Category Archives: Stories & Writing

That gratifying sense of justice

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Today I posted a new true story called The Jalapeno of Justice. This is something that happened around 1996, when I was a junior in high school.

So this post contains a spoiler so I suggest reading the story before reading any further as it’s not too long and I think it’ll give a few perspectives that I’m not going to get into in this post.

So basically, the story is that I was at a party that didn’t allow drugs and alcohol, but one person refused to stop smoking pot so some dudes anally raped him with a jalapeno. The really fucked up part of this is that I totally supported the rape, though of course, I did not see it as rape. I saw it as simple justice for the horrible crime of smoking marijuana.

I’ve been hesitant to write and post this story all these years that I’ve been writing true stories on this blog, for obvious reasons. It makes me look like a complete, sadistic asshole, which in this situation, I absolutely was. I don’t think many people want to admit that they have the capacity to be a truly horrible person, but this is what I must do.

But I don’t think I’m unique here. I think the majority of people around me have a similar capacity for sadistic behavior. You might say that getting raped with a jalapeno for smoking some weed is a little harsh but if you stop and think about the things the Partnership for a Drug Free America and other anti-drug individuals and organizations support, anal rape really is not a big deal. The person in this story no doubt would have preferred that over being chased down by a police officer with a gun, having his life threatened, getting thrown in jail for a night, and possibly getting kicked out of school. Anal rape as punishment for marijuana and pro-drug advocacy can be considered mild in comparison to many of the things our criminal justice system is already doing on behalf of the drug war.

I have a recurring theme in this blog that I like to talk about and that I don’t think gets enough attention in popular media and psychology. This is my theory that human beings enjoy watching each other suffer. This seems obvious considering the popularity of horror movies, but people almost always forget about how this may cause us to be bias when talking about political opinions.

I believe in our current society we have targeted specific criminals like drug dealers and sexual deviants with our hatred. I think deep down we understand that the punishments and hate we force upon these people are ultimately not going to make the problems go away. Thousands of years of laws and punishments have proven that we are going to have criminals one way or the other, yet we continue punishing and imprisoning. I don’t believe we are doing this because we really think it’s making us more secure, or even because it’s giving us the illusion of safety. We punish criminals because we enjoy knowing that they are suffering. Simple as that. It would be so easy to change our strategies to help people, to show compassion and to find real and effective ways to change the state of criminal behavior today, but we don’t because that desire for vengeance is so powerful.

The police distance us from these occurrences, keeping us naive. The general public never feels that gratifying sense of vengeance when a criminal is apprehended, so it leaves us wanting more. On the other hand, we are never exposed to the pain and horror that a punished individual actually feels, dramatically muting our compassion. Police officers, on the other hand, become addicted to the power, vengeance and sadism. The whole system then becomes a self-perpetuating cycle of hatred, revenge and cruelty. And we’re all in denial about it.

Dave’s Looking At Porn

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I don’t know why I’m even posting this, honestly, except that I just don’t like throwing away old writings. Just a stupid story I thought was funny at the time.

I sat at my desk writing code like any other day at work when my boss Dave stepped out of his office and said, “I have an announcement, everyone. I just want everyone to know that I’m not looking at porn–” he shook his head nervously. “I mean, I am looking at porn, but I’m doing it for legitimate reasons… so if anyone hears any moaning from my speakers or sees naked people in my window, I’m looking at porn for the company… I just didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea… I’m not doing anything nasty back here.”
Chris swiveled around in his seat. “Um… that’s gonna require a little bit more explanation… like what kind of porn, and how do I get on board with this project?”
“I’m checking out this guy’s portfolio–we’re thinking about hiring a new designer–and this guy is pretty good but he’s done a lot of work for porn sites so I have to go check ‘em out and see what he can do.”
“So did he give you a bunch of usernames and passwords to these sites?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, actually. He gave me about half a dozen different logins.”
“Dude! Hook me up!”

Yuck! Kalin is promoting Kalinbooks

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I heard about this product called buffer, which is a twitter and facebook client that allows you to post to both simultaneously but it keeps the entries in a queue and posts them at specific times per day, so it queues them up for several days in advance. I decided I’d give it a shot since most of the successful writers on the internet these days are leveraging social media. I’ve never been one for self promotion and all the nonsense on facebook and twitter has always bothered me, like photos of what you had for dinner and whatnot. However, I think I’m gonna try to stick with it for a while, making two or three posts a day. It’s pretty quick and easy. I can do it while I’m riding the bus to work.

