. How did she do it? For someone who was so out of it
she sure was observant.
"I know Barbra. I'm sorry." She smiled at me. "but I won't forgive you for
tonight. You don't deserve it." She sobbed yet again and lunged towards me.
she cried on my shoulder.
"look. I'm sorry. What do you want from me? I'm sorry okay. I can't help
it." She could help it! What the heck was she thinking! She could go to
rehab and get her life straightened out, but she didn't want to. She didn't
want to get help. She loved partying to much. I hated it.
"yeah. Sure."
"look Robert. I'm sorry about the IEP room, and about that little nigger
boy."
"his name is Travis!" I yelled at her. She gave me a small smile.
"okay. Travis. I'm sorry about the social worker too." She touched my cheek
while crying again, her bony fingers softly holding my shaking jaw.
"I know you won't forgive me, but do you love me?" she pleaded with her
eyes, and as she rested on my shoulder, me holding her and stroking her hair
lightly with my shaking hand. My heart ripped inside.
"she honestly is trying." My brain said.
"don't even start." I argued with myself. "you're an idiot. She's not
trying. This is just like all the other times." But that's where I was
wrong. The previous times she asked for my forgiveness, and now, she wasn't
doing that. She was asking if I loved her. Way deep down in my heart, I
guess I did. I didn't like her that was for sure, and she was right about me
never forgiving her. I stopped forgiving her when I was 13. I didn't like
her in the slightest, but that wasn't what she was asking me. could I tell
her what I thought? Snot leaked onto my shirt, and as I slowly rocked her
back and forth, I whispered in her ear, for once not feeling like I was
telling a lie.
"I love you mom."

Join the weird writings Google group

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 09:47:14 PDT

Hi all! I have created a group called the w writes Google group. it is an email group, but all topics are welcome. intellectual ones would be even better.

It is based off of my weird writings blog. below will be the place to subscribe check out the group.

Subscribe to weird writings

Email:

Visit this group

if you wish to check out the groups web site directly, the link is below.

http://groups.google.com/group/wwrit

so have fun, ass it on, and, well, be nice. if you join, I will give you a cookie.

Because he was black.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 09:40:43 PST

By Robert Kingett.

You know when you are digging through very old, two year old email archives, and find attachments you didn't even know you created and sent? This is where this came from. Please enjoy my two-year-old creation.

It was probably one of the most sentimental works I have done to date, and it even isn’t up to date!

Because he was black.

On the morning on November 5, 2008, I went to school tired but excited. The night before, I had seen what I thought was the most important moment in my life, and one of the most important in this country’s history in the election of Barack Obama. However, when I got to school, I saw that not only was excitement over the election limited almost exclusively to black students, but also white students were already largely irritated by mention of the election only seven hours after we had discovered that the United States would have its first black president. At first, I thought this was due to the vast majority of white students at my high school identifying with the Republican Party, and the election of a Democrat frustrated them. However, when even apathetic students were “tired of hearing about Obama,” I knew something there was something deeper.

I didn’t realize how heavily racial the issue was until I started asking some people why they were so unhappy. The overwhelming responses were from McCain supporters who believed Obama won “just because he is black.” There is a scarily obvious factual issue with this belief; blacks comprise 13% of the electorate. Last time I checked the Constitution, 13% did not correlate with a majority needed to win the election. In fact, Washington D.C is the only state with a majority of blacks, meaning that voting strictly along racial lines would have yielded Obama exactly three electoral votes.

But let us assume that this data is irrelevant. What seemed to irk white students the most was the fact that “every single black kid in this school likes Obama, and most of them wouldn’t know why except that he is black. The same thing goes for this country.” At first, I wanted to argue that rural, uneducated voters have flocked to republicans in the past for simply the reason of tradition, and that there is likely about the same percentage of McCain supporters who voted against Obama because he was black. Then I realized that the significance of the election of Barack Obama to the black community is one that the majority of my fellow white students not only could not relate to, but also simply could not understand.

We all remember the Reverend Wright fiasco; one hateful, unpatriotic, bitter preacher whom Barack Obama distanced himself from as soon as possible. Surely, no one in this country is as un-American as right. Right?

Wrong.

What some of us, white students, do not understand is that the cynicism so venomously spouted by Reverend Jeremiah Wright is not unique. Dislike and distrust of our government is rooted within the African-American community, and has evolved into almost complete apathy in black youth.
I cannot say that I am immune to this sentiment. Even though I was born and raised in America, I didn't like our own country. While I was told that America is the great melting pot and that all men are created equal, history lessons painted America a much different picture. The very foundation of America was due to the genocide of its natives, and its economy was formed on the shoulders of slaves from Africa. Every freedom given to minorities has had to be extracted through war or civil disobedience, and life has had to be lost for this nation to inch towards giving its citizens equal rights.

While all men were created equal, the Constitution had proclaimed blacks as exactly 3/5 of whites until less than 150 years ago. Black history is still seen as a contribution to American history, not a part of it, and therefore warrants America’s celebration for only the month of February. Only 40 years ago, blacks were being hosed down in the streets and attacked by police dogs. If America was the land of the free and opportunity, then why did blacks have to fight for freedom? Is that not what George Washington fought for 200 years ago? It is now as if Washington’s army had fought for the freedom of white America, only to oppress its people even more viciously. Essentially, America’s history was that of the novel Animal Farm.

This is how I, a white American, felt about America. Imagine what blacks across America felt like. It explains the lack of African-Americans at the polls throughout history. Why participate in a government from which you must struggle to squeeze every ounce of its promises?

In young people, this acceptance of apathy led to an acceptance of unimportance. Except in sports, blacks felt they were not destined to become much of anything, and the most prominent influence in young black children’s lives were negative influences from the hip-hop culture. While whites would argue that this culture perpetuates negative stereotypes of blacks being poorly educated and criminally involved, this culture would have never arisen had whites throughout history not subjected blacks to inferiority.

This is why Barack Obama’s nomination as president was a moment many thought they would never see. Finally, a candidate they could relate to, would fight for them, and one would finally represent them in Washington had arisen. Blacks across the country were mobilized in numbers never seen before, and the youth of America came with them. Barack Obama carried approximately 95% of the African-American vote: educated, uneducated, old and young. It was beyond simple race; it was the emergence of hope for African-Americans.

I can see now why some white children, born in the United States and decades removed from the nightmares of the 60’s, would see unheralded support for Obama as frustrating and naive. Some went as far as to call Obama supporters racist against blacks. But in fact, it is the history of racism that caused support for Obama among older blacks, and the coming forth of a long-awaited role model for the African-American youth. For most, it is a race far more important than politics. The messages of hope and “Yes We Can!” signify much, much more than what many believed was empty rhetoric. While white voters saw the linkage of Obama and Martin Luther King as despicable, that one cannot compare a politician and a selfless humanitarian, the black community finally saw a voice to lead itself out of long inactivity. Although saying that “most of blacks in the country support Obama only because he’s black” is inaccurate, the majority of white students my age simply do not have the perspective to understand the movement we are witnessing. “Change” meant a lot more than party politics for African-Americans in this election.

I admit, when I saw the crowd at Obama’s acceptance speech, an endless mix of all races and all ages, celebrating a common cause, my view of America fundamentally changed. Obama had broken a barrier that so many had seen and run away from, and its perception was perhaps a greater hindrance than its reality. In short, Barack Obama’s election means less to America’s history than it does its future. Obama has not just opened a door; he has thrown open the shutters to a world which many did not even comprehend as being theirs, too.

It is ironic that in a time of such crisis, policies mattered less to blacks than the candidates themselves did. But it didn’t hurt that Obama’s policies won the vote of the other 87%, either.

Hate mail from a 21 year old scholar! Uh-oh!

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 13:40:23 PST

I have to say… people love me. here's one email that I actually had to work at responding to. I love publicity.

Date: Sun, 7 March 2010 10:12:47 -0600
From: TH <######> (removed)
To: Robert Kingett, email omitted.
Subject: new section

Hey Loser ass wipe,

I know you probably get a lot of hate mail which made me hesitate to
write you. But I have to for my own satisfaction. You are incredibly
ignorant and petty. It is obvious that you have absolutely no life
whatsoever and take incredible joy in ripping on people that you envy,
such as me. You see, I have a good, well-paying job and I am only 21. I
graduated from CU last spring at the age of 20 with a BA in business and
currently work for a successful entrepreneur in Boulder, CO while
interning for a member of the Colorado State Board of Education in
Denver. I have accomplished more in my young life than you ever will. I
dare you to post this email. I dare you to even attempt to insult or
degrade me. What could you possibly say in response to what I have
said? I have met people like you in person. People who bitch and moan
about everything just because our world allows them the right and ability
to do so in a controlled environment such as the internet. I wonder what
you would say to someone like me if we met on the streets. You are a
coward.

Sincerely

P.S. You should do a section on how stupid people can make websites
insulting the world from their home while regularly taking breaks to
masturbate to internet porn. Or about dumb fucking webmasters you think
they’re super internet pimps because they can hide behind their
computer and never actually take responsibility for their actions.

My response.

I like to consider myself a reasonable man. For example, when someone sends me hate mail from their work account, I reply and explain to them why it's a bad idea for them to continue to harass me.

Case in point: I received this email from some guy (who I will refer to as Chump Change going forward) yesterday. I warned Chump Change that it was a terrible idea to send me hate mail from his work account, because I'm sure his employer wouldn't want to convey the image that his company employs dipshits. Chump Change disregarded my warnings and continued to email me, so I've posted his address (update: address has since been removed). I sure hope his employer doesn't find out, because it would be a damn shame if Chump Change got fired for screwing around on the job.

Now as for his email: Chump Change claims that I enjoy "ripping on people" who I "envy"? I replied to this email and found out that he makes $6,000 less than I did at the age of 21, and I don't even have a degree. What exactly am I envying here? Your Bachelor of Arts degree in Business? Wow, impressive; way to challenge yourself Chump Change. I did a bit of research and found out some of the classes that are required for graduation in "Business" at Colorado University:

· Business Computing Skills
· Profiles in American Enterprise
· Introductory Finance
· Business Statistics

I'm sure it was quite an accomplishment to pass "Business Computing Skills," no really, it must have been very demanding having to learn how to use Microsoft Office, right up there with other lofty challenges like learning how to zip your fly without getting your dick caught. Tell you what, I'll teach you this course free of charge. In fact, I can teach you the entire course by using only two keystrokes; be sure to take notes! Ready? Here it is: F1 (press it to bring up the help menu). Damn Chump Change, you should have asked me first, I could have saved you thousands of dollars teaching you how to use programs that require little more than bashing your head on the keyboard to operate, dumbass.

Then you have "Business Statistics," or as I call it, a "math for morons" course. The lowest common denominator of math class is a "business" math class, where you learn a shit-load of nothing. I'm sure you'll have no trouble landing an exciting job in Real Estate Appraisal with those credentials. Your dad, who I'm sure probably paid for your lazy unmotivated dumbass to get through college, must be proud. Stand tall Chump Change, you've managed to do what only a few hundred million other people are able to do every year:

Congratulations! You're fucking mediocre.

I don't get it; how can you jackasses call me a "coward" by posting on my website? Did you not notice the picture of me on the main page? What exactly am I hiding from? I get recognized in public all the time, don't you think that if I was afraid that I wouldn't post my badass facebook picture on the internet for millions to see? Then you claim I have no life? News flash: I only update about once a week. I go to school. and I update this site IN MY SPARE TIME. When is the last time a few million people gave a shit about anything you wrote in your spare time, other than having your email posted on my site (which I'm sure will be the highlight of your boring life)?

In a desperate attempt to sound smart, Chump Change wrote this in another email:

"I think you are a puppet of our pop-culture views of wit and talent."

Oh really? First of all, you make the assumption that anyone other than you shares your opinion of what "wit" and "talent" are. Ignoring the fact that this assumption was pulled out of your ass, you think that I'm a "puppet" of "views"? How exactly can one be a "puppet of views," dipshit? It doesn't even make sense you dolt.

In closing, Chump Change has made a special request. He would like to know the answer to the following question:

"Why would I get hate mail if you posted MY hate mail on YOUR site?! Dumbass"

Update: I posted this email without hiding the address. Chump Change broke down a record 20 minutes after this email was posted (after he received a flood of hate mail), and asked that his email address be removed. I'm a reasonable man, so his name and email address have been removed, with this final note:

"Robert, I am sincerely apologetic... Please please take it down. If you any shred of decency please. This is all wrong. Please take it off."

I rule, bitch.

Gothic hate mail, holy shit! Run!

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 07:25:13 PST

I've been trying to avoid putting up another page about Gothics for a while now, but recently I've been getting a flood of emails from dipshit Gothics that don't know the definition of satire and sarcasm. I received the following hate mail just the other day (spelling and grammar errors highlighted in red):

From: captain kirk <im4goth@hotmail.com>
To: Robert Kingett. note, email omitted to avoid spam,
Subject: hipocrit!!! gu fujing die!
you are are a judgemental son of a bithc who are you to jugde people who
choose to live the gothic life s5yle youre not them you dont know what
theyve been through it makes me so sad to see a pathetic dickless weener
like you wasting youre energy putting down other people you make me sick
gothic people make a diffence standing up for what they believe they dont
need cock suckers like you putting them down!!! eat shit and die!!!
______________________________________________________________

I don't know what they've been through? What the hell are you talking about? What exactly have they been through? Maybe a course in bigotry, bias and blind submission? I'm putting down people that make a difference? My bad, I forgot about the whole gothic humanitarian movement. Gandhi and Martin Luther King had better watch their ass; they have some competition of the gothic persuasion. It's ironic that you're complaining because I put down people for "standing up for what they believe," while the reason you're writing to me is because I too am standing up for what I believe. By the way, I think you might want to leave gothic representation to someone that can spell from now on jackass.

What I don't understand about Gothics is the double standard they use with people. First of all, if I were to put up a Gothic web page viewing their lifestyle in a positive light, then I wouldn't hear any bitching from their camp even though it's still just my opinion. However, I've chosen to put up a gothic web page that doesn't view them in a favorable light and I'm bombarded by gothics that don't like what I have to say, even though it's just an opinion, positive or not! Biased morons.

The Gothic Challenge:

I challenge any gothic out there to send me the universal definition of a gothic. I've been to some of the biggest gothic web sites on the internet and none of them have a consistent, universal or even coherent definition of what a "gothic" is. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a label. End of story. Just another group of people starving for attention. There's nothing unique, interesting, mysterious or inherently intellectual about these pseudo-intellectuals. What's the point? Why don't these people get their own opinions and stop trying to fit into the rules of a group they didn't invent. Uncreative, un-innovative and most of all uninteresting. The whole "tortured artist" facade is tired. I'd like to use a quote from one of the authors of gothics.org, on the definition of gothics:

"But what does gothic mean in regards to the group of people? Here's where it gets confusing. There are things that many Gothics like that are not gothic (Industrial or Classical music). There are things that are gothic that many Gothics dislike (vampires, interest in death). There are things that some people think are gothic that are not gothic (bands like Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails), and there are things that do not call themselves gothic even if they are considered gothic by most people (bands like Sisters of Mercy and Dead Can Dance). However, there's no Grand Gothic Judge to decree what is truly Goth and what is not, although there are plenty of people who claim to be it. It's an ambiguous label with many people using it that don't understand what it means. The people who do understand it often have many different definitions."

Highlighted in red, the author states that it's just a label. The use of the word "ambiguous" in front of "label" serves as a buffer that doesn't change the fact that it is indeed just a label. As stated, there is no "gothic judge to decree what is truly Goth and what is not," implying that there is no universal definition. How trivial and boring.

I received an email from a gothic a long time ago that stated:

I bet you don't even know any Goths because if you did you would know that most of us are the most intelligent, unique, intresting and creative poeople you will ever met.

Many goths seem to adhere to this mentality. That they are some how MORE unique and intelligent than the rest of us. Not only is this insulting, but blatantly false; testimony to this fact being all the poorly written email I receive from "goths." Ironically, since most goths (and by "goths," I refer to their "culture" or "subculture" as they've defined it) seem to think that they are somehow more intelligent, interesting and/or creative than the rest of us, this alludes to another character trait entirely, or namely, arrogance. Boring, arrogant, uninteresting, un-innovative gothics. I believe this issue has been exhausted. Do me a favor. email this bastard and tell him that you love me, just to piss his little dick off.

death to Gothics! yeah!

