Not a good one.

I now have a camera. I'll take some shots tomorrow and fiddle around with it. I plan on taking a trip back to my ANCESTRAL HOMELAND (Ojai) and scoping out all the places I used to go when I was younger. Old homes, old schools, and what have you. I have not been there in years, not even in passing. Its a fairly secluded place, all things considered. Its plenty populated and has money invested, but if you need anything beyond touristy shit and groceries, you drive out to Ventura (About 45 minutes, if I'm remembering right). The aforementioned money likes to keep out the majority of big businesses, the only large chain store out there I can remember being a Vons grocery. Great place to raise a kid, in retrospect.

I remember oak trees, mostly. Oak trees and hilariously hot days with equally miserable nights, leading up to constantly freezing mornings. I'm not sure how that works, but it keeps you on your toes (or in a constant state of misery). Waking up covered in sweat is not a terribly enjoyable experience. Nightly. I also recall the trolley system, ferrying my ass all over the place for the cost of a quarter (or fifty cents, not sure) because, even as a high school freshman, I had manifested snobbery about taking the school bus home. I blame my Mother (This will be on my tombstone, if only for sheer amusement factor).

I also remember all the excursions into the surrounding nature. Lots of mountains, woods, and creaks. Spent many days lurking around shallow riverbeds, packed with sun bleached rocks, learning new ways to catch the local wildlife. I've caught absurd amounts of lizards, frogs, toads, snakes, bugs, and whatever else that didn't immediately bite/sting me or elude the relatively malicious curiosity of youth.

One fond memory is some time after my Mother and I scooped up a batch of local frog eggs (We had done this a few times, I believe), allowing them to grow into little frogs in a large glass tank (with proper decor for their new interest in land life). I had gone out with my Father and Uncle one day, catching two garter snakes and bringing them home. Digging out a wildlife book, I was curious to find out what these things ate. They seemed far too small to be eating mice, so I was confused.

They apparently ate tad poles. "Small frogs would work, right?" Excellent way to learn the cycle of life and that the "cooler" animals were allowed to feed on the "less cool" animals. This is the cycle of life, right here. Not to say amphibians are not cool (I love them to bits), but at the time I had little experience with snakes, so sacrifices had to be made to sate my previously mentioned "relatively malicious curiosity."

Probably says something about my development from then to now that I get twinges of guilt about feeding those little frogs to the snakes, when I could have just as easily left the snakes in the wild to merrily care for themselves and the frogs could have been fed by me (and eventually released where I first got them, massively destabilizing the local ecosystem!)

Releasing pets reminds me of something that my Mother has done a few times, under differing circumstances and reasoning. My Father had been intrigued by a new creature at the local pet store (Run by a little old asian lady). She had just recently gained a batch of twenty or so baby savannah monitor lizards, selling each for... 36 dollars, if I remember right. We bought one and brought it home, much to my Mothers chagrin (and eventual horror).

This... thing, was a fantasy creature for a young boy. Not only did it eat small critters, but it did so in the most violent way possible. It would snatch the mouse with its jaws (Packed with hooked teeth that extend when biting, making sure prey does not squirm away) and then beat the ever living crap out of it against stone, glass, and fake grass floor. Like it was trying to appease some greater power through its sheer brutality. Showing Caesar that it was worthy entertainment. Once the mouse was disoriented, beaten, and bits of its fur and blood strewn about, it would be consumed.

Magical.

This went on until the lizard got to be about a foot long. It did not cease to be cool and seemed to be doing rather well, despite the fact that holding it involved thick leather gardening gloves and enough sense not to let it near any form of uncovered flesh. I was already imagining us having to set up a large cage outside to contain it, upgrading its feed to small rabbits or hens. These are the dreams of a boy before they are supplanted with eroticism through puberty.

My Mother had enough. Too many little creatures lives had been lost in her home. Not having the nads to outright murder the thing, she decided to set the beast free. To let it grow endlessly in the local mountains and feed on hippies trekking out to their secret marijuana gardens.

Honestly, I think it died overnight. Frozen. Or eaten by a hawk. Or bobcat. Or anything hungry and bigger than it, period.

Still magical. Reminds me of the time when we were moving out of one home, one of our iguanas escaped. It was found by, I believe, someone attempting to sell the house. Dead and bloated, hanging up in the skeletal branches of a winter tree. I want to believe that impacted the property value in some miniscule way, or drove off a possible buyer.