It’s harder now it seems. I used to spend 20-30 bucks a month on advertising on google, but that didn’t seem to bring in too many new readers. On my old website, Get to Know a Marijuana Dealer, one $50 per month ad on made my site explode and I actually had lots of people commenting… though that was back in the days before we even had MySpace… like around 2001 or so.

People say that a successful blogger puts 80% of their time into promotion and the rest of their time into writing. That seems just backward and wrong to me, so since I started this blog in its current WordPress form back at the beginning of 2010, I’ve probably spent about 98% of my time on actually writing, which to me seems like the way it should be. Alas, this is a world full of advertising and promotions and I won’t be able to compete unless I do something to promote myself.

So I added links to follow me on facebook and twitter to my left sidebar and intend to keep the micro posts coming steadily. I even bought some ads for the facebook page which will come out in about a month, giving me time to build up a collection of posts before I start blowing money on likes.

On Twitter today I spoke with someone from and offered to write articles on the subject of our current police state. They’re looking for news stories, which I don’t normally do, but I figure I can give it a shot. There are certainly a plethora of stories on police brutality and ridiculous laws out there right now.

Anyway, I don’t know what I’m saying in my rambling. I guess that I’m finally going to try to branch out away from this website to actually do some self-promotion.

Wierd Al vs MC Hammer

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This a true story I wrote years ago but I’ve just been hanging onto it, not posting it, because, well, it’s just kind of silly and pointless, but because I just can’t stand it sitting in my drafts folder any longer, i’m just going to go ahead and post the damn thing. Here it is. Wierd Al vs MC Hammer.

I was on vacation with my mom, aunt and cousins in Hawaii, driving around in our rented mini-van when the current number one hit, Can’t Touch This, came on the radio. My cousins all shouted “Turn it up! Turn it up!”.

We grooved to the song and my cousins made some comments about how brilliant and hip MC Hammer was. I was definitely an MC Hammer fan at the time. In fact, MC Hammer was the first CD I ever bought, but I still decided to say “I don’t understand why everyone loves this song so much. I mean, it’s cool but why’s it so special? There’s nothing really different or inventive about it, yet everyone’s going nuts over it.”

“Yeah, this coming from the guy who carries around Wierd Al tapes,” said my cousin Brad, and everyone had a good laugh at my expense. “MC Hammer has something called talent. He’s the future of rap, Dude. Wierd Al just rips off other songs and makes stupid jokes.”

“Well, I think Wierd Al will be around longer than MC Hammer,” I said.

They burst into hysterics. “Dear Lord, Kalin, you have a lot to learn about music.”

Originally I thought this was one of those classic “I told you so” moments, but then I looked up MC Hammer and discovered that he has continued putting out albums every couple years ever since his old “Please Hammer, don’t Hurt Em,” and continues making music today. It still remains to be seen who will be around longer.

“According to members of Nirvana interviewed for Behind the Music, when they saw the video [Smells Like Nirvana], they laughed hysterically. Additionally, Cobain described Yankovic as ‘a musical genius.’” -Wikipedia

New Sci-Fi – The Day She Started Counting

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Today I released a new story called The Day She Started Counting, an EVE Online fan-fiction piece about a little girl in the Amarrian Empire who murders a police officer in an attempt to protect her father’s illegal hobby of assisting runaway slaves. I wrote this around 2010 I think and it’s one of my favorite fiction pieces that I’ve ever written. The editor of EON magazine told me that he would find a way to put this in the magazine even though it was twice their maximum length. His only complaint was the title: I Killed Him, Daddy. I hated that title too and totally agreed that it needed to change before we could publish it. I eventually realized The Day She Started Counting was a much better title. I hope that’s not why they never got around to publishing it, but now the magazine is out of business so I’m finally just going to post it here.

This is another one of those stories that depicts criminals as heroes. It’s funny just how common that is in books, movies and TV, and even when they’re anti-heroes like Walter White, we still identify with and root for their success. I find that so strange about our society. But the moment these same kind of criminals appear in real society, we suddenly hate them and want them to suffer and refuse to admit that they may have had real human reasons for committing their crimes. I mean, how many people really wanted to see Walter White thrown in prison and his family’s future destroyed? But that’s exactly what most people wish for when those exact same people exist in our real-world society… unless… of course, that criminal in the real world is someone we know personally. Nobody ever sees their own friends and family as being criminals. We look right through their crimes and we make excuses for them in the same way we do criminal characters in fiction stories. It’s only with the people we don’t know that we can be cold-hearted and genuinely support our criminal justice system.