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 10:55:31 PST

Gothics. When they're not getting their asses kicked, they're busy getting drunk and having sex with dead animals.

They give me diarrhea. What the hell's wrong with them? They always look pale, weak and sickly. Nothing a reality check can't fix. But no, they choose to dress up like French poets and walk around like vampires. Why don't you losers get a life and quit pretending like you're depressed? Maybe then people will stop treating you like the dipshits that you are, and you'll gain some respect. You know, I've done my homework. I've probably checked out over 50 pages by people who consider themselves "gothic." I've read over 20 definitions, and none of them were consistent. They're quick to label themselves as gothics, but they can't even pick a definition and stick with it. Instead, they allow people like myself to stereotype them by aesthetics. The bottom line is, that there probably isn't a universally accepted definition of a gothic because the entire movement or lifestyle (or lack thereof) revolves around just that: aesthetics. Sounds trivial and unimportant to me.

Don't get me wrong here, I have nothing against depressed people. As I come to understand it, most gothics aren't even depressed. They just act that way because they're cowards. Cowards afraid of dying. I almost laughed out loud when I first read this. Afraid of dying? Why is this even an issue? Well tough shit. If they're so afraid of dying, then they shouldn't have been born. Not my loss.

They're so afraid of death and dying, yet they smoke, drink and have unprotected sex. I know not all gothics are like that, but I don't give a shit about being politically correct. So don't mail me saying "On your page you said all [insert name of dipshits here] are [insert stereotype here]." Yes, I know. Nobody cares. My point is that gothics are shitty, and something should be done about them.

I propose that we build a giant cannon, gather up all the gothics, pack them into the cannon, and launch them into a brick wall. SLAM. No more gothics. Maybe then they'd have a reason to be depressed. That is, if any of them lived. They're all so pale and weak that a mere launch into a brick wall might finish them off.

I was going to talk about this girl I went to high school with that was a shit-eating gothic, but I'm too tired. Just take my word for it, she was shitty.

Why i will not join the KKK.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 15:36:50 PST

this rant was actually written by bang at fictionpress. yes, she is briliant isn't she? no, i did not write this one, but oh, how i wish i had.

A few days ago, somebody asked me something peculiar. The way they said it, it didn't sound like a question, but I remember it as a rather pointed remark:

Here, I'll copy and paste this idiots email, and even highlight it in bold for you

"WHY DONT U JUST ADMITS IT AND JOINS THE FUCKIN KKK, YOU RACIST!!! FUCK YOU!!!!!11!!11!"

That's a rather crude statement, don't you think? I say that this was a statement, not a question, because of the lack of question marks. But I've since mulled it over and rephrased it as an intelligible, rational question so that I could better address it:

"Why do you not simply admit to being a racist and join the Klu Klux Klan?"

You see, now we can look at this as an actual question. Oh, the power of caps lock, shift key, and grammar. God, how I hate 1337.

I am here today to answer the question that was asked to me days ago by billions of black dip shits at my school and elsewhere including this ass eating motherfucker. I've no idea why it was asked, but I've since guessed why. It is because I occasionally make racist remarks. Given that that isn't the only reason, it's probably one of the main ones I come across as racist. I will address this issue also in the simple explanation below. It was also perhaps questioned of me to join the KKK because the person who said it was black, and had an intense irrational hatred for me and people like me, but I've dismissed this by discovering several years ago that I really, really didn't give a flying fuck. It's nice when you don't care about things.

But I do care enough to answer this question. Why do I care enough and what aspect inspired this caring? Let me tell you: I care because I thought about it the other day and said to myself, "oh, I remember that fuckin' idiot. And no, school dip shits, it wasn’t my black buddy. I admire him, like me, he doesn't give a flying fuck either. No, people, the dip shit shall be nameless. I should write a rant about idiots like that. Especially ones who accuse me of this shit. Yeah, I'm gonna do that when I get home." What inspired it? I forgot to do it two days ago and I just did it now. Just now. So that's why. Plus, there's comic relief. I like making fun of idiots through sarcasm. It cheers me up a lot!

Anyway, back to the point.

I now present to you the answer that question I was posed some time ago by a nameless black shithead: Why, Exactly, I Am Not A Klansmen.

RACISM

The first reason I am not a member of the KKK is that I am not racist. I am stereotypist. It's unfortunate that a lot of stereotypes rely on race, but that comes with the package. I am firmly convinced that stereotypes fill themselves out, and idiots perpetuate them and adapt them throughout the generations. 50's greasers become "rebels" become gangsters. Except that they are no longer Italian, they're just black. You follow? Plus, they tend to be self-fulfilling prophecies, and I'm a firm supporter of devastating irony. There's probably a reason so-and-so overdosed. It's because he was following his stereotype.

I'm not racist. I really do hate everybody equally. I'm Caucasian with other shit in the background somewhere, and I hate people like me just as much. But please, do not get me wrong. I do not hate myself. I have only the highest self-esteem. I esteem myself so much that I know I'm better than everyone else is. This is called egomania, and it's fun!

Have we illustrated yet that I'm not racist? No? Then let me present this point for your browsing:

Not only do I hate everybody equally, I find the idea of "ethnic cleansing" offensive. Especially if it concerns black people. I love everything that has ever come of ethnic diversity, ever. The music, the dancing, the food, the wars, the holocausts. Really, I'm all for it. Especially intolerance. It, like, breeds this shit. It's wonderful!

It's like the thing with Hitler. I don't like the idea that he thought of cleansing the races to breed out pure Aryans, but I like how he planned to do it. And in retrospect, I think it's hilarious that he tried. "If he succeeded" – well, he didn't, did he? So there's nothing to be gained from worrying about something that happened in the 40's. Honestly. I don't know why people get mad at me about being an entropist. I'm morbidly fascinated by this shit. It's exciting and fun!

The point is, I admire Hitler. And Pol Pot. And Saddam Hussein, to some degree. All those weird, racist, racist men. Men and women! I admire their efforts at making the world a better place. They could've done better, like, say, succeeded, but hey. Whatever. You can't have everything.

But I'm all for intolerance. I really am. I like the idea of racism. It's not that I'm racist myself, but I admire everything that has the potential to bring about the end of the human race. Racism is one of those things that threaten to bring about this end, probably by nuclear war, which is why I like it. But by liking it, I've become not-racist. See this yet? No? Then let me explain it further.

I have no problem with races myself. I don't see the problem. I understand it, I fully understand it, IN DEPTH, but that doesn't mean I practice it. I don't see it. To be racist, one must have open discord with members of other ethnicities that are not your own or not something specific. To me, everyone is just a person. Race is just a skin color, just a culture. It's nothing special, the world is fuckin' full of them. It doesn't mean anything; it'll just mean you'll have weird-colored babies if you have interracial couples. Maybe. Unless they're gay. There's no procreation there. Gay people are the poster children of zero population growth. But I do support racism because I don't like humans.

You'd probably be right in estimating my religion as Orthodox Hypocrisy or somesuch, but I really don't give a flying fuck.

I'm not racist, but I support racism. And I'm a white American, so it all works out! But how does this possibly tie to me to not being in the KKK? Because, ultimately, the KKK will end racism by ethnic cleansing. (If there's only one race to worry about, there's no racism!) Hitler was like this too. It'll end intolerance and there will be an endless abundance of hippies holding hands and singing folk songs about world peace on college campuses. And I don't like that kind of thing.

CLOTHING

Getting down to aesthetics, the white robes of the KKK are really not my cup of tea. It's so bland and bright, and can you imagine getting lost in the snow? Maybe the little red and black logo would stick out. I don't know. Like if somebody took a picture of you in a pure snow background. You'd blend in, except for your hands and your eyeholes and that little logo on the robe. But if you turned around, nobody would even know you're there. You could rob Eskimos in those robes. They wouldn't know the difference. You're be right in guessing that these are the thoughts that keep me up at night, wondering.

There's also the added reminder of ghosts. The KKK robes remind me of ghosts. I, personally, do not care for ghosts seeing as they're scary and unpleasant. I wouldn't like dressing up like one all the time! Maybe on Halloween it's okay to dress up like a ghost with a cone head, but not on regular meetings. What would my friends be saying?

On top of a needless ghostly reminder, it's just not stylish. They're very out of fashion, and the color white is not in right now. And the cone head? Need I remind people that that kind of hood is not attractive or becoming? And is it just me, or do you people look at them and can't help but think of the movie Coneheads? I didn't like that movie. That's another unpleasant reminder. Right next to fucking ghosts.

So the robes are unstylish. White clothing does NOTHING for my complexion. And they remind me of Coneheads and scary ghosts. And the eyeholes are unnecessarily weird and…eye-hole-y. They're too big. And I don't imagine they'd be very good in facing bad weather. So on top of that, the robes are impractical. And they probably aren't too warm, either. I think there's at least one KKK member who wears red robes, at least, that's how it looked when I watched Harold and Kumar Go to Guantanamo Bay, and chances are I'm not going to be that lucky guy. You can tell I haven't done my research just by that statement, can't you?

LOCATION

Do I look like the kind of asshole who would live in the South?

Do I seem like that kind of jerk? Do I sound like it?

Really?

The Bible Belt?

Do I look like I'd survive down there?

It's the Bible Belt. The air itself is Jesusified. It's holier than the Pope's ass. The air itself would be toxic to a jerk like me. I'd probably choke to death. Athiesm plus Jesus doesn't breed happy results, you know!!

Do I honestly come across like the type of person who would survive in Georgia? I've never been anywhere west of the Mississippi and south of Tennessee. And even then, when I went to Tennessee, I was afraid of the churches. I hardly said a word to anyone. I was afraid that someone would start a mob and burn me or something. Ex-Mormon on-off-Wiccans practicing atheists in highly religious areas have a tendency of dying.

So let me ask this one last fucking time: do I seem like the kind of asshole who could survive living on the Bible Belt? Really, now. That's just unreasonable in and of itself. Jesus Christ, I own Jesus Dress-Up fridge magnets! I have the whole set of them!! You really think I'd bother joining the Klan, knowing where it originated, knowing that they're Jesus-obsessed, knowing I'm likely to get shot if I voice my opinions?

If that's not enough for you, I'll give you some other reasons why I don't live in the south.

1. Okay, once again, the air itself would be so holy that it would be toxic to an anti-Christian such as I.
2. I hate hot weather.
3. The idea of incest scares me. (Incidentally, this is why I refuse to go to Austria)
4. Southern accents scare me too.
5. I'm not very crazy about the KKK to begin with, if you haven't noticed.
6. Uh, I wouldn't survive? Hello? Biggest reason!!

DIFFERENT LOCATION

I get that the KKK isn't necessarily limited to the South. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not entirely stupid. But the South still scares me. Ever since the Civil War, I've been scared of it. Just like ghosts!!

RELIGION

Oh, I could go on for hours. I really could. But that is a rant for another time. I have a very, very, VERY large bone to pick with religion. Suffice to say that I am not a fan of Christianity because I consider it the most dangerous religion out there. The KKK is the spawn of it, and the spawn of Christianity is evil. I refuse to support a system that oppresses free thinking and participates actively in meetings where we all can talk about weather and compare clothing. Plus, God. I just don't like the fellow. Especially because he isn't real and everything.

Imagine me, with these beliefs, joining the KKK. Or participating in a jihad. You, who told me to go and join the freaking Klan? Can you see the stupidity of your question/accusation now, you cum chucking dip shit?

WHY I WILL NOT JOIN THE KKK

So here's what we have:

1. I'm not actually racist, I just like stereotypes.
2. The idea of racism really offends me. It threatens to bring about world peace, and I don't like the idea of that.
3. The robes are unpleasant, seem itchy, and are unattractive. I wouldn't be caught dead in them. And they remind me of ghosts and Coneheads, neither of which I like!
4. I would not survive free-thinking in the KKK. They would attack me and eat me alive. Or something.
5. I can't live in the South. I just can't. It's too scary!
6. I don't just plain don't like religion. It's a frightening concept that demolishes individuality, and individuality is what breeds intolerance, which breeds racism and stereotypes, which will eventually bring about the end of the world. I like individuality! Why would I want to see it go away? Free-thinking is good.

Get it? Got it? Good, then fuck off.

realistic reviews. episode 1. twilight the book.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 19:23:23 PST

this will be a review i did on YouTube a few days ago, and more people wanted me to do this review than any other good book out there. they also demanded an audio review. yes! so all, here is where i stutter out an explanation of my thoughts on twilight. enjoy!

If you are looking at this in an email, the link will be below. click this link to listen to the review.

Of Life and Lemons.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 17:24:38 PST

Of Life and Lemons

by Robert kingett.

The little wedge of yellow inside my glass seemed to smile at me menacingly. My eyes grew to roughly the size of saucers, and my mouth went dry. This kid was definitely not my usual waiter, he didn't understand.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Godfrey?" he asked, seeking reassurance, which he wouldn't be getting from me. "Loraine told me what you liked. Iced tea, she said, and he'll be happy as a clam!"

More than anything I wanted to inform him, I didn't speak to strangers and hurry from the diner, but my daily tea was a necessity if I was to live until the following day. My schedule just didn't permit me leaving.

His nametag - crooked nametag - read "Lenny", and his shirt was easily two sizes too large for his lanky frame. Although he'd tried his best to tuck it in neatly, it still ballooned around his abdomen like a pouch.

Lenny raised an eyebrow. I'd been staring too long without answer. Nothing was all right. He'd put a lemon in my tea. A LEMON.

Never the less, I tried to loosen my tensed joints and nod. It was stiff, awkward, strained, but Lenny accepted it as an answer and left my table so quickly it could have been rude. I hated being so shy. It frequently made people uncomfortable. Imagine how I felt.

The lemon smiled on, mocking my struggle, even as he drowned in the rusty brown tea. I liked the idea of him dying a horrible death. Deserved it. My refusing to save him gave me a certain satisfaction. I condemned him to this fate.

I weighed my options. I could leave without drinking the tea, but that would be terribly rude, and besides, I needed my fix. I had tea every single day, I couldn't just skip out on my "me time". I could ask for a new glass, but Lenny surely would argue it was perfectly fine, or worse; ask me what the problem was in that overly nice teenage voice of his that screamed, 'You can leave your tips on the table, sir'. How could I explain myself without sounding crazy? "Well, Leonard- can I call you that? Leonard? - I'm afraid of lemons. And quite frankly, this glass of tea, complete with lemon, scares the piss out of me."

Of course, there was always the option of drinking it.

Shivers erupted over my whole plot. They started in my legs and crawled their way upwards until my teeth chattered. No way in hell was I drinking that iced terror.

So there I sat utterly trapped in my little booth. I could see down the row of similar booths spread down the length of the little diner, all the way to the exit where my eyes came to focus. I glanced down at the tea then back to the door. A waiter ran by with a few milkshakes, shaking the table slightly. The contents of the glass shifted and the lemon seemed to shake its head no, the smile never faltering.

Unfolded my napkin, I dabbed at my forehead before sinking into the booth. Here I was eye level with the glass. I was the prisoner of a glass with a Coca Cola logo printed on its side. And since I refused to spend my afternoons at the diner with anyone else, I was stuck with just the lemon, and my thoughts to keep me company.

I shifted my weight, and the seat groaned.

"Your father is concerned," my chair at our dinner table has a squeaky leg. I rocked back and forth slightly, listening to the leg creak under the stress.

"He thinks you might have - Oh, what did he call it? - social anxiety," my mother sat at the head of our mile long dinner table. She and I were usually the only ones who ate dinner there. My father had 'other business' to attend to. Military business. When my mother had noticed I wasn't paying attention to her, she gulped down a sizeable glass of red wine, hiccupping a little.

"Rudolf?"

"I think he has erectile dysfunction, and feels the need to assert himself in the only way he can," I mumbled, never taking my eyes off the plate. She had poured herself another glass by that time. We didn't talk about my 'condition' ever again.

The diner's overhead fans whirred softly above my head, blowing a cool breeze down the high collar of my jacket. The silverware bundles by the window called to me, and I cautiously reached around the tea to grab three of them. I liked the number three; there was always a clear middle. Removing the silverware, I arranged them all by type. I removed three sugar packets from the ceramic container, and three creamers from the little bowl nearby. My collection of goods sat in front of me, like a happy cluster of islands. A woman walked by the table, clearly headed out. She glanced at my table, then at my wide-eyed expression.