I'm trying to remember why we had iguanas. They reminded me of ornery cats that noisily secreted some monstrous mixture of feces and urine while not being very cuddly. To be fair, when they weren't "in a mood" they were decent lap props. I think my Mother had more affection for them than could be considered  normal, attributing them too closely to cats and thus budding some sort of spirit animal bond.


Thinking. I want to write, I want to put down information. I want to remain free form. I don't want to get caught in attempting to "complete" a thought. I stared at the previous paragraph, thinking about that topic, for longer than I am realizing was necessary. I ran out of juice, so move on, right?

Oh, actually, another thing I remember was creak fishing all over. For a time, the waters were populated with farm raised trout with the intent of being caught. I was all over the place with my Dad and Uncle. Doritos, beer, soda, and jerky being the only thing sustaining any of us. I recall many great swimming holes, some with very clear (and freezing) water. I remember occasions where they would point out "native" trout and how you could tell (Usually smaller, with more vibrant colors). Illegal to catch those, I think. We never cast water with natives in them.

Was also taken out to go "shooting." Gotta give some justification to owning weaponry by shooting bottles and other assorted crap left behind by the previous people that had the same idea. Good memories.

A lot of memories from them. Too many to jam into one post. Hopefully I'll reach those, at other times.

I am currently listening to this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liYcrNTGaaE

I want to experience one of my favorite groups in person, someday. The energy is... concentrated, that I can feel it oozing out of the sounds. Something about the people cheering and roaring only adds to the music, simply syncing with the music and amplifying the intensity. You even have a guy trying to cause the audience to surge. Bottle that shit, someone.

Another example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKRx6V7bqQI

A potential for a form of transcendence, I believe. Something to be experienced. Give your imagination enough juice and it will start churning out the best it can. That's the good stuff. The fresh stuff. Primal elements shattered off the mind, ready to be set into your best visions.

The music has a certain... electricity to it. Scintillating energy. Music all has a sort of energy to it, something that you can imagine. The flow, I suppose. How it makes you feel, combined with how it makes you want to move, meshed with what it makes you imagine.

Hum. In spite of this I feel funked out. Likely just tired. I don't... feel right. Feel like I'm not being a good enough friend to people I know. A good enough person. Like, occasions where I will think of something elaborate and contextually sound, but usually lose the vigor due to work or other factors. Feel like I could say more, do more, or something more. Wish I had no responsibilities, sometimes, just so I could dedicate some time on being better for the people in my life. Weird thing to say, honestly, since I don't consider myself drawn to selflessness as a motivation for happiness.

I don't have much to give, except myself. I hope that is enough, for now, because I'm not sure if I'm becoming a better friend/family member or not.

Ohhhoohoo, how delightfully morose of me. Simply delicious.

I have no doubt in success. I just hope people will be around when that comes about. :V

Do people that get donations even want donated socks? Who the hell wants these things, except pet rats I've owned? Am I committing some form of donation faux pas by heaving in a huge bag of used socks? Will I live under some cloud of guilt when I think of the people that have to sort through these bags, finding my blob of socks and projecting astral hate towards my soul? Will I know when that happens?

Long after I successfully donated a load of my old clothes, I realized I had a horrible hodgepodge of socks left behind. These things have existed for so long that any semblance of having recognizable pairs is not even remotely a feature. How the hell do I organize this?

I first decided that picking through each sock to find pairs would be ideal, but it soon became clear that keeping any of these would lower of personal value too much to be worth it. Thrifty thoughts be damned, I started hucking anything that looked "scrappy" into a heap, leaving behind the fresher pairs. This was a bit more difficult than you would think, since this sockblob is essentially a rubber band ball of socks. New socks, old socks, older socks, socks I'm sure are someone elses, and socks I don't think are exactly gender neutral (How the hell did a frilly sock get in here? Did my mass of "male" socks kidnap her?)

I suppose this can lead into the fact my cologne order came in. My ongoing war against the smell of ass, you see:

1x Eau Sauvage Fraîcheur Cuir (2.5ml)
1x Homme de Gres (2.5ml)
1x ST Dupont Noir (2.5ml)
1x ST Dupont Passenger (2.5ml)
1x Very Valentino pour Homme (2.5ml)
1x Gucci Envy (2.5ml)

The STs I already tried. Clean.