Now, The Day She Stared Counting is about people rescuing slaves. Sure, they’re criminals, spitting in the face of their culture and established social order, willing to murder for their beliefs, but I think most people would read this and understand where they’re coming from and tell me these characters are different because they’re trying to rescue slaves, and nobody can support slavery.

Except that most Americans do support slavery. Most of us would never stand for the American version of the characters in this story. Our criminals in penitentiaries are basically used as slave labor these days. Would anyone really support someone who went to break them out, murdering a couple of police officers along the way, even if they were only releasing the non-violent criminals? No, we would hate them just as much as the Amarrian society hates my characters regardless of what we claim we believe about slavery.

And everyone knows that child slaves are being used over seas to produce much of our clothes, toys, nearly all our cell phones and God knows what else. Sure, we all say we’re opposed to slavery and are ashamed that we used to have slaves in this country, but the moment we have to pay a little more for our electronics, we forget all about that. Imagine if some corporate big-wig at Nike or The Gap were murdered in an attempt to stop those companies from keeping slaves in their manufacturing. Only the anarchists could stand for something like that because we’re so ingrained in our society’s distorted view of right and wrong and cause and effect. We’re only capable of seeing our own lives, our own wants and desires. We know logically that other people are suffering, and we claim to care about them, but we have no real empathy, so the moment we have to suffer in any way for their cause, all of a sudden we consider them monsters.

So it’s funny how fiction writers can get away with some really outlandish messages sometimes. I once saw an episode of The Drew Carey Show… at least I think that’s what it was. It was one of the only episodes of that show I ever saw, but it was a story of how he had sex in his early teens with a teacher, but he spent much of the episode talking about how much the experience had helped him socially and had actually been a significant benefit to his life. I could not understand how he could get away with so blatantly portraying child molestation in a positive light on network television. It’s strange how if you come out and say a message like this, it would be found horribly offensive by society, but if you bury it within characters that those same people can get to know, all of a sudden it’s acceptable and they will make whatever excuses they can to still see that character as being fundamentally different from the very same people in the real-world.

I think that’s one reason I love writing fiction. You tell lies in order to get to the truth. It allows people to get out of their own perspective and see things from a new perspective. The problem is that it’s so rare for people to carry that perspective over into the real world, to recognize that Han Solo and Luke Skywalker are terrorists, and that the real-world terrorists have reasons and justifications just as the Rebel Alliance had. We need to learn to make that connection, but I think in our modern society, we are so quick to get offended by things, so quick to deem someone as a horrible monster for the things they say, that we separate the moral values of our fictional world from our real world, and build a wall between them, when in reality, the lives of people and the development of our societies of our fictional stories work just the same as our real-world ones.

These Four Walls

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In 2011, I started writing a story about a woman living in a house who is being visited by demons every night and getting raped by them. This was inspired by a friend who was (and probably still is) having to live through this. After I wrote the first couple sections here, I wound up getting a roommate and my social life kind of exploded and I just haven’t had the time to come back. Now I’ve forgotten a lot of the mood that I wanted to portray with this. I still remember the actual events I was going to write out to conclude it but I can’t quite remember how I wanted it all to feel, so I decided not to return to this story.

However, yesterday I was looking through old drafts and found this and was surprised that I really like what I’ve done with it so far, so I figured I’d post what I have and finish it off with the outline I had in mind.

This story is kind of told from the perspective of the woman’s house. You still see inside the characters heads and you still have only one POV character at a time, but all the events of the story occur in the home and I think my plan was that in the end she would have some kind of communication with the house and it would help heal her of the delusions she was so convinced were real demons.

So here it is:


After midnight the demons would make contact and promise they were about to rape her. Most nights she would fight, her soul crying out in fury, but blocked deep in sleep. She would rise and walk to the living room to stand motionless for unknown periods of time, staring at Simon’s urn above the fireplace, blocking every other part of her mind. She would pray to wake, plead for morning, but remain, seemingly for hours, in a daze, aware she was dreaming and sleepwalking, but unable to do anything about it. She would awaken exhausted, sometimes on the couch in the living room, sometimes in the den, the porch swing, and occasionally, David’s old room.