I think my guilty look made her nervous.

Hands awkwardly folded into my lap, I leaned back from the table.

"They raise an interesting point," Grant, named after General Ulysses S. Grant, was my go-to person in the military neighborhood when my family became too much to deal with. The morning following my 'diagnoses according to dad', he and I had chewed the idea over. Surprisingly, Grant had not been on my side.

"You're kind of, I don’t know… Hiding from everything. The diner thing consumes you. Would it kill you to break your routine just once?"

Break my routine? BREAK MY ROUTINE? As in, not go to the diner? Not order my tea? That would be like me asking him to stop breathing. 'Would it kill you to stop breathing just once?' If I didn't take this time out of my day, I frequently was attacked by headaches. The diner was my sanctuary. It calmed me down. The tea was a drink of water after crawling around a desert all day.

I pulled over the ceramic sugar container and slid the packets back in neatly. My time in the restaurant prison was being to wear on me. I still hadn't decided what to do about the lemon.

Loraine… Where was she? She would have never put a lemon in my tea. She knew, she understood. I'd been coming here for years, and somehow, she'd grown attached to me. "Her favorite little regular", or sometimes she called me "honkey". It changed with her mood.

I eyed the lemon suspiciously. It had sunk a little further down in my glass, and was now hiding behind the Coke logo. I felt Lenny watching me from the hot plate across the room. I hadn't touched my drink, and it was putting him on edge. His scrutiny made me feel sick. I hated thinking people were judging me, even thinking about me.

Okay, so maybe my father had said something of worth. He spoke through my mother to me most of the time, which was probably why it had made sense in the first place. I didn't like people. It's impossible to know what other people are thinking, and that uncertainty fried my brain, turned my stomach into knots. Was that considered anxiety, or just not enjoying people? The trips to Mama's Diner were therapeutic, if anything.

I couldn't control everything in the world. I could, however, always be sure I'd make it to Mama's for my iced tea. In the event I didn't, heads would roll.

"What are you most afraid of?" Grant asked more serious than I had ever heard him before.

"Lemons," had been my distant reply. "I'm terrified of lemons."

The conversation came back to me in a more vivid memory than any other did as my eyes locked onto the little grin still suspended in ice cubes. We had been walking to the library.

Grant had wanted me to say 'living', the obvious answer. In truth though, living didn't scare me anymore than the dark, or open doors in a long hallway.

Living just made me anxious.

Lenny returned to the table. The smirk on his face was erased by my untouched glass of iced tea.

"Mr. Godfrey…? Is your tea okay?"

I stared up at him, trying my best to form words. If I didn't say anything at all maybe, he'd just walk away. I hated socializing with waiters, especially handsome ones. He switched his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently waiting for my reply. Apparently, the silent treatment wasn't working on him.

"Sir-"

"IT'S FINE," I scared even myself with the snap of my voice. My tone had been so unnecessary for the situation and setting. Lenny seemed taken back too. He slowly nodded, backing a safe distance away from the table before turning back to his work. I only later noticed he took my knives and forks with him.

The realization that I had just given up my 'Get out of Jail Free' card settled in slowly, drooping my shoulders. I could have just asked him to take the tea away. It could have easily been over now. I looked back at the lemon.

"YOU," I whispered in quietly, pointing a condemning finger when I was sure no one was looking. "This would be so much easier if you weren't here."

"It's not the lemons, is it?" Grant had set a book back on the library shelf while I watched on. His voice was never good at hiding his frustration in me.

"You just need something to fret about. You used to like lemons."

Actually, I used to tolerate lemons. I wanted to correct him so badly, but somehow I'd managed to keep my mouth shut.

The lemon at this point had sunk to the bottom of the glass, weighed down by tea and trapped by ice. Its smile was considerably less imposing now. The fruit had absorbed so much liquid; it now faintly resembled a toothless old man. I scrunched my eyebrows.

That was what I was afraid of?

Lenny stood over by the hotplate, waiting for other table’s dishes. In the steel surface of the counter, he checked his hair, slicking the blonde pieces back, and making faces to test out the look. Once he was sure his hair was in tiptop condition, he checked his teeth, running his tongue over them quickly.

That was what I was afraid of?

I reached out for the glass, cautiously. My hand gripped around it tightly, pulling it close enough to smell the familiar musty smell of tealeaves. This wasn't about lemons and diners. I used to actually kind of like lemons, I'll give Grant that. This was about my stupid excuse of a life.

The last few years I'd been stuck in the same booth with lemons surrounding me. I'd been a prisoner all along, hadn't I? Trapped by my own anxiety. It wasn't lemons I was afraid of. It was people, and all the uncertainties that went with them.

I was so fed up. I was so fed up of living a life afraid of "lemons".

I fixed my grip on the glass, a spoon in the other hand. The reign of lemons ended here. With what I thought was precision handling, I reached my spoon in to extract the drowned lemon wedge.

And that's when the glass tipped over.

The contents spilled across the tabletop. Brown tea swept ice cubes to nearly the edge like rocks in a mudslide. The pathetic smiley wedge lay in the wreckage, its back to me. Eyes from all over looked my way. My face drained of color. Even the lemon had abandoned me.

The ache for my routine kicked in. My liberation suddenly didn't mean much of anything. If I hadn't gone all Braveheart, surely we wouldn't be in this situation now; tea spilled, people staring. This must have been a sign from the man upstairs. I'd go back to my routine if that were what he was trying to tell me. If it meant I'd never have to be looked at like I was some kind of poor, sad creature, sitting alone ever again.

Lenny rushed over to my table, faded white rag in hand.

"Mr. Godfrey! I'm so sorry! I'll clean that right up."

He began mopping up the mess, sliding the ice into the grey container. I watched as the lemon was whisked away, and I almost felt sad to see him go.

"I can bring you another, sir…?"

I began to shake my head no, but something stopped my reply. Grant's voice in the library flooded back to me once more.

"It's time to start living, don't you think?"

I'd simply stared blankly back at him. It was my number one defense.

"You know…'man up'."

He and I both enjoyed a quiet snicker over that, and the memory was so vivid I even grinned right there at the table. He'd quoted my father, the man who said things like, "That's not how they did it in 'Nom."

I looked into the bin Lenny held against his body at the lemon once more. Its swelled fruit, stained brown from floating in the tea. I rather wanted to show it who was the bigger man, or rather, who was the man to begin with, and who was the lousy little section of a fruit. No little yellow wedge was ever going to take control of me ever again.

Grabbing Lenny's gaze, I opened my mouth to speak. He blinked at me, waiting; nearly terrified it seemed, to see what I was going to do next. Yell at him, throw something at him. Anxiety started to kick back in. Did he think I was crazy? Did he suspect I'd fallen off the deep end?

Shoving past him and out of the booth, I hurried toward the exit, and didn't look back. I'd need a new diner. A new escape.

I don't think I was ready to confront life… or lemons.

playing with grades.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 16:39:19 PST

By Robert Kingett.

Hi all! This is just going to be a quick update! Woo hoot!

I took the math act today, and the science. English and reading were yesterday’s daily torture. I beat them over the head with a shoe, and my knowledge. I made them cry. Now the math part of the ACT however, that was clever. That sneaky little cat threw some left hooks at me when I did not even see them coming. I may not have knocked him down to the dirt as I did with the others, but I feel I wounded him.

Interesting metaphor huh? Yes, I agree. Anyways, I want to just briefly talk about midterms. They are all smashing except for math. The grade including the teacher and comments are below.

Integrated math. 60.

Comment. Is having a major issue on math tests.

Psychology. 90.

Comment. Enjoys the subject.

American government. 80.

Did very poorly on the last test.

Adult living. 100.

Comments. None.

Home ec. 96.

Comments. Is a pleasure to work with.

Well all, that is it for this very short and boring update. Just remember, I love you all!

By the way, do not email me and ask me on a date. Seriously, I do not know you just a bit creepy there people. Okay all; I am off to study government!

it was time. a short story by robert kingett

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 19:20:27 PST

It was 10:18 on Richard’s watch, 4:16 in London – which he was not thinking about because he disliked London – 3:45 in his head, and 10:16 in reality. Richard was bothered by reality, as it contained such things as monotony, death, social security, and London. Of more immediate importance, reality contained fourth period, which, for Richard, contained chorus.

He could not pinpoint his reason for having joined chorus; he was certain, though, that it had something to do with a rumor that seventh grade general music included homework assignments.

Richard had even more trouble trying to determine why he was still a member of chorus; the answer did not come readily. If he had thoroughly searched his mind he would have found, under an incomplete periodic table and the track orders for several Beatles albums, that he was in chorus because of his natural talent and in order to please his grandmother. At any rate, he had been sitting in chorus watching the clock every weekday for five years now.

Mr. Mondelini entered the room slowly, his left leg trailing. His sanity was miles off, enjoying breakfast at a bakery; it had not shown up for class in several years. Without a word, he began playing scales on the piano, marking the official beginning of rehearsal. It was 10:21 on Richard’s watch, 4:19 in London, 10:19 in reality, and time to sacrifice a healthy wild boar on a small island in the Pacific.

Warm-ups continued with stretching. The entire chorus was properly prepared for a 100-meter dash by 10:23. Somewhere in the Pacific, a small group of men had chased a healthy wild boar 117 meters, tackled it, and punctured its heart with a machete.

It was now time to sing. Richard carefully positioned his copy of 1984 over the sheet music for “Salvation is Created” and began to read the former. Even after years of conditioning in the art of not listening, he was unable to focus entirely on the book, and the banter of Mr. Mondelini drifted into his mind.

“Can you get Sunday off?”

“Yes.”

“Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this.”

“Your vowels are too bright, sopranos. Give me taller vowels.”

“Go to Paddington Station–” With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined the routine that was to follow.

“When you’ve finished selling chocolates, you need to bring your order form to me by next Wednesday.” Mr. Mondelini had forgotten the announcements. Richard closed the book and set it under his chair. It was 10:31 in reality, 5:31 in Paris – a place Richard disliked even more than London – and time for the ceremony to start somewhere in the Pacific. Richard looked down at the music he was supposed to be singing. It blurred and began to dance around the page. A large group of quarter notes circled a lone half-note and threw breath marks at it.

Richard shook his head and looked up to see Grant Tubby rolling on the floor, the victim of an enormous laughing attack. It turned out that the tenors had forgotten to come in when they were supposed to. Grant had been known to laugh at lesser mishaps, but this was the first time his act had utilized the ground.

It was 10:40 in reality and 9:40 in Chicago. Richard wondered what time it was in Hell. It occurred to him that there may be no time system there. Had he been an omnipotent narrator, he would have known that Hell does indeed have a time system. This is necessary in order to know when to stop pouring boiling acid on everybody and begin dropping outdated computer monitors on them while playing a montage of 1990s boy bands on buzzing speakers. He spent awhile thinking about Hell, then decided it compared unfavorably with London, Paris, and chorus.

It was 10:48 in reality, 10:46 in New York as a series of events unfolded involving seven stories of scaffolding, a copy of the New York Times, two sparrows, and a glass of lime juice. It was also just past the time an important businessman was supposed to have caught the bus downtown for a meeting. As he was instead just rolling out of bed onto a pile of empty bottles, it was clear that hundreds of people would be unemployed by lunch.

Richard’s stomach complained slightly. It said something or other about the social security system, requested that Richard get a job, and also informed him that it was high time to swallow something. Several of the boys in the front row had smuggled in a pancake breakfast. He looked down longingly. Somewhere in the Pacific, only the bones remained hanging over a fire.

Mr. Mondelini declared it time for sight reading. In response, time took a slight jump backward to 10:47. Sight reading, according to Richard, the entire bass section, and roughly three-quarters of the non-instrumental free world, is among the most tedious and fruitless endeavors in existence. It is common knowledge that singers, as a rule, have no grip of music theory. This was made very apparent by the barrage of pencils, cellular telephones, and pancakes directed at the front of the room. By the time Mr. Mondelini had restored peace, it was 10:56 in reality.

A simple piece of music was passed down the rows. It was intended to be read, of course, but very few copies were actually used for this purpose. The front scanned frantically over the notes as though they were hieroglyphs. In the back, however, a sizeable paper air force had been assembled. Mr. Mondelini plunked out the tune on the piano with the chorus following half a beat behind. A long minute later, silence fell over the room as the song came to a close. Mr. Mondelini pointed out what he perceived to be the most significant flaws, although it was a stretch to call any section better than the rest. It was 11:02 in reality and the wrong time to be walking under a certain window in Boston, out of which a two-ton block of lead had just been dropped. Four minutes until takeoff.

Ignoring the fact that the chorus had been unable to sing correctly with the crutch of the piano, Mr. Mondelini ordered the song sung again, this time unaccompanied. A collective groan filled the air. It is said the fear of failure affects a person if failure is only a possibility and not a certainty. Accordingly, not a single person was uneasy about singing unaccompanied. Wings were moved into attack position. Two minutes until takeoff.

Mr. Mondelini cued the sopranos, who began to whimper in common time. They were followed by the altos, tenors, and basses, until the pathetic sound blocked out every thought in every mind, squeezed the life out of each soul. One minute, 30 seconds until takeoff. A few of the back row kids gave in and covered their ears. Fifty seconds until takeoff. The clock fell off the wall and shattered, but Mr. Mondelini scarcely noticed. Ten seconds … five seconds. The arms drew back. Two seconds.

Seven gallant pilots hurled their planes toward Mr. Mondelini. Two met his face, one his conducting hand, and four hit various spots on the ground near the fallen clock. It had been an effort not in vain, after all. The noise stopped; a bell rang.

It was time for London and Paris to slide into the ocean, which, as the geographically informed will note, caused considerable damage along the way. On a small island in the Pacific, it was time to find another healthy boar so a meal could be served. In Hell, the low-resolution monitors were being moved from the storage closet to the drop-point. Citrus-flavored feathers were being removed from a large and very important computer in New York. Downtown, the first of several hundred people received notice not to come to work tomorrow. It was time in Boston for a crowd to gather round a hole in the sidewalk and wonder why it couldn’t have been put in a more convenient location. Of much greater importance, though, it was 11:06 in reality – time for the end of chorus.

sample. sightless hope, Chapter 11. war zone.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 15:35:02 PST

Chapter 11. war zone.

When we had arrived home a red car was parked in our driveway. When we stepped out so did someone in their car. I heard a car door slam and watched as a figure stepped out the car.

“who’s that?” I asked.

“it’s someone from DCF.” She said scared. This was the only time Barbra even seemed a little bit frightened. As we watched the laidy step out of her car, Barbra and I looked at each other. Our gazes were clenched in the grip of our fear.

“did you clean the house today?” I asked knowing all to well what the social worker was going to do.

“yes. Last night when you three were passed out.”

“and did you also get the stuff in the sink?”

“yes.” She said watching the woman like a hawk.

“so what’s the story this time?” I said in a rush.

“the usual. Self defense. Besides, she has nothing on me.”

“you sure about that?”

“yeah I am.”At that instant, she fidgeted beside me. I wondered why she did that until I heard the social workers precise primly body saunter over to us. As the blur drew closer I began to notice her figure. It was delegate and petit with a round haughty face pinched together with thin small cheeks. I couldn’t see her mouth or her nose or her eyes. The blur in front of me exclaimed with obvious fake happiness.

“why hello there Mrs. stout!” I rolled my head, which was my equivalent of rolling my eyes at her voice. It was slightly preppy as if she came from California. it had an air about it that resembled power. It also radiated intelligence as if it were a wave waiting to be let loose onto the world. I had a hunch that she wasn’t as big of a dummy as she portrayed to others.

“hey.” Barbra snapped.

“so how are we doing this fine afternoon?” she chordled. I hated her already, and I still couldn’t see her face.

“I’m fine. What about you?”

“I’m doing okay. work has been interesting to say the least.” What the heck was she doing? Trying to chat my mom up?

“oh. That’s a shame.”

“I want to know something.” I quickly jumped in. “you look very very young and attractive. How long have you been working for DCF?”

“not too long.” She dodged, “but enough.”

“this is my oldest son, Robert.”

“nice to make your acquaintance young sir!” she gushed. I didn’t know why but I hated her even more just then. I didn’t care if she dropped dead rght on the spot.

“yours too.” I said practically trying to kill her hand with mine. Her round face gave me a smile.