I purchased a big mixture of scents as a sampler of sorts from a private collection, giving me an idea of what I like and what doesn't smell horrible on me. The STs stood out on top. Though, wanting to expand horizons, I picked a few more to try. Just from an open lid they all smell fantastic, but I've noticed some scents change after they leave the bottle. Either due to their own nature or how they react with my skin, I'd assume.

Today is also the day my almost three days of migraine went away completely. It was like having a heart in my brain, creating a massive amount of pressure with its sheer mass and only causing me debilitating pain when it decides to beat.

Rapture

I feel like writing.

When I have these urges, it is in my best interest to grab them and see where it leads me (Unintentional innuendo count: 1). My greatest weakness as a creative mind is drawing on motivation and time to help me create with more regularity than a polar shift. I've tried a variety of methods, the desire to "try a method" comes and goes like the tides with enough occurrences to create a "variety." For awhile, more so when I was younger, I thought the only way to really create something amazing was through a big bang of inspiration. The people that created incredible things simply had it manifest in their imagination with such vividness it simply burns in the blueprints of its own creation. Now, knowing a little better, I call the pursuit "forcing a revelation." Engineering those glassy eyed moments in stories that obliterate all mental obstacles through sheer comprehension, galvanizing our protagonist to reach a new level of personal existence.

Out of all the methods I've tried, music has been something of a beacon of hope for me. I can always return to my musical collection to find dozens of scenes, images, emotions, worlds, and all inbetween concepts infused in the beats. Instead of many others, keeping myriads of notebooks, I have the files cluttered in my own head. Music is connected with these "files," able to dredge them up from wherever they are stuffed at the time. I have on many occasions gone back through my musical collection, digging for some inspiration, and coming out of it with a scene or image I had forgotten. Like the charmer luring the snake out of the basket, in a way. Other times, I may come upon a song that I had nothing to attribute to in the past, but now have something to apply to it.

For the record, I listen predominately to electronic. My tastes are eclectic, starting from there. I enjoy music that fits with scenes. Music that leaves a bit of bend to what it can mean or how it can apply. These scenes do not always manifest immediately upon hearing the music. For the most part, I enjoy the music to such a degree I try to create something that fits with it. The pacing of the music as pronounced in an in motion sequence.

For example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDqrB6vg_tI

When I first heard this song, I was too busy enjoying it for its raw sounds than to apply anything to it. But the more I listened to it, the more I wanted it apart of something. Like a director pulling out all his favorites songs and rapidly going over his scripts, trying to find where the beats best fit. Changing scenes to match with them, in some cases.

Pardons, I find my vocabulary is limited in describing how a song makes me feel. It has... texture. Its in the beat, obviously, but there are so many little details blended into the overarching theme that it makes it difficult to pinpoint exactly why and where something makes me see a certain whatever. Yes, that was perfectly eloquent.

Anyway, the song has a time line. It builds, it changes in tempo and power as it progresses. It can easily be fit to a scene. To movement. You only need apply a context that fits properly with the character of the song. A scene that is potent. There is nothing worse than scenes that are overtaken by the music. You require subtext for the scene to have that much "oomph," which means you require a past. The song feels like an end. Not a climax, per se, but the ride on the blastwave of one. The song feels happy, too. Upbeat.

Now, after listening to the song here and there over the weeks and turning over visions in my head, I might be pretty established in what I want this song to represent. What it is "bound" to. Now, whenever I listen to this song in particular, that scene will start to play in my head. Some qualities stay consistent, while others shift with each new play. The ones I like, stay, the ones that don't strike me, generally fade away. Dozens of songs are records in this sense, holding visions that I chip away at.

I have tried to actually transcribe these scenes into text, but has proven to be... difficult. This is either due to an inherent flaw through the translation or I need to keep picking at it. The last attempt I made at this transcription seemed to come along well enough, using direct timestamps to describe what I was imagining visually. The problem began when I started to reach parts that were muddy in my head, which told me to wait on finishing it until I could create further mental revisions. Whatever the case, here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTw2YvutJRA

And my attempt:

This track struck me as an action sequence. It has the right tempo and enough variation to create a fluid progression in a physical scene. It has the flavor of sound that fits with my most enjoyed world.

Scene awakens (black to full image) to a ground view of a train graveyard with tracks holding derelict metal monsters. The machines might have been a proper colorat one point, instead falling to a disused mixture of speckled black and rust similar to the wind tickled weeds poking up from the gravel. Our focus character drops a black, buckled boot down the center of the image, walking at a brisk pace. Scene blinks when focus character is up to hip exposed. Scene blinks to hide between train engines, showing only between the focus characters waist and chin as he passes through the shot. The shot lingers to sound off a metal groan coming from “around” the camera before blinking again.