Other nights it would prove too much and Susan would give up, prepare for the pain and humiliation, then wait for it. The spirits would invade her from the back of her mind, manipulating, distracting and tricking her with her own emotions. She would lie, half asleep, quietly sobbing, pleading with them to stop, but the more pain she felt the more they would laugh, the more they would tease, until finally, she had no choice but to bring them in, to ask them to get it over with, to sink into that helpless reality and accept that God had handed her soul to the demons for their pleasure.

They would refuse, telling her she had to beg for it. She had to want it. She had to need it. She had to fall into that pit of demonic desires and forgo everything good and pure, and allow her mind to become that of a slave. The spirits promised that someday the torture would prove too much for her, and she would fall, broken and sobbing to her knees, pleading for the revolting act that would provide that final release of acceptance at becoming a simple, degraded servant to the darkness that dwells at the bottom.

She would awaken terrified, exhausted, telling herself it wasn’t real, but forever thankful that she never took that final step. She would stagger to the kitchen, hit play on her husband’s video cassette, then sit at the computer in a daze to accept her gifts and tend her crops, pushing everything from her mind to think of nothing but gaining gold and experience on her farm.

Later in the day she would think about her nightmares. She would hear David screaming at her, attacking everything she cared about, telling her she was delusional, that all these experiences come ultimately from the church, from God, and the destructive conflicts that religion brings to the minds of believers. He told her the very thing she loved the most was a lie that had caused all the pain she was now experiencing. It was all just mental processes gone wrong, damaged and distorted from years of obsessive spirituality and prayer.

Perhaps there was no point to all this, there were no demons to blame, no angels to look toward. Perhaps all this was just her own thoughts. …and the rape… just her own blocked desires, buried through years of repression and an acceptable but unsatisfying marriage, from years of playing it safe, trying to be good, avoiding carnal pleasures, and for choosing sacrifice and devotion to God instead of embracing life. The torture could all be her own doing, all based on simple science and psychological processes.

But that demon was too horrible to be true.


His father’s tortured screams echoed through his childhood home as David sat, rapping his fingers on the kitchen table. “Are you gonna play FarmVille all day, Mom?”

“I’ve just got to collect my gifts and harvest and visit some friends,” she replied absently, her eyes glued to the screen as though she needed to become one with the monitor.

“That’s gonna take you two hours. I thought we were gonna go out to eat.”

“I can make you grilled cheese and soup.”

He sighed. “No, I can make it myself. Don’t want you to lose out on any farming time.” He stood, but stopped to stare for a long moment at his father on the television in his hospital bed, his face contorted as he whimpered, burying his face in the pillow.

“Do you need anything?” Susan asked.

“Can I turn this off?”


David watched for another long moment. “I don’t like watching Dad dying. No wonder you see demons.”

“If I had a better video, I’d play that, but it never occurred to me that I’d lose him until he was lying there in the hospital. This is all I have of him.”

“Pictures,” David said.

“It’s 2011. I need more than pictures. I need to hear his voice.”

“But he’s in so much pain…”

“Yeah, but his voice still comforts me.” She glanced over her shoulder toward him. “Why do you need to criticize everything I do?”

“It’s just so… morbid. And I worry what this stuff might be doing to you.”

“Fine,” she replied. “You want to turn it off, then turn it off.”

“No,” he replied, stepping toward the refrigerator. “If you like it that much, I can deal… but…” he chuckled nervously. “Why can’t you watch Jeopardy like normal moms your age?”

“I’m not smart enough for Jeopardy.”

“Oh, don’t say that…”

“You know it’s true,” she replied. “I can be honest about it. You of all people should understand I don’t have the brain for that kind of thing. My mind is broken, like you always say.”

“I don’t say that. What I say is that we’re all imperfect products of evolution–”

“Here we go…”

“Our brains developed over millions of years of randomness, confusion, and animals bumping into each other. We’re never going to be perfect–we’re never even going to be rational–but we can find ways to deal with our minds the way they are if we have the courage to admit to ourselves how our lives really work.”

“It’s all about brains and chemistry to you.”

“We need to recognize that much before we can understand who we are and where we’re going as human beings.” He stared into the refrigerator. Nothing looked good. He wasn’t here to eat anyway.