“well Mrs. stout, I think you know why I am here, as I’m sure you do Robert.” I was quick to shake my head, but she nearly caught my mom off guard.

“what do you plan to do?” my mom asked just in time.

“well, standard procedure. I check out the house, and then I question the witness or victims, in that case that would be the offspring, also known as your kids.”

“just call us children.” I snapped at her. My mom and she looked directly at me.

“are you sure, Mrs. stout, that you don’t know how the system works? What about your kids?”

“this is the first time I ever had a call here.” Barbra lied astonished.

“oh is it now?” she swooned like my mom had just told her a deep dark secret. “are you sure? Are you really sure there hasn’t been any past record of you?”

“look, if she knew one she would tell you.” I snapped. She instantly turned towards me.

“You’re very opinionated.” She observed. “how old are you?”

“I’m 17.”

“oh. I have a son about your age.”

“that’s nice. Is he just a big of a nosey bitch as you are?” I mumbled making sure she wouldn’t hear me. I didn’t know why I hated her so fiercely. Her voice was very irritating to me, but lots of peoplehad irritating voices. So then, why did I hate her so much?

“so, why are you here?” my mom cut in sensing the tension between all three of us.

“I just want to check out your house and everything, and talk to your kids. Standard procedure.”

“of course. You want to butt in our lives.” I mumbled. I was very glad she didn’t hear me.

“last Friday,” she began without even looking down at the clip board in her hands, “there was a case of domestic violence within this house. Usually when that happens, normally children are involved, so, it’s my job to see to it that they are safe. I want to know that your kids are being taken proper care of.”

“so, since your obviously so skilled at this, how many cases have you had?” I asked once again wishing she would slip up and tell me, so I can deduce her experience level. she wasn’t a dummy though.

“I’ve had my share of cases, but not as much as others I know. I’m quite average. Now, Robert, perhaps you want to answer some questions for me?” she didn’t waste time.

“can we do this inside?” I asked wishing she would kill two birds with one stone by interrogating me while standing In a clean, polished house.

“of course. It’s quite hot out here don’t you think?” she asked me as I limped into my house. My mom and I both knew what shewas doing. She knew that we knew.

As we stepped into the house she looked all around as if she would find some interesting foot resting on the couch.

“hmm. Interesting. Is your house always this clean?” I had a feeling we knew pretty well she knewwe would lie. That would be very obvious. I opened my mouth ready to speak but Barbra jumped in.

“no. it’s not.”

“very interesting.” She said marking something on the clipboard she held. “how much are you home Mrs. stout?”

“well, I work.” My mom lied. “what do you think?” I wanted to laugh at my mom’s sarcasm, but she ignored it just as I knew she would.

“where’s your son?” she said looking for me.

“don’t you want to finish asking me questions first?” my mom asked. This laidy was good but she wasn’t that skillfull about hiding her motives. She wanted to see if I would slip up and reveal something. That was fine with me, I was ready for her even before Barbra was. I even wanted to step right out in front of her so we can get it over with.

“I do, it’s just standard procedure for me to interview the children in this case.” My mom laughed softly behind her back as she looked in my direction by the stove in the very small square kitchen.

“what’s your name again?”

“it’s Robert.”

“ah. It’s Robert. You know, one of my best friends is named Robert.” So she was going to try that route huh? It was time for me to shut down, as I always did when these people tromped through our lives. If I shutdown, she could never know my emotions. It was the perfect defense against these people.

“okay. That’s nice.” I said with zero emotion. I could tell just by her stunned reply that she didn’t like what I was doing.

“well don’t you have anything more to say?”

“nope. I usually keep to myself.” I noticed a little to late how badly I had screwed up. She smiled, knowing I screwed up, and just as I predicted, she jumped on this like some life jacket that was just tossed out to her. Her thin mouth cocked it’s way into a smile I hated just as much as her high fake voice.

“really. Do you want to tell me why?” her eyes were reaching deep into me I knew, even if I couldn’t see them. I knew they were probing eager to change my life, to put me out on the streets. My anger took over.

“yeah. Why shouldn’t you know?” I said my brain turning way beyond the speed of my mouth. it was a good thing I shut down because by now my face would have shown how hard I was thinking.

“you better not make up any stories again.” My mom called panicking. The social worker looked sharply back at Barbra, who instantly shut up. She then turned her complete attention on my mom.

“does he always make up stories?” she asked with obvious eagerness. she was like a power source looking for holes. She was looking for slip-ups. She was very good, which meant we would have to be extra careful. I didn’t think my mom could handle her berage of questions, or her. I had to speak up.

“I like making them up.” I said before she could completely concentrate on my mom. I began to realize how she worked. She was a skillful people reader, as I called them back then. She far surpassed me, but her issue was she could only do it with one person at a time, and it also looked like she searched for emotion. Barbra didn’t know how to switch off as I did. She was showing this now as she snapped at the social worker.

“THAT’S RIGHT! He loves making up stories. Don’t you tell her any lies.”

“I won’t.” I said signaling to her she didn’t have anything to worry about. Barbra didn’t relax as I talked. Her emotions became carvings in the stone slab of her soul. Everyone knew she was afraid. If I could sense it, then I’m sure our blood hound could as well, and better than me. she had experience on me.

“do you enjoy telling stories?”

“quite a bit,” I smugly said. she took a note on her clipboard.

“what kind of stories?”

“all kinds. I just like telling them.”

“sometimes he gets a little out of hand.” Barbra cut in.

“I do admit that I’m a good liar. in fact, I look at it as a sort of game. I just want to see, sometimes, even if people will believe me.” I wanted her to think I had a behavior problem so she wouldn’t take me seriously.

“ah! Very interesting.” She said looking hard at me. her face drooped, as if this were sad news to her. I was trying to plant it in her head that she wouldn’t be able to trust anything I said, I wanted her to automatically dismiss anything I said in case I did in fact screw up. she got right down to my level in the clean kitchen baked in the evening sun.

“I think you do it for attention.” How did she know that? How in the world could she know that? I had to make her go away. she knew way, and I mean way to much, even if she didn’t know it.

“yeah? You think so? You know what I think? I think the way you look is just for attention too. why are you down here anyway? Something you want to look at that’s not anywhere else. Looking for blood stains?” she didn’t like my sarcasm.

“ let me ask you something, since you want to talk so much. are you a good student in school?”

“yeah I guess, if you don’t count homework that is.”

“he has an organization problem.” Barbra jumped in.

“that’s understandable.” She said finally taking a closer look at the cleaned cabinets. I could tell she was studying the bright brown with what looked like new wood. I knew my mom was up all night the nightbefore, and I admired her for doing all of this. She didn’t even seem tired. How strong she was, and how determined. I didn’t know anyone else who could do that.

“youdone looking at my house?” Barbra snapped letting the blood hound know we both didn’t want her there.

“almost. Well, your house looks very very clean. But there’s something that’s been bothering me.”

“and what’s that? Your existence?” I snapped. Ignoring me, she concentrated on what seemed to be the weakest link. Barbra stared her down as she asked in a clipped voice.

“Mrs. Stout, the domestic charge last Friday involved alcohol. Now, you may not have it open here and now, but it doesn’t take a dog to smell something. You do drink, so how much?

“how much have you drank in your youth? I know your not a saint.” I shot at her. She turned slowly to me giving me a smile wishing I would shut up.

“I’m asking your mom some questions young man. When I need you, I’ll come find you. go on now. I’m done with you for now.” I grinned, very pleased with my acting skills. But this bitch was going to come to the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind. I knew she was. I had to know when she would talk to me again.

“when are you going to…” I stopped mid sentence. My anger almost let it slip that I knew she was going to come to the school. I had to keep myself calm and collected. That was harder than it looked, since I hated her so much I imagined my hands around her throat.

Harry Potter publisher denies plagiarism

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 16:46:46 PST

Harry Potter publisher denies plagiarism
Harry Potter publishers Bloomsbury have hit back at claims that JK Rowling's book the Goblet of Fire was plagiarised from another children's author.

Published: 7:00AM BST 16 Jun 2009

Hermione and Harry in a scene from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, 2005.
The estate of the late Adrian Jacobs has launched High Court proceedings against the company, claiming copyright infringement.

It is alleged that author JK Rowling's Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire has similarities to Jacobs' The Adventures of Willy the Wizard No 1 Livid Land.

JK Rowling 'stole plot' for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, High Court writ

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 16:44:24 PST

JK Rowling 'stole plot' for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, High Court writ claims
JK Rowling has been accused in a High Court writ of stealing ideas from a children's book about a wizard published in the late 1980s for her novel Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

By Stephen Adams, Arts Correspondent
Published: 7:30AM GMT 19 Feb 2010

Previous1 of 2 ImagesNext The millionairess author rarely comments on legal claims. But she said she was 'saddened that yet another claim has been made'. Photo: JONATHAN LODGE
Daniel Radcliffe as Harry Potter in Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire.
The writ claims she took central ideas from The Adventures of Willy the Wizard No 1: Livid Land, a book published in 1987 by English author Adrian Jacobs, who died penniless a decade later.

Rowling said she would be applying to the court to have the case dismissed for being without merit, and criticised the claims as "not only unfounded but absurd".

By Malak from
theplaceformalak.blogspot.com

JK Rowling plagiarism claim: key passages

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 16:42:36 PST

JK Rowling plagiarism claim: key passages
These are examples of ideas that JK Rowling stole from Willy the Wizard for the Goblet of Fire, according to lawyers acting for Adrian Jacobs' estate.

Published: 8:30AM GMT 19 Feb 2010

Previous1 of 2 ImagesNext JK Rowling denies the claims. Photo: JONATHAN LODGE
Daniel Radcliffe as Harry Potter in Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire.
Playing chess on wizard trains, which lawyers allege Rowling took to form the idea of the Hogwarts Express

"These were Pullman-like trains made of see-through platinum, and inside the trains were chess rooms. Willie was handicapped 18. There were Wizard Chess Masters who were virtually unbeatable. Willie had made a daring move. He didn’t want to watch his opponent’s response and his mind wandered at the moment that Angel Sandy had tapped violently on the train window."

By Malak from
theplaceformalak.blogspot.com

Victor reader stream 3.1 is out!

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 20:01:49 PST

hi all! as u all know, i have a victor reader stream, with about 300 books including my school books on there, well, i have good news! the new software is out! i have been playing with it for about 20 minutes now, and i have found some usefull information. below will be things i found, and how to do them and explanations. a new review will be done once i get the time.

The latest free software update of the Victor Reader Stream digital talking book player is version 3.1. Please visit the Stream support page at:

http://www.humanware.com/stream_support

On the support page you will find links to download the software and documentation including the updated User Guide and these Release Notes. The Release Notes will also be saved to a HumanWare folder in the text bookshelf on your Stream SD card when you install the new software.

The update software is a single file ending in .UPG and is contained in a zip file downloaded from the above page. To update your Stream:

Unzip the .UPG file and copy it to the root of an SD card. Note that you do not need to install special unzip software. Windows will unzip the UPG file. Simply press ENTER on the zip file and the UPG file will appear. Then press the SPACEBAR to select the UPG file and press CONTROL+C to copy it to the clipboard. Then navigate to the root of your Stream SD card and press CONTROL+V to paste the UPG file from the clipboard to the root of the card.
Connect the Stream to a power outlet.
Insert the card in the Stream and power it on.
The software update will start automatically and report the new version number that will be installed. The installation process takes about 1 minute during which time the Stream will issue periodic “Please wait” messages. Upon completion, the Stream will announce the end of the update and power off.
When you power the Stream back on you can confirm the new version number by pressing the INFO key 0.

This software upgrade provides the following new features, usability improvements, and corrections.

1 New Features

1.1 Multi-Level Talking Books Bookshelf

The popular multi-level bookshelf navigation introduced in version 3.0 for Other Books, Podcasts, and Text bookshelves has been added to the DAISY Talking Books bookshelf. Now you can create subfolders within the $VRDTB folder to categorize your books by genre, author, provider or any other categories you desire. You can have up to 8 levels of subfolders. While browsing the Talking Books Bookshelf, use the 2/8 keys to select the folder level and the 4/6 keys to move back and forth through the folders at the selected level. The Book level is the lowest level and refers to the folders that contain the DAISY book files. At this lowest level the Stream will announce the actual book title rather than the folder name.

For example, suppose you wanted to categorize your talking books by fiction, Non-Fiction, and Other. Within $VRDTB you would create 3 folders named Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Other. Then cut and paste your DAISY or NISO book folders into the appropriate category folders. Now power on your Stream and press key 1 to go to the Talking Books bookshelf. Press keys 2 or 8 to select level 1. Press keys 4/6 to move back and forth at level 1. Stream will announce your book category folders: Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Other. As you move among the categories notice that the book number will jump depending how many books you have in each category. Press key 8 to move to level 2. Now keys 4/6 will move back and forth between the folders that contain your book files. Press key 8 again and Stream will drop to the Book level. This is the lowest level. At this level, keys 4/6 will move back and forth between the actual books and announce the recorded book title. As before, simply press Confirm or Play to open the desired book.

Note that multi-level folders are optional. If you have no need to categorize your Talking Books you may continue to just place individual book folders within the $VRDTB folder. In this case, the 2/8 keys will announce only the book level. This is the way the Stream Companion software transfers files. It does not create multi-level category folders.

1.2 Support of .bra Braille Files in Spain

Stream 3.1 now supports the .bra file type that is used for electronic braille files in Spain.

2 Usability Improvements

2.1 Highlight Bookmarks

When you start a highlight bookmark the End Highlight function will now appear on the first press of the Bookmark key.

2.2 Where Am I Percentage for Audible and Talking Books

The popular version 3.0 feature that reports the percentage of book elapsed time when you press the Where Am I key for Other Books and Podcasts has been added to Talking Books and Audible Books.

2.3 UNDO Added to GoTo Page

The navigation Undo feature has been added to the Go To Page function.

2.4 New Shortcut for Start and End of Book

Two new shortcuts have been added to the Go To Page, Heading, Percent, and Time functions for reaching the start and end of a book. Press the Go To key (above key 1) for any of these functions followed by the Fast Forward key to position at the end of a book. Press any of these Go To functions followed by the Rewind or Play key to position at the start of a book.

2.5 Large Text File Support

The Stream can now play non-braille files on the Text Files bookshelf that are up to 100 megabytes in size. Braille files are limited to 5 megabytes.

2.6 Confirmation of a Cancelled Recording

If you make a long recording and accidentally press the Cancel (star) key, the Stream would delete the recording. Version 3.1 has added a confirmation prompt to ask you to confirm that you really want to cancel the recording.

2.7 Image Notification In html and XML

For html and xml files, the Stream will now announce the image description tag if it is present in the file.

2.8 Support of Multi-Book NLS Cartridges

The new NLS library book cartridges are now being introduced in the United States and the AFB library of Western Australia. In version 3.0 the Stream would recognize only one book per cartridge. However, some libraries may offer more than one book on a book cartridge. if so, version 3.1 will list each of the books on the Talking Books bookshelf.

2.9 Copying NLS Cartridges

Stream 3.1 will now copy multi-book NLS cartridges as well as single book cartridges to the SD card. The cartridge must be connected to the Stream using the short USB cable or the optional cartridge holder. To copy, press key 3 while the book is playing or stopped. Version 3.1 has also added a percentage progress announcement while copying. The time to copy is about 20mb per minute or 10 minutes for an average recorded NISO book.

2.10Copying from USB Flash Drive

Stream 3.1 will also copy DAISY or NISO books from an external USB flash drive. To copy, press key 3 while the book is playing or stopped. It will also announce a progress percentage while copying. The time to copy is about 20mb per minute or 10 minutes for an average recorded DAISY book.

3 Issues Corrected

3.1 Missing Audio at Start of Some MP3 Files

For some MP3 files, a small amount of audio may be clipped from the beginning of the file. This has been corrected.

3.2 Unpredictable Bookshelf after Playing Temporary Playlist

If you powered off the Stream while playing a temporary music playlist then powered on the Stream again, there was a chance it would return to another bookshelf such as Audible or Talking Books. Now it will power back on and return to the Music bookshelf.

3.3 Corrupted Bookmark Database

On occasion, the creation of audio bookmarks would corrupt the Stream Profile database, where user-bookmarks are stored, causing various other problems using the player. This has been corrected.