0:00-0:22 Blink brings shot to show the back of the focus characters head as it bobs downwards off the shot, revealing what this railway leads towards. A large, seemingly busy depot out in the distance planted in the center of an alpine region. The depot is a simple, expansive building, looking more like a large gray square squished down into the earth with a series of angular openings sprouting cranes and communication towers. Scene fades

0:22-0:49 Scene awakens. View is pulling back slowly, showing a large square entrance into the depot. Cranes and workers are busy in the foreground. Focus character blocks out the scene briefly as he walks through the lens, moving into the depot along the center railway. Scene blinks to show everything above his thighs. His face is impassive, his skull buzzed down to bristles. Someone shouts and the focus character regards something off camera. Scene blinks to behind the shoulder of a generic fatigued guard standing at the lip of the concrete above the railway. He is aiming a rugged, blunt nosed rifle readied at the focus character. Another guard appears on the other side of the railway, a similar weapon drawn. They shout again. The character looks between the guards and the scene blinks to the front of the character, holding out his arms in mock proof he is unarmed. His eyes are amused, like a child with a secret.

0:49-1:19 The scene blinks to show the guard looking up at the same moment a massive metal object plows through the upper wall of the depot. Time stops, blurred by the sudden, violent action. Time unfreezes and the scene blinks to show the full length of a rusted engine hammer the guard into nothing. Time is slow, showing off every detail of shattering concrete flying in all directions and the distorted groan of stressed metal. The engine tilts forward, deciding between toppling over or falling backwards into the wall it came through. The scene blinks to the other guard, staring over his lowering rifle butt in startled awe. Another burst of howling metal and shattering wall blot out the scene as the guard is flattened under the nose of another sieging train (0:59). The scene blinks to show the focus character standing between the uneasy monoliths, his arms still outstretched in the same position. The scene blinks briefly to show his expression again, unchanged, before blinking back to the previous scene. Time has ceased to slow, the trains creak and groan groggily. The scene blinks to view the side of the focus character, maintaining the left side train as the focus of the shot and following the train as the character drops his arms to the side and shoves them forward, immediately causing distanced onlookers to scatter in panic.

1:19-1:33 The scene blinks to a bird’s eye view of the cacophony. Figures in olive are running in all directions, evading the rolling engines and rocketing debris. The scene blinks to a klaxon, vibrating from its alarm.

(At this point I am becoming tired, so I will try and do what more I can. The scene angles will likely not be as precise or missing entirely. I will try and correct this later.)

1:33-1:50 The scene blinks back to the figure, arms still outstretched as return fire buzzes and skirts around his frame, some clearing veering off course. The scene blinks to the focus characters eyes as he surveys the chaos. The scene blinks to show what he is seeing: hunkered down guards attempting to use cover to get closer. The scene blinks back to face the focus character, panning to show a guard drifting from out behind a crate and making a full leap at the focus character, a combat knife in hand.  A grating groan of twisted metal dampens all other sound and the guard is swiftly decapitated by an uprooted rail segment.

1:50-2:13 The next scene blinks rapidly as more rail segments are torn free, rotating and spinning around the focus character. The weapons fire has become less chaotic and sporadic, slipping into a constant blizzard of rounds. The focus character launches a segment at a guard too far out of cover, crushing its ribcage against the adjacent engine. Another bar whips free and hammers a guards head down into his torso. The forms of brutality continue, all swift and final. The scene shifts quickly to imply the renewed chaos. Gun fire, metal against metal, the crunch of bone and meat shifting violently, guards yelling.

2:13-2:42 The immediate threats are gone, the scene flashing over the pictures of carnage before settling on our wide eyed focus character. His face locked in concentration, his lips barely holding back the betrayal of a smile. The segments, now smeared in blood and fragments of meat, return to swiveling around the focus character whom increases his pace down the main railway. The weapons fire continues, but in far more discouraged bursts. Figures come and go between cover, shadowed in the foreground.

This is where I run into a snag. I’m not sure where I want this to go or how I want it to end. I believe the solution is to create context and subtext for the situation, giving it meaning. I would need to define the character and what is going on, then. Which means I need to define the other parties involved here. As well as the world they are on.

Bahg.