He stood in silence for a long moment, listening to his father’s heavy, pained breathing, the background static of the video and the hum of the refrigerator.

“I like watching the video,” Susan said absently, followed by a long pause. “Maybe I can find a clue.”

“To why he was walking in the road?” David asked.

Another long pause. “Yeah.”

David slowly shut the refrigerator. “This isn’t Scooby Doo, Mom. Sometimes accidents happen. He just wasn’t thinking, wasn’t paying attention. It’s been three years. It doesn’t matter at this point.”

“I want to know.”

“I know you do.” He sat back at the table with a sigh and a scrape of the aluminum chair against the floor.

“I know you’re trying to find some way to blame it on our beliefs.”

David sighed as he stared at his mom’s back. She didn’t hate him. He knew that. She did, however, believe he might be sent from hell. Perhaps this was why she refused to look away from Farmville while in his presence. “I’m not trying to do that at all. Everyone makes mistakes, regardless of what they believe.”

“I feel like you’re always trying to pick away, to find something you can criticize about the church, like how you’re constantly blaming my nightmares on the church.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “And I stand by that one. That’s why I don’t get nightmares, because I don’t believe in the supernatural.”


“What do you think about going to see someone, like a professional?”

“I’ve talked to a lot of people about this.”

“At the church?”

“Yeah,” she replied.

“Well, I think it would be good for you to get an opinion from someone outside of the church.”

“Hmmm…” she replied.

“Did anyone ever come forward about the money?”

“The money?” she asked.

“The six hundred dollars they left on the porch?”

“No. I’m sure it was just someone from church trying to help out.”

“Yeah, probably.”


So I think so far you can see the woman has a son who is an atheist, and this is a point of contention between them. She’s addicted to FarmVille and a handful of other online games. (Retired women are now technically the largest demographic for video gaming, playing mostly facebook style casual games). She also has a video

In the next section I’m going to go back to about 2009 or so, and show the father befriending a few teenagers who are clearly trying to take advantage of him. He gives them money for something, twenty bucks here and there, telling him its for the church or something. We see that on some level he knows he’s being used, but he wants to believe so badly that these are good Christian kids and keeps giving them money, unbeknownst to his wife, who does not like them. Their lies become more and more outlandish, and each time, one part of his mind believes them and another part can clearly see they’re lies. At the same time, however, he has some very deep conversations with the kids about the meaning of life, God, the meaning of being good. I think there may have been a scene where the woman finds out he’s been giving them money and they have a fight about it, and the man talks about how important it is to give people the benefit of the doubt and have faith in the good within all humans, even if it’s hard to see sometimes.

But then one of the kids takes the religious manipulation a bit too far and tells the man that to prove your faith to God you should close your eyes and step blindly out into traffic. God will protect you, and you will prove yourself worthy… I don’t know, I had a plan on how to make all that sound plausible but can’t quite remember how I was gonna do it. The man doesn’t believe them and realizes they’re just messing with him, especially because the other kids are suddenly saying the guy is crazy… but over the next couple days, the man can’t get the words out of his head and in a moment of passionate prayer, the man decides to go for it, closing his eyes and stepping out into traffic in front of their house. Since the story is told from the house, all we hear is the screeching of the tires and a woman screaming for someone to call 911.

When the woman hears her husband is in the hospital and probably won’t make it, she realizes she has nothing to remember him by, pulls the old VHS camcorder out of the closet, not stopping to think her cell phone could probably get a better picture, and sets it up to record him, but he’s in so much pain that she never gets to hear his real voice. Of course, we don’t actually see the hospital room, and only the things that happen in the home. She watches the video over and over, thinking that it’s close enough to the real him, and in a weird way the video comforts her, at least on the surface, but in reality she’s watching him die over and over, which doesn’t help with the nightmares.

I think in the end she gives up and lets the demons overtake her instead of fighting them, and at the same time, allows herself to embrace her son’s perspective, which she views as a demon as well, but finds that the demons don’t feel nearly as demonic as she thought. I think her son’s perspective inspires her to think the house is the problem, like it’s haunted and she just needs to get out, which isn’t really the case, but at least she’s thinking in some kind of real-world cause and effect way, so she sort of merges her religion with her son’s perspective and it leaves it implying that she’s on the way to exorcising these demons. There was supposed to be something about the house itself subtly helping her along with this idea, but I can’t remember how I was going to do that.