3.4 Record Button when SD Card is write-protected

If your SD card was write-protected and you pressed the Record button you would not hear the warning message telling you the card was locked. This has been corrected.

3.5 Copying NLS Book Cartridges

For patrons of the NLS Library service in the United States, the feature used to copy NLS book cartridges to the SD card would not work with some books. This has been corrected. Also, copying large NLS book cartridges would fail if the time required to copy file exceeded the 30 minute idle timer that causes the Stream to shut off.

[End of document Revision 1- 20100126]

blogging behaviors, a scolding.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 15:57:12 PST

this applies to people on http://www.blinknation.com/ aka blink nation. ignore this.

Hi all! You all know I love you right? I do. I love every one of you all, but you know…. sometimes you all can be just down right annoying and sometimes really rude and stupid. Usually the rude and stupid come packaged together…. Here is an example… sending me email after emails like this.

“Dude Robert What the fuck are you doing? Why the hell haven't you posted any shit yet? Did you fucking stop? Dude what the fuck. You have readers you should be pleasing.”

Now…. Here is the thing I don't get. That message isn't going to want to have me posting more; it's going to have me sending you a nasty, deadly virus…. Perhaps a Microsoft document with a deadly macro attached. I can do it you know, and it would take me a long time to create, and therefore piss me off.

Here's the kicker though… these people only read my blog on fucking blink nation, which I hardly ever post to because none, and I mean none of my blog clients will work with it, which I think is fucked up, but that's besides the god damn point.

Do I seriously have to explain to everyone just how busy I am? Honestly. Do I really have to go into detail? If you’re a reader, then you should know. You can ask my other readers on here… I'm not kidding; ask all three thousand of them. Now, out of that three thousand, I'm assuming that one thousand have a shit when I don't update in a week. Okay? So one thousand people are fucking douche bags. Wow. Nice work people. Now you’ve got me judging you. Bravo!

These emails come from people who read my blog on blink nation, but here's the thing, if they bitch and have a shit when I don't update enough, then why the fuck are they not looking at my blog site. You know the one where everything comes from?

http://www.wwrites.com/

Again, that's.

http://www.wwrites.com/

I would recommend you subscribe there. I wish I could import the RSS feed from my blog into blink nation, but guess what, I can't do that! Blink nation is an accessible social network. It isn't a goddamn blogging site people. I can't do half of the things I can on my blog, such as post by email, use desktop clients, post by ping FM, etc. blink nation isn't designed for that, and it's actually quite the inconvenience with my busy schedule and all to log in, post, and yeah. That's why I keep telling people to go to http://www.wwrites.com/, because that's where my home is. That's where everything is, and that's where everything will continue to be

http://www.wwrites.com/ just in case you didn't get it.

I understand that you all like what I do, but goddamn. It's not my duty. I do it because I enjoy it, and no one, and I mean no one, tells me how often to post, ass wholes. You try passing high school, working, doing 6 pages of homework a night because your catching up, having to deal with the fallbacks of not doing so well your first yeas in high school. Go on bitches, I dare you!

Emails like that piss me off. I blog because I enjoy it. If you want to complain about how long it takes me to post, then go ahead and read another blog. I post when I can, and on blink nation, that's definitely saying something. Oh, and by the way, multiple people bitching that my blog doesn't update quick enough will only cause me to send even more mean retorts back, and nasty blog posts like this. Look what you all did now, dip shits.

That email was just plain out rude. You all can agree or disagree, but think before you fucking write people! Goddamn!

Again, and I can't stress this enough. http://www.wwrites.com/. http://www.wwrites.com/. http://www.wwrites.com/.

Read there, subscribe there, and live there. Not on blink nation. To be very honest if blink nation implemented an import feature, the only thing I would use the site for is messages.

http://www.wwrites.com/. Again, can't stress it enough. http://www.wwrites.com/.

Bye all, and stop with the mean emails unless you want to get a virus, or a public response just like my hate mails. Thank you!

Interview with Robert Kingett by StoryCorp

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 16:47:14 PST

the interview can be downloaded here. http://www.mypodcast.com/fsaudio/simponsblind_20100214_1837-602052.mp3

Robert Kingett brought on the scene to be interviewed by nick deglomine , two best friends at the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind. This interview is mixed with laughter and sadness s they talk about Robert’s abusive past as well as hilarious accounts at school such as nick fighting a dresser. Filled with emotions, and an interesting pair, the two top off a very interesting piece that will leave memories. So, sit back, listen, and laugh. AGAIN, get it from

http://www.mypodcast.com/fsaudio/simponsblind_20100214_1837-602052.mp3

The home stretch. (the IEP journal editd)

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 17:03:09 PST

Friday, February 12, 2010

The IEP went smashing today!

today was a dreary day, all dark, rainy, and cloudy. The rain tapped down like it was a light tear, at 9:00 I march to Mrs. Knor's room feeling as if everything will come slamming down on me. When I get there, my eyes are suddenly penetrated with a very bright light.
"Yikes!" I yelp shielding my eye with my hand.
"Oh Robert," a woman I do not know says. "I'm very sorry about this. Your IEP will be all electronically stored and kept and displayed on the board behind you." I turned and looked at the various words I could not see on the screen. The door opened and Mr. Smith, a short black man who taught shop entered. He gave me a smile and a wave. I smile and wave back.
"How's it hanging?" he said with a smile.
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Your twitching your fingers. Lookin' a little nervous here." I laugh at his words because he is right. I am nervous and I do not know why. I was nervous about hearing my math grades, because I knew they were not going to be good. The door opens yet again and I whip around wishing it would be Mrs. Corey or Mr. Evan. Mrs. Knor had said they had been approved, and I was so excited I wanted them there right now. As I watch my guardian come into the room and sit down at the long table, my heart begins to sink. Where are they?
"Okay Robert. We are conducting this IEP on Friday, February 12, 2010 at 9:06 AM. You are a senior, and you are on the regular diploma track." The new woman drills off.
"Correct."
"And when you get out of high school, you want to pursue a career in journalism, and possibly get your masters degree as well in both English and journalism." She drills. She sounds excited, as if she were being stuck with an electric prod. Her blonde hair is wispy and kempt. I do not know what she looks like because she is to far away. Mr. Smith looks directly at me, and then opens up a purple folder. Before he can speak, Mrs. Knor shoots at me
"Robert, before I begin I want to tell you something. I gave you the wrong information yesterday. Mr. Evan and Mrs. Corey will not be coming today. They didn't get approved." My heart sinks right down to my toes. I wanted them here bad… but Mrs. Corey said shed be here. I wanted them here out of all of the people in this room. Why weren't they approved? Why wasn't sh here now?
"That's a shame. I really wanted them to come." I say unable to hide my deep sadness.
"To be quite Frank Robert, I don't understand why you want to have them here. You're not in the dorm." Mrs. Knor asks me with a chip on her shoulder.
"I just look up to them a lot, that's all. I say, but they could never know how they looked at me and I looked at them. They could never know that I looked at them as a loving mom and dad. The only one I ever had, and ever will. Sitting up, I looked at all the people there. I want to change the subject because I don't want to show my emotions.
"Anyways, you said you had something to talk to me about? About my degree options?"
"yes." Mrs. Knor says as she flips through papers. She keeps looking at me then down again. Her mouth thins with concern.
"You said you want to get two degrees. English and journalism."
"yes." I say wishing she would get to the point.
"Robert, do you know how long that will take you to graduate college?"
"Oh I know. I won't graduate on the 4 year time scale, but why should I waste my time rushing through college when I can take as much time as I want to and have more job offerings as a writer." Mrs. Knor is taken aback by my ready answer.
"That's going to take you a long time. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes. I am sure. Like I said, what's the point of rushing through something that will make up the rest of your life?"
"The man has a goal, and he knows what he wants." Mr. Smith cuts in with a laugh.
"yes." My guardian says. "He's talked with me about it, and I seriously think he knows what he's doing. Why change it?"
"I agree. He's got quite the plan." The blonde woman says.
"Okay. I was just making sure if that is what you want to do." As she's flipping through papers, Mr. Smith pulls out comments.
"Something that's very interesting is his math comments." He pulls them out and looks at them.
"I want to know something first before you start Mr. Smith." Mrs. Knor buts in. "Robert, where are you going to go to college at?"
"I have two options. The community college in Jacksonville and the one in Daytona, Jacksonville has a really good journalism program. My last option is Saint Augustine."
"I wouldn't do Saint Augustine. Saint Augustine has bad bus transport." Mrs. Knor interjects.
: I know. That's why I didn't want to do Saint Augustine. I want to do either Jacksonville or Daytona beach."
"Are you thinking about the congland center?"
"Yes. I want to do that before college. I want to do a center such as that."
"I don't think you should do the concland center. The reason I say that is that you're very independent now. The center across the street would be better for you; you'd be to advanced Independent wise for the concland center." The whole place goes dead silent, and then Mr. Smith finally has a chance to speak.
"I have comments from Robert's teachers. His least strongest area is math. Both Mr. Morse and Largent say that Robert struggles a lot with basic mathematics such as measurements, one-step equations and two step equations and fractions. His strongest area is data analysis, and Robert sometimes does not turn in homework, but he is polite and pleasurable to have in class. Mr. Largent puts his attitude is positive and he interacts with all the students nicely. Mr. Morse says that Robert, even from the beginning, has done very badly on math tests, often just scraping that passing line. He often procrastinates on assignments, and won't give a reason why. He does try his hardest though, and his attitude and manner towards other students is positive. He gets along with everybody. Robert does not like to show his work on paper and prefers to do them in his head, sometimes right but most of the time leading to wrong answers."
"Okay. What I'm getting out of this is he doesn't work out the problem." My guardian says with confusion..
"But that doesn't make sense." Mrs. Knor says holding a paper. "His FCAT scores show that he does indeed understand the basics." I have no idea why. In class I seem lost and confused all the time, and often I don't do the homework because I don't understand a bit if it. Sometimes, I would just randomly put numbers down. I also hate working the problem out because of my handwriting. It makes everything mush and I don't know what I just did. I was able to scrape by with tests and all, but what would I do in college?
"His math FCAT and act scores show he does understand. He came so close to passing this year with a 292. That's missing one question. The year before that, he has shot up from a 246. He jumped nearly 30 points, so those remedial math classes must be doing something." The room falls silent yet again.
"You're very close. I mean I've seen people with lower FCAT scores pass. There is absolutely no reason, score wise, as to why he shouldn't pass the act this time." the room again falls silent.
"So, your gonna keep doing what your doing on tests right?" the blonde woman asks me.
"Yes I will. I'll try my hardest!" I say with power.
"That's what we want to hear." Mr. Smith says with a smile. "Grit."
"I just want to go into speech." The blonde woman asks. "Robert Kingett has been improving in his speech. His speech does affect his communication skills in and outside of the classroom. Robert's speech has been stable with slight change over the years I've known him. He seems very willing to continue taking speech class. Due to his speech, he may not be able to communicate what he needs or what he's thinking in a timely manner, but he gets better every day. Do we have him as language impaired?" she asks Mrs. Knor.
"yes." She says and they all sit quietly again.
"So. Goals. Independence… which, I just have to say, to be quite Frank" Mrs. Knor says, "he's pretty independent already, in fact he's the most independent senior out of all of us. He changed his social security check on his eighteenth birthday, moved out of the house at 18 years old, and is now paying some of your bills. To be very honest Mrs. Delong, I'm impressed."
"Good man." Mr. Smith says, and they all look at me. After my mobility chat, which determines that I make good judgment when traveling alone, they all get back to me moving out.
"Looks like your ready." Mrs. Knor says. "You truly are, after this center anyway, you're already sort of independent now. Any plans for apartments?"
"I'm not going to move in to one alone." They all look at me yet again. I don't know what they all have on their faces, but Mrs. Knor has worried all etched all in her voice.
"You're not going to be dependant are you?"
"Look," I snap. "Mrs. Knor, it's going to be better for all of us if I do have a room mate. It's going to give me more security and stability!" I say this quietly yet forcefully. My voice shoots through the hot air and slaps itself against everyone's eardrums.
"Hmm. That's true." Mr. Smith agrees.
"I suppose. I have nothing else to say here." The blonde woman says.
"Me neither." Mr. Smith says. Ignoring his improper grammar, I feel I have to speak up.
"I do want to get my own place, but I don't want to just jump into this head first. I want to look at the pool before I choose a diving board, you know? Yes, I want to move out on my own, but I first want to think, plan, then act. I also want to have a backup plan fully in place in case things go wrong."
"That shows wonderful maturity." the blonde woman says and I smile.
"I'm not putting it off everyone, I just want to have a stable concrete road I can walk on, you know?"
"Oh I completely hear you," Mrs. Knor, says looking directly at me now. "We think you can do it, but you've got to believe in yourself." I do believe in myself, I just don't want to give my hopes up. I look at her, and Mr. Smith, and everyone else there all cheering for me, knowing I can do it. Just maybe, they are right, and I can in fact do it.
"Well, unless anyone has anything else to say, this meeting is over." The blonde woman says with a smidgen of impatience in her voice,
"Robert Kingett, as an adult, must come up with his own educational goals, and make his own education decisions…" she says skimming the flashing document on the screen. "He has been doing this ever since he was… 18 years old, and from what I'm hearing he's doing a bang up job!" I grin,
"Yes he has." Mrs. Knor says. "I mean, all you need is just this one final step. You're more independent than some of our kids…"
"He had to be," my guardian cuts in.
"Well, we don't know why, but we are glad that he did. He has moved out, and has been making some really good educational decisions and goals by himself ever since then."
"Looks like you got your head screwed on tight." Mr. Smith chuckles.
"Yes… Mrs. Knor says slowly…. He's quite bright…"
"Which is why he will do fine at the center and beyond." The blonde woman says conclusively.
"I just want to thank all of you for participating." Mrs. Knor says standing up and shaking all our hands. Mr. Smith looks at me again and shakes mine.
"I expect to hear good things with you kid. write me a book." I grin.
"It'll be easier than shop." Everyone laughs and we all head out. After we all say our goodbyes to each other, I notice that Mr. Smith is waiting for me with papers in his hand.
"These are the comments I didn't read." I take them and look at them. They are from Mrs. chancy, my honors English teacher, and Mr. Sabo, and Mrs. Parsons. I read them all as I walk to class.

Mrs. chancy.

Robert Kingett has done very well in honors English IV. He puts his creative writing talents to tremendous use and his honors work is exceptional and is never dull to read. He also did exceptionally well with oral presentations. I hope he continues with his writing in the future.

Mr. Sabo.

This one I smile as I read.

Robert Kingett is in my psychology and governments class. He holds very good class discussions and debates with pondering thoughts. His test scores however have not been as high as I would have expected…

I grimace as my eyes dance over that line. I knew my government test was a flop, but I think I did well on the psychology test. I got 60 out of 80, which isn't very bad considering I was the second highest grade in the class….

He is a very interesting kid, managing his own blog and such. His writings are very interesting to read.

Mrs. Parsons.

Robert Kingett is in my 4B class, and it is an honor to have him in there. He is creative, polite, in good spirits all the time. He has very good computer skills. I enjoy his writings and he has done an outstanding job with his dish of coconut rice. He does have some motor skill problems in his hands when cooking, such as tying an apron, cutting foods, stirring, and cracking an egg, but he has improved drastically. I wish him, personally, all the best in the real world.

As I gently put the documents in my bag, my spirits lift. Hoisting the bag on my shoulder, I push my way outside. For just a small instant, the sky is blue, and the sun is shining. It soon goes away when I reach Bryant hall though, but I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, all of them are right. I can do it. There is no question about it. I will do it! I will get what I deserve! I will graduate this year. Everyone else thinks I can, and I think they have good reason. Nothing can stop me now, not even the past. I push on the doors leading to the blue hallways, and push on into the future. I feel like I have the whole world in my hands. I do. I have fait, and the whole world between my hands, and I'm not letting go.

I've been thinking about my graduation, and who's going to be there, I won't have my family there, but I'll have something better. I'll have all my friends there, and Mr. Evan, and Mrs. Corey there, my unofficial mom and dad, I'll have Amanda there, and Travis, if he wishes to be there, and anyone else who wishes to come. I consider all my friends my family and I care about them a lot. I hold them dear and true in my heart. Sure, I won't have my mom taking snapshots of me as I walk across the stage, but I'll have something better. People I love and or care about taking mental pictures. Sure I won't have my dad by my side when I leave that building, but in some ways I'll have something far better, I'll have my own man made home by my side, and in my heart. In some cases, I think that's better.

apartment intro. 2010.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 20:30:38 PST

Just so you all know, this is an apartment project that I have to do at school. As the weeks pass by, the teacher gives us sanarios on cards and such, and we have to journal about tem. Hope you all enjoy!