Assignment

I took a "intimacy, commitment, and relationship studies" course last semester. It was interesting and reiterated a lot of things I've known blah blah gave names to some concepts yadda yadda it was worth the time. Anyway, we had weekly writing assignments that generally had us writing reaction papers to certain material we would read/watch, using concepts we have learned.

Among the assignments was this (Not verbatim), "Find a form of media that best shows your view of love and explain why, along with naming the form of love it is and what you believe is the 'best.'" This was not a difficult assignment.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-uq3jDNODE

I remember picking this song up a long, long time ago. It has always stuck with me as a very transcendent form of love. Note the lyrics:
As the morning sun
Seeps in through a crack in the blinds
We open up our eyes
Let's get off this queen-sized bed
Where far too many tears have been shed
And dreams were left for dead
It's such a glorious day
So come what may
You and I are off to see the world

We'll put on our best clothes
Bring only what we need
Douse the walls with kerosene
Drop a match from the mezzanine

So get into the car
We'll watch it from afar
As the flames kiss the sky
There's only you and I
Let it burn to the ground
'Cause we're not hanging 'round
It's the day you and I are leaving town

Let it burn
Let it burn
'Cause today you and I are leaving town

You and I are leaving town
It's the day we're leaving town
It's the day we're leaving it all behind
It's the day we're leaving town
It's the day we're leaving it all behind
You and I

The song describes two people that have been committed to each other for a very long time, slogging through a lot of pain and despair. Through that, they have grown a powerful bond that allows their love to transcend possessions. They set their home aflame, with only their best clothes spared, to rediscover their lives somewhere else. Together.

Now you might say this is fatuous love, because there is no clear act of intimacy, but I argue that the obliteration of one’s past life (in the form of their home and possessions) is an extremely intimate act, especially when the song places "dead dreams" and "tears shed" with the bed specifically. To relinquish ones pain is just as intimate, if not more, than sharing a moment of more atypical intimacy. Doing it together just adds another layer.

Commitment, passion, and intimacy are all present, in my eyes, thus making this a form of consummate love. I find, especially today, a lot of media lean towards the conflicted, chaotic relationships. Makes for good entertainment, obviously (Though this has the outcome of most media enthusiasts to assume those are how relationships should be, but I digress), but even still, recent depictions of consummate love are very bland, almost unnoted, due to the lack of interesting conflict, which is why I find this song so very endearing.

The greatest form of "love" I find is the kind shared amongst comrades in arms. It lacks the "romance," but it is such a powerful commitment and connection between people that is can drive soldiers to great heights of heroism and self-sacrifice, something that is not always present in a relationship with a fairly potent relationship triangle. That said, I think it can be attributed to the love shown in this song, as it is two people in it together, through thick and thin, able to make great sacrifice for each other.

Love is everything and nothing. It can be found right in front of you or be impossible to grasp. Love is meaning, as is the absence of it. Love is good, love is evil, and none exist without man to find it. Love is eating a meal your Grandma is convinced is your favorite and you don't have the heart to tell her otherwise. Love is putting your sick pet down. Love is obsessively watching facebook updates on someone you like. Love is slashing the tires of the guy you think is trying to steal your girlfriend. Love is remembering what his favorite movie is and buying a little related knick knack you saw by chance at a grocery store. Love is both spectrums and everything in between. Perspective defines it.

Chat

Sometimes my chats with internet people yield more entertaining writings than anything I can mold together with the great forge of my imagination.




Me:

Okay
You know
you really need to go shopping
when you realize you forgot to eat dinner
and you go to scrounge
and the only thing you find
is a can of rosarita traditional refried beans
AND
and
you are too hungry and lazy to put it into a bowl to warm
so you just road warrior eat it out of the can with a fork.

Internet Friend:

Tell me you.... hhahahahahahahaha

Me:

This is some
surreal shit, right here
It was like
I had this moment
Where I am staring at the lidless can
and I think "Do I even need to heat this?"
Stick fork in, taste
"Hmm... nah."

Internet Friend:

Hahahahahahaha jesus

Me:

Internet Friend am I white trash now?

I work retail. Yes, a surprising and exotic career for a young white male in these times of endless opportunity. Look, I'm not one of those guys that is snarky about their obviously mediocre job and takes every social interaction as an opportunity to inject wit about said mediocre job. I like my job, for what it is, and I can say with absolute certainty it has made me a better person for a variety of factors I won't detail at this moment. But, like with any job, especially one involving "The Public," there are times when many stressing factors can compound into a mental bludgeoning instrument that actively keeps your opinion of humanity (The mole) under the miasma of contempt (The whack-o-mole machine).