There was also supposed to be a scene in the son’s childhood but I completely forgot what that was about. Also, shortly after the dad’s death, the kid who told him to do it, comes back and leaves the money on the porch.

I dunno… it woulda been cool if I’d finished it but the outline doesn’t do justice to the vision I had :)

Adding a New Story Called The Atrocity Planners

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I just posted another science fiction story that I wrote a few years ago, called The Atrocity Planners. This is an EVE Online fan fiction piece. I got this published in EON Magazine, issue #22, back in 2011. I call this my first publishing experience since I don’t count those two fetish porn shorts that I still don’t talk about outside of Fetlife. I decided to publish it here finally, figuring they’ve had their proprietary hands on it long enough. They didn’t pay me anything and I didn’t sign anything promising not to publish elsewhere and the magazine has gone out of business anyway, after issue #30, so they shouldn’t be mad at me :)

It surprised me that they were willing to publish it considering the message of the story, where I generalize that police are atrocity planners and portray them as the bad guys. It surprised me that some people who support and believe in criminal justice also enjoyed the story. It’s like normal people separate their real-world morality from their story-time morality, allowing them to see terrorists like Luke Skywalker and criminals like Han Solo as heroes, when if they actually lived in that universe, they would hate them the same way we hate Al-Qaeda. In the same way in this story, we see the terrorists or pirates (I never totally explain which they are) as human beings, and we care about their family and want their children to get away and maybe even kill a couple cops along the way. It’s like most people enter a different world when they read this kind of fiction, one where morality works totally differently.

A couple of the folks at the No Safeword Writers Group helped edit this for me in one of their sessions and I’m not sure if I would have gotten it published without them. One of them even suggested the title, which now is one of my favorite aspects to the story, the title and its meaning.

Because police are our atrocity planners. Criminals don’t really plan atrocities, at least not nearly as often. Most violent criminals do not plan their crimes, and even if they do, only a few of them are doing so out of a deliberate desire to cause someone to suffer. At worst, criminals commit crimes to punish someone, the same way the police do. This is different with police. Their whole job is to make people suffer. That’s their purpose for being. We call it a deterrent, and it’s not going to work as a deterrent when a criminal is overflowing with emotion or looking at a potentially huge profit from committing a crime, unless it’s a truly horrible thing the law is doing to them. That’s how it works. Society wants criminals to suffer. We say it’s to keep them from committing again, when in reality it’s because we enjoy knowing they are suffering. The police make all this possible as they sit around planning their raids, taking only a moment to justify it by listing off a few crimes, rarely caring about who they are or their motivations, then they plan their attack to break down the door of someone’s home, then haul them off to prison where their sole intention is to make them suffer and to destroy their lives.

You can argue that planning the atrocities is necessary. You can argue that there’s no other options because some criminals are just so awful. The government must take control and commit horrible things in a controlled manner to keep the majority safe. But in a literal, real world manner, you can’t tell me police are not atrocity planners, and yet when we meet police or talk about police, we always forget this simple fact and insist on viewing them as heroes of wondrous virtue… until, of course, they come breaking down our doors, or the doors of our family, and we meet, face-to-face, the fact that they are, every day, in a planned and systematic fashion, going out and providing people with some of the most psychologically damaging events of their lives.

Sequel Outlines for Against A Rock

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Back in 2009 I was all excited about my new novel, Against A Rock and wrote out a very detailed outline of my plans for a couple sequels, though I finally decided against actually sitting down to write them, particularly because Against A Rock was fan fiction for a video game called EVE Online, and I felt that it would lose some of its magic if I converted it to avoid copyright infringement the way 50 Shades of Grey was done.

I also want to write stuff that’s not quite so violent… but maybe that’s not such a good idea… maybe I was meant to be a writer of violent, torturous stories… no, I like experimenting with writing, doing different things and try something new with every story I write… or at least, that’s what I want.

But I do really like some of the scenes in this outline, though most of those instances are kind of twisted and sadistic, like the scene where the child is about to be executed and Mahran tells him what’s going on instead of protecting his feelings, the scene where Viotro’s favorite slave, whom he adores, betrays them and he’s forced to kill someone he genuinely cares about, with a hatchet to the cranium, or where the abolitionists are tricked into swallowing explosives by the slaves they had just rescued.