Robert Kingett

Apartment intro.

What defines an adventure? Is it something that happens to us over time? Is it something so small yet at the same time huge? Is it what other people call a miracle? I believe adventures can be anywhere, any place, anytime. I believe they can even be behind toilet bowl seats, or possibly even behind locked closets. It does not take much to call what I went through an adventure. I went through terrible torture, and some funny instances happened as well. I guess I better start from the beginning and relate what happened.

I decide to try to move out into the big bad world by doing many things. I buy myself clothes, I plan my own vacations, and I scrub behind my ears. Recently I have this great idea to move out on my own. Without a high school diploma and an unnoticed writing ability, I have done the unthinkable and I have moved out on my own. Mom was livid when I told her my botched plans

“You’ll be back here in a week with your tale between your skinny legs!” to reassure her i said with a cock eyed grin,

“Oh don't worry mom. You'll never hear from me.”

I get a cab, and soaring down the streets of Daytona Beach, I look at the cab driver in the front seat with my cane in my lap.

“Remember, I want to go to The Pines Apartments.”

“What do I look like, a dummy?” I do not voice my thoughts, but instead I decide to lecture him about the condition of his cab.

“Oh, and excuse me, but when you drop me off, you should look at getting your motor supports looked at. They're very feeble.”

“Are you a mechanic now?”

“No, but I am a writer for the Daytona journal though.” His head shoots back to me, and we nearly smash into an oncoming car.

“Ha. You? You? Don't make me laugh. You’re just a high school kid.” I wave my cane at him.

“I have remarkable writing skill.” He then starts laughing at me.

“Fine. No tip.” He instantly shut up.

By the time I arrive, I'm so hungry I can eat a horse. It's a good thing the trip isn't long. When I get there, I get out, pay the cab, and make sure I don't give him a tip. I look up at the apartment building in complete awe. I really picked a good place. The apartment building is two stories, and it's white with trees surrounding it in very close proximity. The windows are normal with huge frames, and the place even has a pool.

“Oh. Good luck with the landlord.” My cab driver says with a huge snicker.

“And what the heck does that mean?” I shoot back at him. “I'm very glad I didn't give you a tip, you know that?”

“I get a bigger pay check.” He shoots back at me. He peals away leaving me standing there with my backpack containing laptop, headset microphone, and the modem I would need for the internet hookup. In my hand, I had the bulgy suitcase. I looked up at the trees surrounding the apartment. Someone is walking up to me, and I instantly fold my cane up, because of course he's going to want to guide me. The person who meets me is a scrawny man with balding white hair and a slightly wrinkled free face. I almost laugh because he can sure waddle quickly when he wishes to.

“Hello sir.” I say as the man approaches me.

“Oh god.” Is the first thing he moans when he reaches me. “Politeness. You Robert Kingett?”

“Yeah I am.” I say happily.

“Humph. At least I got some money by letting you have the application.” This was the person I paid $50 for the application? Wow.

“Anyways, where is the entrance?”

“I want my deposit.” He roars commandingly. I hand him the $100 and he grins at me.

“Are you going to have a dog Mr. Kingett?”

“No, I have a cane…”

“Good, because I only allow dogs if they are big. Small dogs poop on my precious property, and I can't have someone's mutt pooping on my investment.”

“Right…” I say shocked.

“Now let’s go inside. Besides, want to show you around the place so you don't destroy my paint.”

“Have you ever had an aneurism?” I ask.

“Are you always this subtly opinionated?”

“Yes.”

“Well then. We’re going to get along just fine.”

The apartment is huge, polished, and covered with a modish style of wood. The wood seems a perfect contrast to the white walls. Just from the looks of it, I can tell that it's going to be about 700 sq. ft.

“Pick up your feet. I can't have mud on my property,” my proprietor barks.

“We just came in on pavement.” I inform him.

“Oh, aren't you a smart one.” We come to my apartment. I look and see that there are two doors beside mine.

“What’s your name?” I ask my property owner.

“Why do you want to know my name? So you can report me to the IRS?”

“No. I just want to get to know you,”

“Ah! A businessperson. Down to business. That's what I like. Yeah sure you can know my name, it's Plotnick.”

“right.” I say intrigued. I start to go into my apartment building.

“Oh. By the way, Mr. Kingett, the rent is due at the first of every month. Now remembers Mr. Kingett, the rent is $357. You had better not be a cheap skate Mr. Kingett. Time is money, time is money!”

“Okay. Thank you. Why don't you go lay down and take your medicine.” I ask wishing he would leave.

“you’re a funny one.” He sarcastically snorts. “I'm watching you Mr. Kingett, even though your application was good and all. I have no doubt you'll bring cash into my pocket.” I was keen on slamming the door onto his face, but I restrained myself.

“Isn’t it time for a nap?”

“You’re a real riot, did you know that Mr. Kingett?” he sarcastically says. “You make me feel young again with your sarcasm. Oi! Now, remember, don't mess up my walls, floor, or furniture,”

“Right, I won’t breathe the wrong way. Got it.”

“See, your getting the hang of it already! I can tell I won’t have any issues with you!”

After I finally got him to leave, I decided to set everything up. I pay my Skype bill so I could have unlimited phone access on my laptop, which costs $60 a year. I also buy a bus pass for the next month, because there is no doubt I will need it to get to school. Thank god, there's a barns and Noble, wall mart, restaurant, a movie theater, and a bus stop literally down the street there’s a library near by as well. I'm in pure bliss.

Shockingly other very interesting people live in this apartment complex. Five others than me. I call someone the stripper because I see her going out every night in skintight clothes. There are people who I call Romeo and Juliet because they are the most romantic couple I have ever seen. When in their room, they are glued together. Even in the hallways, they never separate. Plotnick was frantic when he caught them kissing in the main section one day.

“No! You’ll drive more money away!”

Someone call the phantom because I never see him. He's always in his apartment with the door shut. He must have a high phone bill though because I hear him talking on the phone a lot. Plotnick likes him the best because he never causes any “trouble to his income.” Finally yet importantly is someone who I dub gods grandmother. Gods grandmother is very nice, and she baked me cookies the third day there. I was the youngest, at 20, in that apartment complex.

The next day I go and apply for a job at barns and Nobile. In short, I am accepted. Now I have two jobs under my belt. I know I won’t make huge bucks with my freelance writing job, but hey, it pays okay. On top of that, plus jobs, I believe I'm doing okay. So far, I haven't screwed up yet. I'm sitting on the balcony listening to Plotnick complain about trees could be making us more money if none of them were cut down because more people would move to his place and he would earn an income from that.

“Mr. Kingett. What the heck are you doing up there?” I stop and actually think he's concerned about my safety when he blurts out “that laptop better not scratch my paint Mr. Kingett. It's very good your doing business, but I'm an old man. I can't paint hard to reach place like I used to.”

“Yes sir.” I call back to him, and Romeo and Juliet look up at me as they walk past me hand in hand.

“good.” Plotnick scolds from the ground. “Just making sure.”

“I know you care.” I say with a huge grin.

“Humph.” He says and walks off.

Therefore, now I'm settled in. everything is paid. I have a job, phone, internet bill, and I have food. I stocked up on a lot of microwave meals because I know I'm not a huge cook or anything at the end of this month, I'm just glad I made it through risk-free, and with nothing weird or bad happening to me yet. This is going to be very interesting I know that whatever comes shooting my way; I can make it go down a different track. I know I can do it. I’ve been telling something myself ever since I can remember. Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today. I have a feeling I will not forget this experience anytime soon.

Roberts tom swifties.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 14:46:26 PST

"Who turned off the lights?" Tom said dimly.

"I would like a hot dog." Tom said frankly.

"Stop this horse!" Tom said haltingly.

"I refuse to read Shakespeare." Tom said unwillingly

"I lost my fingers!" Tom said disjointedly

"I lost my wrists!" Tom said offhandedly

"I lost my elbows!" tom said disarmingly..

"I lost my ribs!" Tom said decidedly

.

"The worms are eating my organs!" Tom said wholeheartedly

"I've been sliced in half!" Tom said intuitively.

"Clean the toilet seat!" Tom said peevishly

"Who sneezed on my hamburger?" Tom said snottily

"I don't know the words to this song." Tom said humbly.

"They are building new apartments down the road." Tom said constructively.

actuall fan mail!

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 14:16:32 PST

you all know this is my first ever time receiving fan mail from someone
i dont know, so i will post her eail. yes, i have asked her. my and
her's email have been removed for privacy.

Sent: Tuesday, February 09, 2010. 2:03: PM

To: Robert William Kingett xxxxxx.

Subject: you're an inspiration!

Wow! There is one reason I read this blog, and that is to read these
journal entries. Don't get me wrong I think all the other stuff is cute,
but to me this is the gold. I have never emailed you before, but I have
been there for you ever since you started at the dorm. You will come
through! I know you will. You have more gut and will power than anyone I
know. Now I know why you have over three thousand readers! People want
to see if you will make it. People want to know if you get what you
deserve, which is a high school diploma. You do not know this, but
people in your shoes give up all the time. You truly are an inspiration
to all of us, your readers. You make us wonder why we live every day.
You are going to be a great writer some day kid! I know it! I am a
creative writing teacher at the South Carolina school for the creative
arts, and I am speechless! I am in awe! You make people appreciate what
they have because you are fighting for so much! Your fighting for what
others take for granted, and that is a high school diploma. I really
admire you Robert, and I always have. You make me look at what I have,
and make me appreciate it. I never had such a hard time, but I can
appreciate what you are going through. Now I know why 9,543 people
subscribed to your blog! go kid!

The Greenest Operating system.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 08:18:16 PST

The Greenest Operating system

By Robert Kingett.

When considering a new computer, you have to look into many factors and aspects of your prey - which lucky dawg will get the chance to interact with you- or as Apple's CEO put it with the iPad, which one of those will be the most intimate with you. For the non-technical, it's really simpler to buy a computer than for the technical. Non-technical people can just consider the above question, and perhaps "what will I be using my computer for?" and "do I need something portable or something stationary.".
Techie geeks, though, have a myriad of other things to look at. What CPU? How much ram? Does it support Intel or AMD Virtualization technologies? Can it run 1002931 apps at the same time? What about a floppy drive for nostalgic purposes?

But we can all agree on one thing: Both of these people have one final other question they must ask:
How environmentally friendly is the operating system?
You might of just stopped reading this post. What? Environmentally friendly?

With all the hype on becoming green, the entire industry is shifting.. Computers now have environmental ratings, like ROHs and Eppiet. My netbook has a nice sticker beautifully showcasing that, in fact, the computer has gotten numerous environmental approvals.
Personally, I'm all for environment conservation and love going green. I love nature and being out in it during daytime when I can be, just not in this cold winter season. It's all fun :)

But back to the point. What's this with an operating system's environmentally being friendly question?
It's highly important. Just think about it. Mac OSX has a trashcan, but not a recycle bin. A little five year old who grows up with Windows might be compelled to think of the environment and recycling bins if he/she reads "recycle bin" instead of trashcan. Right? We must raise our children with the right ideals.
In addition, some may highly be upset by the fact that Apple encourages trashcans and not recycle bins. For a long debate over this. Seriously, people care.

Below are just some environmental considerations to make when looking at an operating system. Let's look at Windows and Mac, as I'm not that familiar with linux, + Linux mainly uses a shell and those that do have a GUI (graphical User Interface) tend to exhibit similar features.

The mac:

Macs are great devices, ultimately incorporating many accessibility and universal access features. If you are visually impaired, a Mac may be good if you don't have state or government support that buys you your assistive technology and can dish out $1300. (maybe $1100 for a lower end Macbook).

For the sighted, Macs are not only built on a solid foundation, but are highly recyclable. Just don't place it in the trashcan;Dispose of it by means of a local recycling outlet.

The mac OS is very solid, too, as it uses Linux as it's core. So not only do you get a solid computer, but also a solid OS. Again, don't leave poor Mac out of consideration.

Let's see. The mac has a dock. That's right. A dock. It's at the bottom of your screen and contains frequently used programs and applications. You can move these "ships" in your dock (as I will call them, though official name of applications on the dock may vary) any way you want.
Why is this significant?
Docks emphasize outdoors. A dock indicates that you are going to the water. Just looking at the dock might encourage you to go a few miles on your nearest Lake or body of water. There is no better way to truly appreciate the sea;You will be reminded of a rich dock every time you use your computer!

A builtin dictionary:
The mac is cool because you can type in any word into Spotlight and get it's definition instantly, even when offline. That's right. If you ever get stranded on an Island where even Robinson Crusoe hasn't ventured, you can use a dictionary to really gain useful information. Apple has included it for a reason, right?

As any OS, the Mac does have it's own environmental disadvantages. Firstly, the trashcan is a trashcan and doesn't encourage recycling, as stated above.
Apple also seems to be encouraging a self esteem boost. With spotlight and voiceover, you are sure to feel famous and, well, in the spotlight! Combine spotlight and voiceover, with a dashboard, and you truly have your daily self esteem boost. In a good way. While it's not environmental, it sure might prevent suicide among some.

Windows:

Microsoft is a different story altogether. While Windows is not Linux-based and thus as stable as the Mac, it sure packs a punch. So many apps exist for Windows, and there are a lot of PC manufacturers, ensuring a wide variety and diversity to your buying choices. For some people, that's a good thing, yet to others, the too many choices can cause a headache.
For our visually impaired readers, you also have many screen reader choices out there, and Microsoft's built in Narrator is sure to bring a smile to your face every day - since Windows Vista, you even get a sexy female voice built-in.

But let's look at Microsoft's environmental consciousness. Bill gates has his own foundation, so there must be something, right?

The recycle bin has been around since 1995, well before global warming became such a popular hit in the mainstream. It seems as though Microsoft really tried the hardest to think of the environment when building Windows.

So hard, in fact, that they built a run option. Run, which is an option on your start menu, really reminds you to exercise every day and not be a potato couch. Run! No, better yet. Start>run! Where is ready>set>? There is no ready and set. Instead, Microsoft wants you to give your run the hardest push when starting off- no need to wait and prepare for exercise.
On top of this, you have a shutdown option right after the run box. Depending on your outlook and viewpoint, this could be a positive or negative thing..
If you look at the start menu in reverse order, shutdown is before run. That, is a great danger. You wouldn't want to shut down before you run- that's pointless!
Yet when looking at the start menu in top-bottom order, run is before shutdown. Now this makes more sense and hopefully will give you the tinglie feeling in your legs to exercise. For those who don't like to exercise, you could look at it in this light: At least you won't be squishing tiny ants and insects with your running feet.

In windows Xp, Shut down was replaced with "Turn off Computer". This was taken away in Vista and 7. Kind of unfortunate, as turning off your computer encourages environmental friendliness - rather than "shut down" which is more nondescriptive. Seriously, folks, turn your computers off at night, don't leave it on.

On the downside's:
Windows. What's with that name? Microsoft sure crafted a popular OS, but they didn't tell us what kind of Windows they made. Glass Windows? Some cheap toy paper Windows? Metal Windows with bars?
Generally, in 1995, most Windows were not environmentally friendly. That is, energy efficient.
This holds up to date. Windows 7 is less energy efficient than Windows Xp - many have reported lower battery life with the new and popular operating system. Macs, on the other hand, are low-power consuming products. Because the MAC OS runs under Linux, it is lightweight and can conserve power. Just look into a Hackintosh (note: not officially Apple-supported). The idea is that someone could install the Mac OS on their regular PC-Since both the Mac and windows run on the x86 platform.

half way there. a journal entry

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 13:37:00 PST

Saturday, February 06, 2010

Well, I'm on the home stretch. Will I make it?

That's something I have been asking myself a lot. Will I make it? Will I make it across the finish line, and carry a high school diploma between my fingers?

I believe I will.

This week, my guidance councilor talked with me about my IEP. To be very honest, I'm quite scared. Everything hangs on one act test. Oh passed history and now I'm working oh government and economics. It's a real good thing that Mr. Sabo is a good teacher, because I think I would have failed otherwise.