These events are rather rare on a day to day basis. Specifically, it is uncommon for me to have to happily contend with an elderly woman whose sheer essence of personality can only be attributed to something cancerous. Similarly, it is rare to have to explain something as simple as a sale program to a woman multiple times only to have her give up on understanding and not purchase anything (Leaving convinced I am an idiot optional). On the same principle, it is an understandably rare to have someone projecting raw contempt on my bubbly demeanor for something as mundane as fifty cents.

These people are separated through the blessings of time, geography, and convenience. This prevents them from congealing on my emotional stability as they pass one after the other, like some diabolic human filth funnel plugged straight into my psyche. But there are events that draw all these creatures into one location en masse.

The most common of these events is, of course, eight hour sales! These events are shoehorned into the schedules before "holidays." Honestly, we have crammed these sales into completely holiday voided weeks simply to prevent a dip in sales. Besides the point! Look, these events act like a customer service nightmare singularity, drawing in every form of stress into one focal point and bypassing the benefits that time, geography, and convenience grant. Every form of bottom feeder, parasite, social maladjustant, and all around low quality people is drawn into this great yawning portal with the siren song of cheap sugar water and beer.

Anything standing in the way of these people, even their own ignorance, will be met with a skewed range of emotions. Where as, on normal days, most people are fairly understanding when there is confusion on how sales work, these events shift the personality of the general population to reacting with disdain and spittle when a sale does not work in the way they desire. How fun for you, Mr. Register Operator.

An example of a popular sale approach is the "buy ten to get the sale price" angle. On the ad, there is a variety of items listed to be a part of the "mix and match deal." When a person purchases a mixture of these blatantly marked items up to ten, they get the sale price (usually in the form of five dollars off their order). Simple, right? No, not simple. How dare you. Consider the following: attempting to purchase less then ten items for sale price, attempting to purchase items in not an increment of ten for sale price (11-19), and attempting to purchase similar products as those on the sale as replacements. Now apply a disagreement and explanation as to why the prior cannot work. Now react to this explanation with contempt, confusion, and/or a request to speak with someone wearing a tie. Finally, repeat this process multiple times in a chaotic environment where the amount of help can be as reliable as a cat and apart of a day long shift.

The amount of patience and humility this industry can instill in someone is quite impressive. This industry can also force a very jaded opinion about the "common man" on you.

Luckily, for me, I have a fairly lengthy drive from work to home. This gives me time to relax and "de-tox." I'm surprised I have enough steam to write what I have so far. But I'll quickly run down the people I've had to deal with today:

I had to explain to an incredulous woman for such a length they simply shut down my register until she understood how the sales work. She left speaking very ill of our establishment and how we are using subterfuge to take advantage of her (This is not verbatim).

I had dozens of people attempt to circumvent the limits we placed on items. This usually involved using other members of the family (from very young children with a handful of money to spouses) to attempting to argue that "nobody is going to buy it all anyway, just let me have more." Some simply kept coming back and trying to go down different registers to purchase more. For the record, the items most of these people were purchasing were multiple cases of soda. Nevertheless, blocking these attempts always caused people to react poorly.

Depending on the items on sale, the demand, and how much we have been shipped, we can run out of sale product. This isn't incredibly rare. Some items, like today, cause complete feeding frenzies for the sale items. These hot items almost always have a limit placed on them. This is why we are so adamant about preventing people from cheating around the limits, because it is so inherently greedy. We have limits so many people can get the items.

I've also had to deal with a variety of scents. Bathing is optional for attending the grocery store. Tell your friends. It is a relief. Do you want to know what poverty smells like? Did you even know poverty has a distinct smell? Come down to my store. I'll rub you right up against a person that leaves a literal trail of stink that lingers in the air long after he/she is gone. Honestly, this isn't a eight hour sale specific thing, but it sure becomes a constant reminder during these events.

I am out of steam, but let me make something clear before I go: I am out to get these people. I want to make their lives hard. I want to literally take "food" and sugar water out of their mouths so that their children are healthy. I get paid for every sale I rip from the bounty of these noble people. These... salt of the earth. These proud and pure people. I will stand in the way of their chips, soda, and tri-tip like a bulwark made of corpses and feces splitting them from the lush promised lands.