When I started writing Against A Rock I decided to do what I could to get into the head of a truly sadistic and selfish person, in this case, Floreina, our main character. What I found was that I really got in touch with the sadistic aspects of myself, aspects that I’d kind of been repressing for many years. I think that’s something that most of us repress and we pretend like we don’t really enjoy the thoughts of other humans suffering… but we do… I think all humans have the capacity to, and at some points in their lives, take pleasure in the suffering of others. We hide it, we deny it, we pretend we’re doing it for altruistic reasons, but in the end, we all have sadistic tendencies. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t have some kind of human suffering in virtually every hollywood movie.

But the real problems with sadistic people, is when we give them guns, badges, and start calling them heroes. The problem is because we are lying to ourselves until we believe that the satisfaction we feel when a criminal is punished is out of a love of justice, when in reality, it comes from this deeply repressed love of human suffering.

So I think there are some healthy outlets for our sadism, such as these violent stories I write, horror movies, and my favorite new outlet, BDSM. I started topping (toppping is the term for when you’re the one swinging the whip) merely because that’s what people wanted, but I quickly found that once I get into the sadistic perspective, I need to be careful. The first time I made someone cry from hitting her, it was an amazing experience that I wasn’t expecting, and it never would have happened if they hadn’t asked me to do it, as topping was not something that comes naturally for me. The truth is, nobody knows what a sadistic person they really are until they start to explore it and try to understand it in a relatively non-judgemental context.

If we don’t stop to recognize what sadistic and awful people we all are, we will never be able to address the fundamental problems in our society. We need to explore these things, put ourselves in the minds of soldiers blindly killing the enemy without concern for their families, to recognize and imagine the overwhelming sexual urges that drive a serial killer, and recognize how easily we could convince ourselves it wasn’t so bad. We need to try to feel ourselves, that trapped desperation, frustration and lack of self-worth that drives men to beat their wives, and we need to stop and imagine what it would really feel like to be a police officer, with a license to kill, looking out at all the civilians, never knowing which one is a criminal so you learn to hate them all, recognizing that the punishments you inflict are never enough so you keep upping the ante.

We need to get in the heads of people who do sadistic things, to understand them.

It’s not just the people in prisons who are capable of great cruelty. That capacity is a part of all of us, and it’s time we recognize it.

Three New True Stories About Sex and Women

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So today I added three new stories that I’ve been hanging on to for a few years now. These are all true stories and I’ve been nervous to post them for reasons I’m not totally sure about but I’ve decided I need to just do it and move on because they’re real things that happened to me and if I don’t post them I will just forever feel like they’re stories that need to be told, though I’m not too sure what I’m trying to say with them.

I want to experiment with not editing so much. I’ve been really bad about posting here because I always feel like I need multiple hours and my life is so busy and awesome these days that I just never get that amount of time unless I shedule time and stick to it so I’m thinking about trying something where I just write and write and write and don’t look back. I want to try not editing so much and worrying about whether or not I’ve already said something and whatnot. This will mostly apply to my blog posts and I’ll take a lot more care in my stories, though these three are an exception and I will try just not really looking over them and just posting them as-is. I think my perpectives on these subjects have probably changed too much since I wrote them anyway.

Anyway… these three stories I’m not going to edit. They’re years old, talking about events even more years before they were written. So… I guess… they’re not really PC, you know… it’s hard for me to tell… they may offend some people but maybe… I don’t know… they’re just stories that actually happened to me… at least to the best of my memory.

Warning: sexual and potentially offensive content in all three of them.

Anyway, enough babbling. I’ll start with The Condom, which is a story about this time a girl tried to trick me into getting her pregnant because she thought that would convince her parents to buy her a car. What am I trying to say with this story… I don’t know… most people see crazy stuff like this and they just want to run away from it and say “well, that person is just crazy” but I like to explore that kind of thing… maybe avoid getting involved, but at least try to think about this kind of thing and what it means.

I think it might take some time for me to get used to this free write thing and not going back to edit anything… it’s weird to just babble on the keyboard like this but admittedly it’s going a whole lot faster than my normal blog posts. If I got used to this I might even be able to do this on the bus on my phone.