I know I didn't pass the test in government because I didn't answer the questions. The test was so small you could look at all 16 questions without moving your head. I didn't do so hot on that test, but the next one I will do better.

It's a good thing he gives points for class discussion and participation, because I have it in the bag there.

Nevertheless, anyways, this past week as been interesting. The biggest thing is that my IEP is this next Friday, and to be very honest I can't wait. I want to know what they have to say about me, and if I have improved or not. I'm pretty sure that I did, but still.

After my IEP is the act testing, and it's a week after my IEP too.

I'm very nervous and everything, but at the same time, I'm a little bit excited.

That's silly of me to be excited I know, but you know what? I am. I have a feeling I'm going to do well in this IEP. Shockingly, it may be the best one I have yet. I hope it's my last, but if not, I have options.

I don't know what the heck I will do returning here another year and taking no required lasses. Even though I haven't gotten my high school diploma, I'm wondering if I can take some advanced placement classes at the college I want to go to, which is the Saint Johns community college. I don't think that's possible, but I want to ask anyway.

I've been thinking, and you all know when I do that usually I'm going to spew out some huge monologue about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Wow, I was just kidding, but that's usually what I preach.

You all know I'm afraid, but you all don't know of what. Well, you probably do, but I'm just going to spilt it out anyway.

I'm afraid of the unknown just like everyone else. I guess the right word wouldn't be afraid, but something else. Apprehensive maybe? I don't know. Here's what's in my head.

If I don’t graduate, what will be in store for me? What’s going to happen? What will I do when I have to return for another year? I don’t have a plan for if I don't graduate.

If I do graduate, where am I going to go? I have an idea, and while it may not seem like a good one, I'm going to try anyway.

After I graduate high school and get my high school diploma, I want to go to the concland center in Daytona I then want to go to college after the concland center, while all the while working on sightless hope. I want to get my bachelors degree in English and journalism. I may want to get my masters degree in journalism. I want to do both, but Mrs. Knor said that would be too hard for me, and it would take me forever. To be very honest, by this point, I don't care. I'm not in a huge rush to get out of college anyway. As a matter of fact, I plan on staying in college for quite some time getting my masters degree. What's the point in rushing through college? What's going to happen afterwards? I go to work forever and that's all I do? I plan on killing time and experience with just one simple action. I'm pretty sure that once I do get published, I will be widely read. I seriously see no point in hurrying through college. What's the point of rushing through something that's going to make up the rest of your life? Everyone's going to be very unhappy with me, but I don't care all that much. I believe what I'm thinking about doing is the best thing.

This is old babble, but I hope I'm well read. I hope I publish my books and people almost everywhere will read them. I hope one day, I will see books I made myself in bookstores. I often picture myself signing books, and looking at my own work on bookshelves.

There's something else I haven’t told anyone as well. I hope my sightless hope book helps people. I hope it opens people’s eyes to just what may be going on under peoples noses. Who knows, somewhere in the world, there could be someone crying at night as his mom was nowhere to be seen, just as I was. Who knows, like me, some kid may not even graduate high school, because his mom wouldn't let him study at nights. I hope one day, someone walks up to me and tells me that my book helped them, or helped someone they loved. I hope teachers too; take a hard look at what I have to say. I want to hear that someone saved someone else because of just my words on a page. I seriously hope I will become a well-known author. I don’t want to be that author who people read once and then forget about like some dirty rag on the street. I want to have my words stick in people’s minds. Travis called me narcissistic, and perhaps I am. Sarcastic people dream of the future, and they have high egos. I do have a high ego and I do exhibit narcissistic behavior, but I feel I deserve it to be honest with you after so many years of thinking that I am nothing, that my mom never gave me the one thing I sought, and that was love. I believe I have a right to dream big and to have a high ego.

There is also something else I haven't told anyone. I want to seek professional help after high school. I want to get a councilor. Many people will frown on this, but I want to. I feel that by getting someone who I can honestly talk to, someone who knows how I feel will help me to be even better, not that I'm not doing good on my own. I know I'm doing better already, and I know I will only continue to improve. See, my mom didn't beat me. I won. I won the battle, but the wars not over yet. That's okay though, because I'm ready. Bring it on. I don’t know what the key to success is, but the key to failure is trying to please everyone. I'm done pleasing my mom. I'm going to leave her in the dust, and be what my ultimate goal is, successful.

sightless hope, chapter 10 revised and edited.

kingettblue@gmail.com (Robert kingett) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 09:51:14 PST

Authors note. I have three possible chapter titles, and they all are beating me over the head wishing me to use them. They are below.

Chapter 10. stereotyping.

Chapter 10. all the room’s a stage.

Chapter 10. tag team.

Chapter 10. two minds, two hearts

Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 10. Eviction notice.