Anyway, the next story is called Rape Me, about a girlfriend I had who… well, you know how those “ignorant and women-hating conservatives” say that women invite rape, well these kinds of stories may be what they are referring to and I think that’s why I have held off so long in telling this story, other than the fact that I’d prefer it if people didn’t try to figure out who this person is in the story (I usually use fake names in my true stories). Anyway, since I wrote this I actually experienced a situation where someone tried to rape me and I had to fight him off… it went down just like it does in the after-school-special except we were two dudes and I was able to fight him off and/or convince him to quit and in the end it was not that big a deal, which has really made me rethink the way I look at rape. As horrible and evil as this sounds, they are human beings. I’m gonna stop now before I really start offending people.

The third story is called Drunk and Horny College Chicks, about a night I got pretty drunk and met a couple hot college girls, one of whom had just graduated from some bio-engineering degree. I’m not really sure what I’m getting at with this story. It’s kind of pointless I guess, though it does illustrate the kind of sexual and personal freedom that I advocate. Most people would probably look down on these women, but I thought they were awesome and this night still sticks with me as an example of people just having fun and enjoying life.

Okay, so I’m going to end this rambling blog post soon but I will say that I have more stories and writings sitting in my backlog, though I think this may be last of the true stories that I have sitting in reserve, though I do have a whole bunch of true stories that I still need to write… perhaps the most important ones are the ones that I haven’t written yet.

Okay, I’m going to call this blog post, my first attempt at just rambling without thinking, it’s done now.

Musical Bigotry

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Yesterday I posted a couple new pages, a short anarchist article about how we should appreciate what criminals  have done for us, at least here in America. It’s so strange to me how criminals are so frequently the heroes of our movies and stories, and in our history books, but when normal people see others with actual criminal behavior, we automatically forget all that and decide that all criminals are evil.

The other page I posted is a short story I wrote maybe a year ago called Canned Air, Hannah Montana and the Purpose of Life, about a foul-mouthed fourth grader and his inhalant addicted mom as they avoid a funeral to go see a Hannah Montana Cover band. This was kind of an experimental story, my first attempt at comedy, though people tell me it’s not that funny :)

It’s definitely not my favorite creation, but beyond the failure at comedy, I think it does have a few interesting points to make about parenting, about finding your way in life, doing what you feel is right instead of what you’re told and just being yourself. Also some stuff about war and how humans get along in society.

The story is full of Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana quotes, though I figure the kinds of people reading this aren’t going to be familiar with those lines, so they are probably going to be lost. And the last line is even a song reference that I worry no one will get.

But behind all the different things going on in this story, one of the reasons I wrote this one instead of one of my numerous other story ideas was because I wanted to come out of the closet as someone who enjoys Miley Cyrus. I’m sorry, but she just has some really fun, catchy songs that I find enjoyable to listen to. As you may guess, this is more difficult to be open about than being a bisexual kinkster or an atheist. I still feel very hated by society because of my anarchism, because I don’t see police or soldiers as heroes, but as far as the normal things that people supposedly hate and discriminate over, the things that liberals want people to be legally protected for, have never been an issue for me.

Nobody has ever seemed judgmental because of my abnormal sexuality, and while it is offensive when Christians talk about how I’m going to burn in hell, I’ve always gotten the impression their ultimate goal was to save me, and I’ve never felt any genuine discrimination for my atheism. I once worked in a company where I was the only person who was not a church-going Christian and I never felt unwelcome. I was very overweight most of my childhood, and while I did get picked on quite frequently as a kid, I can’t recall a single instance of the fat shaming that everyone seems so concerned about these days.

But for some reason, people tend to get real nasty about the music others listen to. If you look up Miley Cyrus videos on YouTube you’ll find a notable number of commenters saying really nasty things that would get them instantly banned if they were based on race or sexuality. Because it’s relating to music, for some reason it’s not seen as an issue, it’s not seen as real hate. You might say this is because there’s no history of violence from musical tastes, but most homophobic people have no more violent intentions as the musical snobs do when they say they want to kill Justin Bieber.

It just seems strange to me that I know so many liberals who talk about equality and get all bent out of shape whenever a conservative says something insensitive, and whine about how they feel judged because of their sexuality or beliefs, then they turn around and tell you there’s something wrong with you because you don’t like the same music they do.

If we want to claim to be open-minded and accepting, we need to be open and accepting on all levels, not just the legally-mandated ones.

Anyway… I think that’s kind of what I was trying to say with this story.