When we had arrived at school En-vogue and I continued to walk with each other until we came to the library.
So buddy, how'd you liked having me over?”
“Eh. It was okay and all. I'm impressed at you that you'd be so good at video games.”
“You can start calling me god now.” He looked at me with a smug grin on his pudgy face.
“neh.”
“Oh come on. The title fits my individuality and obvious video game skill.”
“Just cuz you beat me…”
“12 times,” I interrupted.
“Just cuz you beat me you isn't no god or something.”
“I beg to differ, my fine stout friend.”
“Huh? Stout?”
“It means fat.”
“Aw I knew that! I just wanted to test your head.”
“Yeah… sure you did. Oh, I am going to go to the library, okay. I know I'll be late but I need it.” Approaching the class doors, I began to walk inside, but En-vogue grabbed my bony looking anorexic shoulder. His whole hand reached down to my backbone.
“By the way shawty. The new kid is coming’ today.”
“Huh? Excuse you, the new kid? En-vogue, what the heck are you talking about?”
“You’ll see, he's in your class.”
“Which one?” I shot back as he waddled away. “By the way, why are you going in here again? You have a library in your backpack.”
“Because I just need it.” I answered a little too quickly, as if the answer was not weird enough.
“You need it? You ‘need’ a book. Dude, A book isn’t food.” I slinked in the library ignoring him. The librarians, both plump women with black hair, looked directly at me as I entered. The head librarian greeted me with her usual casual “hi.”
“Hi!” I say bouncing. “And how are we doing today?”
“Well, that depends. Two kids brought their books back with about 12 overdue. You guess.”
“Okay, so you’re having a good day then? That's great!” she chose to completely ignore my sarcasm and stare at me, her wispy black hair in a neat shape framing her head. She looked like a grandmother might, and her voice sounded like that excessively. She always sounded stern even when sometimes she was joking. She knew me ever since I started at the school, so she and I were literally old friends.
“Okay Mr. Kingett, Let’s see if you have any overdue.” She said smiling and laughing a little as I stepped up to the counter.
“I can tell you right now I don’t, didn't, and won’t.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” After she checked, she gave me a smile.
“Well, you’re right. You want a cookie?”
“Yeah, chocolate chip, and make it snappy.” She laughed, and I went to get my two usual books for the nights reading. I decided to check out a book called the giver, since the synopsis looked very interesting. I read about six pages, liked what I read, and went looking for an audio version. The book was not in large print, so I had to get audio because that was all I had at home. I did not have some special magnifier. All I had was some yellow tape player provided by the national library service for the blind, which gave all blind US patrons free books on tape. When I had retrieved the green case that held the audio version, Mrs. Maryellen looked at me strangely.
“No second book? You sick?”
“nah. I'll get one later on today.” I said dismissively.
“After your IEP?” I had one today. Oh god, I really did not want to have the principal tell me just what I was doing wrong in all my classes. It didn't take a genius to know why. I wasn’t doing my homework, or at east I wasn’t doing all of it.
“Yeah. After my IEP.”
“I'm sure you'll do fine. Charlie Crozier won’t beat you”
“He’s big enough to.” I quipped, and she laughed again.
“Is your mom coming to this one?”
“I seriously doubt it. She's driving a lot these days,” I began lying so easily it was like my first language.
“Driving?” Mrs. Maryellen asked looking strangely at me behind her glasses. I guessed she was suspicious of what I had said, but I couldn't back down from the lie now. That would be excessively obvious.
“Yes. Driving. Her boss is having her doing delivery now, because he's low on rates and everything. He can't pay her what she's due, so he demoded her.” I knew what I was lying about couldn't even happen in a job, but I guess they didn't question it because Mrs. Maryellen went
“Aw. That's terrible. Well I hope everything's works out for her in the end. You know, she's got to be the busiest woman I have ever seen, especially since I never see her.” I almost laughed aloud.
“I know. It's a shame isn’t it? But hey, you got to work.”
“Yeah. If I'm going to work I better be darn well paid.” She quipped. I laughed.
“You’d better go before you’re late. You know I don’t ever write passes.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Let me guess. You'll be back here tomorrow?”
“What do you think?” I shot back at her with a grin.
“I'll prepare myself.”
“Good.” I said stepping out of the door.
“Hey,” she called after me, “I want to see what your IEP was about.”
“I'll keep you posted.” I said and began walking on to my first class, which was math. I then however spun around and dashed back in the library.
“Um. Like what time is my IEP?” I gasped.
“At 9:00”
“great.” I sneered. I would get out of the last 40 minutes of math class. Joy! I headed off to the classroom with something trying to talk to me inside of my head. It was like inner radar of events that went on at home. Something bad had happened this weekend when I was at En-vogues house. What was it? Was J C involved again? There was no doubt he was. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. What did they do? I was going to be useless when child services arrived at the schools to question us. I knew just from experience that they would wait a few days after the event happened to try to get us off guard, but the trouble with their plan was that we had done this so many times we were quite the expert in deflecting child services. DCF didn't know what they were getting into with us around.
By this point I had entered the building, and made my way past the few totally blind girls that were standing near some lockers, and heading to my own, opening mine, I took out the huge large print math book that weight literally 8 pounds and the books and stuff I would need after my IEP. I watched a few of my friends past me. I did not say hey because I just didn't feel like putting on an act today. When I slammed my locker, a few of my friends heard the noise and tapped their way to me. Amanda Fadden, a tall very thin girl with long black hair past her shoulders coolly stepped past me. When she heard my door shut, she turned her sightless eyes towards me. She and I have been friends ever since elementary school. She, like me, was mature beyond her years, but I didn't know why at the time. Her voice, soft yet powerful, and filled with happiness came shooting out of her mouth.
“Hey there Shorty, Looking for gold again?” she said with a laugh.
“Yeah. Wish to assist?”
“Ah darn. I wish I could, but you and I have something called class little boy.” She said with a smile. “But seriously. You need some help?”
“nah. I got it.”
“Isn’t you’re IEP today?” she suddenly blurted.
“Yes.”
“I'm sure you'll be fine. Mine was hell though. No compliments. My grandma isn’t happy.”
“Well I would be too if my math grade was a C minus.”
“But my other grades should compensate. And besides, I already brought it up to a B.”
“I'm sure.” She playfully slapped me on the shoulder as we walked. Her cane made tapping sounds echoing off the walls, as did everyone else's.
“I did! Who got the highest grade on the last test? Come on. Spit it out.” She said when I didn't answer her for a few seconds.
“Okay. Yes it was you”
“Uh-huh! Don’t you forget it either!” she said putting some girth in her step. “But seriously dude.” She continued. “You'll be fine.” When we arrived, the room was baked in chatter. The noise came from blurred images all around the long square table at the center of the room where all the Braillers were. A few blurry figures were in the back of the room where all the TVs were sitting. Amanda and I made our way to our seats, and that's only when did I look around. Once people heard and saw, my chair scoot out everyone said hey to Amanda and me
“Hey!” I boomed with my quiet voice. Amanda said
“Hey all! So we going to get this party started?” Kevin, a black kid with an obvious slight foreign accent grinned at Amanda. “I'll get your party started.”
“Baby you have no chance.” Amanda said flicking her hair in dismissal then grinning a little. “Besides, I don’t care for dark chocolate.”
“So anyway.” I say wanting to deflect this flirtation. “How is everyone?”
“We’re fine.” Amanda said.
“I'm hot!” Kevin said patting his deep black hand on his chest like a macho man. Amanda snorted.
“Oh yeah. You so sexy.”
“I know I am! Can't touch this! I'm bad!”
“anyway.” I tried again. “I think Mr. Morse s coming in here.” I could hear footsteps approaching the room. Kevin sat down just as the bulky teacher stepped into the room. Mr. Morse was a rather tall man with a slight cut that looked like a beer belly. His head, with short straight black hair reminded me of an egg. His face didn't look distorted, but his mouth was thin. He wore casual attire except on Fridays. Today he had a plain blue shirt with gray pants. I didn't know what kind they were but they were very popular. He opened his mouth and bellowed,
“Good morning all you toad noses.” Everyone stopped talking instantly. With a huge smile in his voice he then said
“So how are you dingle berries doing today?” we all chorused “fine.”
“Good, then you won’t mind doing 123 problems. Heehehehe” he said with a deadly evil cackle.
“On second thought, I don't think I'll be that mean. I think I'll just bore you all with my old man voice!” he boomed. I couldn't help but laugh at how good of a mood he was. He sat down in his chair. I never knew what it was called but it was made of black leather. It looked like a recliner. I was amazed he was able to fit it behind his desk even with his computer there.
“Get to a screen.” He ordered. I want to show all you dingle berries how to multiply fractions!” we all rushed to a TV screen except for the totals. They all sat at their Braillers with paper in them. They should know the drill by now anyway.
“I want to see the lunch.” Kevin suddenly shouted.
“Nope. Only non smelly people get to see the lunch.”
“Old man, do you know who you’re talking to?” Kevin said playfully as he stood up trying to look scary.
“A dingle berry.” I laughed beside Kevin.
“Old man, that's a fruit! Gramps.”
“Actually no it's not.” I said. The whole class except for Amanda chorused “huh?”
“A dingle berry is not fruit.”
“Well what is it?” Kevin snapped. “I'm right. It is a piece of fruit!”
“Maybe if you ate fruit, I guess it could be.” the whole class was in utter rapture now.
“It’s a piece of waste that gets stuck on your butt it usually hangs down resembling a type of hemorrhoids…”
“Ewe!” my whole class said covering their mouth with their hand. They all laughed. Kevin looked sick.
“your just joking.’”
“No I'm not.”
“You are.” He insisted looking like he was going to vomit.
“Look it up Mr. Morse.”
“You should listen to weird Robert like creatures Kevin.” Mr. Morse said across the room. “Sometimes weird Robert like creatures is right.
“Naw. They ain’t right all da time. He isn't right. Watch. Ima prove you wrong old man!” I put my face in my palm silently smiling to myself.
“Okay settle down now. Let’s see what we got in the announcements.” He pulled it up on his computer. It showed on all the TVs in the back of the room where all the low vision kids were sitting. One thing caught my eye.
New student starting today. Travis brown.
“Hey Kevin. Have a look.” He did, and since he was literally right next to me on my good side. I saw his eyes pop with interest.
“Travis brown?”
“No Kevin. The other Travis brown that's there. Yeah. Travis brown.”
“You know him?”
“Nu uh.”
“Wonder if he's a brother.” I rolled my head slightly since I couldn't roll my eyes.
“I wonder if he lives in the hood.” I said as sarcastically as I could. He missed it though.
“I don't know dude. However, he can't match up to me. All dem ladies still want me. He ain't as hot as me.”
“Your making me deaf with lies.” I snapped.
“Since two very strange smelly people want to talk about their male parts…” kids whooped with laughter as if we were back in elementary school again “an extra 33 problems shall be added to your homework.” Everyone groaned and hissed except me. I wasn’t going to do it anyway. His homework box rested in its unusual spot where the Braille paper could be seen. On the far right of the room where Kevin and I were perched.
“Dat isn’t fair!” Kevin said.
“Don’t argue with him or else you'll just egg him on and then you'll make it worse!” I hissed in his ear. He looked at me like I just spoke some foreign language.
“How you know that?” it didn't take genius to figure out how Mr. Morse worked after all. I made my “duh,” look say this and Kevin backed off.
Mr. Morse began teaching. I was very glad I had to go at 9:00 because I couldn't stand to listen to Mr. Morse talk about fractions, and how to multiply them. My mind slipped in and out of focus. I then started to wonder what happened this weekend. That nagging feeling in the back of my head was telling me something went on this weekend. Did J C and Barbra have the cops called on them again, or was it just the usual drunken fights they had every single night now? Were my sister and brother involved in it? Did he are she hurt them?
“Mr. Kingett. Since your paying so much attention to what I'm saying, what do I do after the last step?” I looked at the TV screen where he had written out the equation and various steps along the way. I looked down at the example, but I couldn't make heads or tales of it. I did read one sentence that caught my eye. Looking at my math book as if it held my life, I took a deep breath. I looked back at the equation, and gaped. I was right! It was an improper fraction!
“I know I'm old son, but I don’t have all day. Speed it up just a little bit.”
“If the fraction becomes improper, extract the whole number.”
“grrrr.” He playfully said. “He’s correct!” he turned and wrote extract on the board. It showed up in white on the black TV screen. Everyone laughed softly to themselves.
“You nearly took a nose dive.” Kevin loudly whispered in my ear.
“I'm your English tutor.” I shot back telling to shut up or else he wouldn't get any more help.
“Kevin!” Mr. Morse boomed as if he just realized Kevin was there. “Perhaps you can tell us the next step?” Kevin gave the answer.
“Wrong.”
“No! That’s right!” he immediately yelped.
“I didn't ask for the answer, I asked for the next step in the equation. Now Robert, you better get on over to your IEP.” As I stood up, I couldn't help but bend low and whisper in Kevin's ear.
“You DID take a nose dive.”
As I exited the room I could see a black boy walking with one of the mobility teachers here at the school. we zoomed past each other,, with me not even giving him a second look. When I had reached the right room, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw who was waiting near the conference door. Barbra greeted me as I approached.
“Hi little man!” she said happily smiling at me.
“What happened this weekend?” I fired at her but she deflected it.
“Did you have a good time at En-vogue's?”
“When will child services question us Barbra? Tell me.” I then decided to use her own card against her. “What will I tell them?”
This caught her off guard. “You knew that's why I came here?”
“obviously.” I spat.
“Damn. Well hello to you too.” I suddenly became so angry I hissed in her ear as the new black boy walked past us. I wondered if this kid was Travis brown. I couldn't see any of his face or figure because of his distance, but I wasn’t concentrating on him anyway.
“Look. If you would just behave you wouldn't have this problem.”
“Who died and made you Rodger? Your not my dad, so stop acting like him.” she snapped just as a teenager might. “Besides J C hit me first.” The black boy looked in our direction. Barbra and I were talking out of the corner of our mouths. She didn't need to tell me any more. We fell silent until the boy walked past us.
“When will child services get here?”
“Nothing gets past you does it.” She said with a chip on her shoulder. “Look. When you were off having fun, I was being assaulted. He even committed battery on me too. The cops came and of course it was a domestic violence charge, but I talked them out of it.” She said with a smile. I don't know why but I was getting very annoyed very fast.
“Talked them out of what?”
“Putting him in jail.” She said with a casual wave.
“Barbra,” I said as if I were her mom. I couldn't hide how annoyed I was. This happened every month now, so why did it annoy me so much? “If he was in jail this wouldn't happen.”
“But I love him!” she immediately gushed in a hushed tone so the black boy who was now coming out of the math room couldn't hear us.
“He beats you up.” I said in a plain no duh voice.
“We’re both drunk.”
“Of course.” I mumbled.
“Who’s that?” my mom asked watching a huge man slowly walk towards us.
“My principal. Now what are you going to say about me not turning in homework?”
“What?” she snapped. “Your not?”
“It’s kind of hard to when Garmaunt spills beer on it.” I said defeated and amazed.
“I can't believe your not turning in your homework.” I couldn't believe why she was being so clueless today. Usually this wasn’t like her at all.
“I'm very sorry I'm late.” Mr. Crozier said while unlocking the room. “Time gets away from you. You know?”
“I know how that goes.” My mom gushed as he entered and sat down at the long table that looked like King Arthur’s court. Barbra sat beside me and a few of my other teachers, such as my physical therapy teacher filed in and took a seat as well. The guidance councilor, Mrs. Knor, took a seat beside Mr. Crozier. They all opened folders and looked down at them. My mom looked at them, studying their faces I couldn't see. I knew she was reading them like a book. She was finally using her wits.
“Okay. We all know Robert. Some know him from middle school. He's a sophomore here, and he's… well… his transcripts show that Robert is passing all of his classes… except history.” My mom’s eyebrows shot up beside me. I sensed her tense up beside me.
“Why not?” she asked exasperated.
“Mrs. Stephens says he isn’t turning in homework, and he's failing tests.”
“Look. I don't know why he isn’t doing his homework. I just learned of this today when he told me.” I was getting mad and I didn't even know why. It annoyed me to the brink of my sanity to hear her lie so well. She knew perfectly why I didn't do it! She was the cause of it!
“I just forget to turn it in.” I suddenly blurted. They all looked at me. I knew what I had just said made me look retarded in all aspects of the word, but I had to play along. It was my job.
“That’s a shame.” Mr. Crozier said looking at me with his hands folded. I can't believe they thought I was that stupid. My mom smiled beside me.
“He’s very disorganized.” She jumped in. using this like a life raft. “his room is a mess.” I gave a hard look, but she ignored it.
“His room is very messy so he loses a lot of things all the time. I just can't believe he would actually forget to turn in his homework. That's just not normal.” I wanted to punch her until she bled. She was making me mad.
“well, I have another option. What about switching him to a special diploma track?” I froze, and my head screamed every second that ticked by.
“do you think it's wise?” my mom asked pretending to think it over. “do you think he can't do the regular work?” I just sat there listening the whole time, my heart thumping.
“if I do switch, I won’t have a high school diploma.” I said determined to make them change their train of thoughts.
“so?” my mom said looking at me with a smile. “if you can't do the homework Robert, then we need other options.”
“Well Mrs. Stout don’t get us wrong. He's a very bright young man.” He said flipping through notes. “Comments from all his teachers show that Robert is polite yet quiet in class, and he understands everything the teachers toss at him.” He said attempting to joke. No one laughed.
“Okay. Well, a few extra quotes from Mrs. Fonda here… Robert shows an aptitude for creative writing. His works are a pleasure to read, and he holds interesting discussions of literature in my classroom, but he seldom turns in homework.” He put the paper down and looked hard at me.
“I don't know why.” My mom said… “I try and be a good mother to him. I give him everything he wants and everything.” I almost die from bottled up laughter. Mrs. Knor cleared her throat and spoke next.
“As you know Mrs. Stout. Students must pass the FCAT, Florida’s comprehension assessment test in order to pass high school, if they pass it in the 10th grade they don’t have to take it again, since it's only in September and not March yet. We don’t know if he will pass or not.” They all looked at me. “But I do have something very interesting.” She said brandishing multiple papers. “His past FCAT reading scores have quite literally been flip flopping. Last year. He had a 278, and the minimum to pass is 300. The year before that, he had a 412, which is above average, but the year before that, he had a 167 which is way, way below average, and even the year before that, he had a 564. that's almost a perfect score.” My mom looked at Mrs. Knor with concern etched all in her voice,
“Why do you think that is?” she was really making me mad. I decided to tell a little bit of the truth now.
“I just couldn't concentrate.” I just loved playing the stupid card. They all believed it so easily. I had to try my hardest to act ignorant and dense, but my efforts paid off.
“But Robert,” Mr. Crozier said as if I were a dim witted child. “This test is important, and so is this history class. You have to take this seriously. I know you can do better than this.”
“Your right,” Mrs. Knor said sounding confused. “In fact he holds high B’s and low C’s in his classes despite the homework. that, to be frank, is pretty unorthodox.”
“The only thing that's an A is English.” My mom pointed out.
“exactly.” Mrs. Knor said.
“Well, he does like to read.” She said. “He listens to audio books all the time.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Mr. Crozier said, then they all suddenly had some brilliant idea, except for my mother who just smiled softly to herself glad she planted this thought in their minds.
“You can't let books get in the way of your school work.” I guess they had completely forgotten about my previous claim. I decided to go with my mom rather than fight them this time. I was just going to complicate things if I didn't, and my mom was clever enough to deflect or catch anything I threw out there. I looked at her saying one thing with my squinty eyes. Let’s manipulate them together. She smiled, knowing what exactly I was thinking. She was happy I was on her side.
“Yeah Robert.” She said cueing me. “You should know better.”
“I'm very sorry!” I gasped. “I just can't help but get interested in a good story. You know?” it was so easy manipulating these people it was almost too easy. I had to look down to hide my snicker.
“When we get home today you are going to do your homework.”
“Okay Barbra.” I said. They both just sat there and stared at us.
“I'm going to make dinner tonight too. I want you to eat tonight okay?” she said pinching my rib bone.
“I know. I promise I will.” I don't know why but I couldn’t take the manipulation anymore, a part of me wanted to jump up and scream what the heck are you talking about! You don’t feed me! Yet the other half loved manipulating adults. It was a game I loved playing. I was addicted to it. My mom and I looked at our two audience members as we continued to act out the respected parts.
“Are you sure you going to eat tonight? I made you a huge steak and you didn't eat it.”
“Ah. Funny.” I said signaling to her she was off base. “En-vogue and I had pizza.”
“Oh… yeah.” she said quickly recovering. “I'm glad you had fun.”
“Me too.” I said giving her a hug. She hugged me back. I looked at our two audience members with pride. They had no clue. No one had a clue. All the room was a stage, and our audience was hooked.
After we got out of the IEP, Barbra looked at me.
“We’ll talk outside.”
“yeah.” I said. My mom spoke a little as we went down the hallway.
“I'm going to sign you out of school. Child services are coming today.”
“So then the fight happened on Friday.”
“Yeah but they're a little late. Wonder what took them so long.”
“Maybe they don’t work on the weekends.” I joked, and she laughed.
“J C is a dick.”
“We’re still in the school.” I reminded her.
“I know, but I just want to say that. He is.”
“I thought you loved him.” I snapped harshly.
“I do but god damn he's an idiot.”
“Dido.”
“But don’t worry. Your momma isn’t stupid. She's going to work him for his money.” I grinned at her wanting to stay on her good side so shed tell me what went on that night. I saw a cut on her arm, and her eye looked like it had a shiner on it.
“What was the fight about?”
“He was complaining because he didn't get me in bed.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Therefore, he got pissed and punched me. I told that hippy to leave. Called the cops on him too.”
“Good girl.” I said not meaning it. We were just about to descend the staircase when the black boy walked past us. I took a good look at him and gaped at how built he looked. I could tell just by his facial structure that he was going to be a ladies man. He was an ebony boy of what looked to be 16. His face, clean-shaven and balled, was smooth yet pallid, sculpting something you might find in a painting. He had thin cheekbones, and a thick mouth that didn't look bad on him. It wouldn't surprise me if he were a ladies magnet back home. His figure, skinny yet built, presented confidence when he walked, like he had the whole world between his hands. His eyes were closed, and his ears, averaged sized resting on a slightly basketball looking head, were the last I saw of him before his thin powerful legs helped him bound up the steps at lightening speed.
“Hang on! I want to talk to him.” I have been seeing hi all day so I wanted to at least put a name on a face.
“You want to what?” my mom called. She hadn’t heard me.
“Get something from my locker!” I followed the deep black kid up the stairs and around a corner. His cane tapped commandingly in front of him. He doubled back and tried the other hallway. I figured he was lost so I wanted to help, but I soon learned, just from watching him, that he wasn’t lost. It looked like he was exploring. What would he think of me just watching him? I liked being the silent observer, but there was a chance he was in fact lost. I gathered up all my courage, took a deep shaking breath, and called out.
“Hey. Where you going?” he spun around and looked at my voice. I limped up to him hoping my stutter didn't kick in. I suddenly became so shy I didn't want to talk to him anymore. What if he was a bully? What if he was going to hurt me? What if he loved picking on bookworms? I stepped back as he came a bit closer, still being silent. All the things my mom told us over the years kept flooding back to me just now. I've been hearing it for so many years I could reenact her whole speeches.
“Niggers can't be trusted. Don’t ever, ever trust a nigger. Don’t go into a room alone with one. Keep an eye out, and always be prepared for when they try and attack you.” I was suddenly terrified of this black boy. I didn't want to die. My mom as right! How long was it going to be before he hurt me>
“Hello?” he said perplexed. I stepped closer without making a sound. I then approached him head on. Ready to scream in case he hit me.
“Hi.. You lost?”
“no.” he said with a white toothed grin. I looked a little closer at his temple. It had a white scar on it, and he wasn’t balled after all, but he might as well have been. I poised, ready to kick him in the crotch if he laid a hand on me. I couldn't believe my mom was right. I needed to be careful, I needed to hit and run, if need be
“Oh. Okay. What class are you in now?”
“English.”
“Mrs. Fonda or chancy.”
“Fonda.”
“I'm in that class, err this class!” his mouth thinned a little. I knew it. He hated me. He hated me to the extreme. i kept hearing my mom’s countless advice in my head.
“don’t ever turn your back on a nigger.”
“I'm Robert.: I said slowly stretching out a shaking hand.
“Alright,: he said stretching his out just above mine, I shook his hand. His grip, compared to mine, was very strong. Mine felt limp to me. Just then, my mom came bounding up the stairs looking for me, when she saw Travis her voice clipped with something I couldn't detect.
“You need to come down stairs now.”
“Oh hey.” He said just now hearing her voice, “how are you?” she didn't look at him when she spoke. I knew my mom hated black people but I didn't know how much. She didn't even smile.
“hi.” She snapped.
“Anyways. What's your name?” I asked him.
“Travis.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool. I love English class.” I hated myself even more. I loved English class? I was such a looser.
“Well, we have to go now.” My mom said walking down the stairs
“Bye. I shall see you tomorrow.” I called.
“later.” He said with a small grin and a laugh. His voice was cool, and soft. It wasn’t raspy but it wasn’t precise either. It was heavily tinted with the black accent and he sounded like he was going to fall asleep. I didn't want to talk to him anymore because I was sure he hated me.
“A nigger?” my mom had said when we stepped out into the blue outdoors. “You went upstairs to talk to a nigger?”
“So what if I did?” I shot at her. When we reached her car, she got in after me, and turned my face towards hers.
“A nigger. Come on Robert. A dirty, shit skinned nigger. Why?”
“I just wanted to get to meet him.” I said innocently. She shook her head sternly. Her eyes were so close I could see them.
“no.” she said calmly yet forcefully “I don’t ever want to see you with some shit skinned low life ass whole. He didn't even want to talk to you anyway Robert. He thought you were shit.” A part of me knew she was wrong but then again I wouldn't put it past him.
“You didn't see the way he was looking at your voice.” That was true. I didn't know how he was looking at me.
“To him your just white trash, He's going to use you and he's going to make fun of your stutter. He doesn't like you” I shook my head and she started to squeeze my cheek.
“Listen to me Robert. He didn't like you, okay? He didn't like your voice at all. Shit skins like that don’t like you unless you have a crack rock.”
“He seemed nice.” I said with anger in my voice. For some reason I was angry at her. She didn't even know him.
“That big lip shit skin? No. if I hadn’t of been there, he would have beat you the fuck up.” I did recall how afraid I was of him, but that was normal for me. I wouldn't put it past him to want to beat me up. My mom kept drilling it into my head so many times it became a daily lecture. Something in me, however, was furious. I didn't like the word nigger, or shit skin. She didn't even know him, and she was calling him a nigger? I didn't like the word, even when black people used it. I hated it to the extreme when she said it.
“Don’t call him that. nigger” I said angry to the point of my sanity. I wanted her to get punched every time she used that word.
“That’s what they are. Shit skins that kill people like you and me. Them niggers are stupid.”
“He didn't seem stupid.” I tried again to tell her but she just shook her head.
“I can't believe this. A son of mine is a nigger lover. Don’t you appreciate anything I do? I'm trying to give you some goddamn advice, now I know you’re not stupid. I know you got brains. Use them. Don’t hang around that nigger, he hates you he wants to beat you up. When you show how smart you are he's going to want to hate you” I hoped that wasn’t true, but he did give me that weird look when I spoke. What was that about? Even if that wasn’t true, I wasn’t going to listen to my mom at all.
“Now. Let’s go home. You going to stay away from that shit skin tomorrow?” I didn't answer until the car pulled away. Watching the scenery flash by in a blur, I angrily gave my mom my unheard answer.
“No. I'm going to sit with him at lunch tomorrow.”