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I referenced the chupacabra in Spanish class, when I wrote on the board, "Cuándo yo veo la chupacabra, yo tengo miedo." My Spanish teacher didn't know what it was. I was like . . . Es un monstroso . . . Yeah, yeah, simple sentences. My class is dumb.

Man, I feel like such a comment-monger. (Is that even a word?) Ah well, it was a bit disheartening to see a whole bunch of stuff with 0 posts at the top of the forum.

Wtf. Y[schwa]. I don't even know what that's supposed to be censoring :lol: Unless that was intentional . . . in which case I have no freakin' clue what pronunciation you're after :P You know what, I really don't need a cookie. Compliments like that are way beyond anything I expected. Still, I doubt no one will ever find problems with what I write, so I will contine to post here, along with the simple fact that I enjoy writing. And do let me know when you figure out how to get around that censor =P

[hide=What. The. [bleep].]Hiro [bleep]ing killed Ando.[/hide] Also, I knew it was Mr. Petrelli. Just knew it.

Sáne Behind him, what had once been the roof of a house sagged on the three walls that remained to it. One such wall was a hundred feet high and twenty thick, casting the shell of the house into deep shadow. Above the wall the sky burned, casting fingerlike stains across the clouds. Below the wall Sáne stood, bare-chested. Behind him, in the darkness of the dilapidated house, a pale dress glimmered, draped over a pile of rubble that stood next to a smooth patch of ground. What clothing Sáne had yet to don was also nearby: his boots, his shirt, and his armor. In front of Sáne stood Francis Heyman, Captain of Section Eighty-Four of the Wall Guard. Sir, I can explain, Sáne said. A completely useless and idiotic statement, he knew, but he couldnt find anything else to say. Heyman knew it, too. This needs no explanation, Aman, he said, brushing past Sáne and into the opening of the houses fourth wall. His armor clinked as he moved, mail rustling over leather. It glimmered dully with the moons glow, in particular the highly polished helm and the heads of the arrows that swung from his belt in an open quiver. Heyman spoke with his back to Sáne, presumably surveying the damning scene. So you would rather be down here in the dark with your sweet wench than defending your city. He looked back over his shoulder, glaring at Sáne with flinty eyes. But of course, he continued, turning to face him, its not really your city, is it, Aman? Sáne did not reply. Heyman moved in close, standing almost nose-to-nose with Sáne, his helm framing his face. Once a Nerusian, always a Nerusian, he said, spitting in Sánes face. Sáne did his best not to flinch. He keeps his composure, I see, acknowledged Heyman, but a soldier is a soldier, no matter what side hes on. Sir, Im not a traitor. The hell you arent, snorted Heyman. We should never have let your sort into the city, much less the army. What was His Grace thinking? Youre all a bunch of bloody spies and cowards. Heyman called out, and two soldiers rounded the corner of the next building in perfect unison, coming to a halt in front of Heyman and standing at crisp attention. Clap him in irons and bring him with me, he said. And take his gear, too; someone can use it. The soldiers saluted, and before Sáne quite knew what was happening his wrists were being bound, not by iron but by a course hempen rope. The soldier that was not shackling him had begun gathering up his strewn items, and Heyman was striding briskly away. Sánes gaoler gave his lead a tug and followed. Sáne needed little urging; he soon passed the soldier and came up behind Heyman. What are you going to do to me? He knew he ought to keep quiet, that the one thing that had gone in his favor was his soldiers impassivity, but he was beginning to feel indignant. I told you, I am no traitor, I was -- Heymans backhand caught Sáne full across the face and nearly knocked his teeth out. Head ringing from the gauntleted blow, Sáne could only spit out a gob of blood as Heyman rebuked him. You would do well to keep your mouth shut. He considered for a moment, then resumed walking. Sáne followed at the other soldiers mercy. Heyman continued to speak. I suppose it wont matter if you know whats in store for you, since you cant bloody well change it. Its to the Capn o Capns for you, and most like a dungeon after that. Mayhaps I can convince him to get rid of all your little brothers in the guard, traitorous bastards you all are. Sáne held his tongue, though it was less out of humility than it was the fact that his mouth hurt like a viper bite. Complete with the spreading numbness. He spat out more blood and tried to clear his head as he followed his captors along the base of the wall. The Capn o Capns was a hard man, but did not hold the same prejudices as Heyman. Perhaps the Captain of Section Eighty-Four had underestimated his chances to have Sáne put behind bars, and hanged. Hanged, without a doubt. Sáne knew that was where his story would end if Heyman were given the pen. Before long they came upon a set of wooden stairs built against the wall, guarded by a pair of soldiers. They saluted as Heyman approached, and Heyman gave them a curt nod before sweeping between them and up the stairs. If they were going up to the wall, Sáne knew, then the Capn o Capns was atop it. That could only bode ill for the defenders. Sáne stumbled up the stairs behind his leading soldier and wondered whether he would survive long enough to be thrown in a dungeon. When they were a few yards from the top, there was a panicked shout. Heyman shouted back and dashed the rest of the way up. Sáne struggled to stay on his feet as the other soldier hastened to follow. Just as Heyman disappeared over the lip of the wall, the world exploded. Sánes ears were full of a howling medley of sound. His vision was confused; he could not tell which way was up, and his hands were being jerked painfully. The maelstrom whirled around him, and he slammed into something solid hard enough to crack a few ribs. His arms were screaming in agony that wasnt lessening, but the insanity was. Sánes senses sorted themselves out, and a fresh wave of pain assaulted him as the price for his clarity. He was staring at smooth dark stone. When he tried to pull back he screamed in pain. His arms were stretched above his head, held fast together by the hempen rope. Below him stretched ninety feet of emptiness. He dangled helplessly, biting back cries of pain as every movement threatened to wrench his arms off. The pain multiplied a hundredfold, and suddenly he was on solid ground. He was hardly aware of the hands that freed him from his bonds, nor of the voice that accompanied them. He scrambled to his feet, brushing aside a proffered hand. He was standing on a pile of rubble ten feet below the walls normal level, and before him lay a panorama of dread. Above, the sky bled. --------- Why is this forum so dead? Come on, people! I hope this part was a bit more interesting than the first . . . tell me what you think, please. I need C/C.

That scoring system doesn't even make any sense. How can you go from "possibly mildy depressed" to "borderline depression," then back to "mild-moderate"?

Radio Song was my first FC. It holds a special place in my heart. I didn't get BoP until like 17 or 18, it's that damn scratchy solo. Now I have 21, my 20th being Cherub Rock, the highest setlist song of my FC's. Only need RaRAN to FC set one and Barracuda for set two. Set 4 will come eventually, I have -1s on all of them except MNIJ and AItUK, which are already FC'ed. Then it's La Grange for a FC in set 5 and God knows what for 7 . . . probably Stricken or 3's & 7's. CoD if anything for 8.

What is the point in out-watching anyone in any kind of porn?

Here is something new for you all, a bit of an experiment on my part. Hopefully I'll be able to keep it updated with my schedule going nova. Eponymous Elle It was midnight, yet the skies in the east glowed orange. The crenellated line of the wall top was black against the unnatural light. Shapes moved about it, low and quick, appearing and disappearing at intervals. Voices could be heard, shouts soft but insistent. Across several hundred feet of rooftops, no words could be made out, but it hardly mattered. Beyond the wall the sky bled in ominous premonition. Elles bare feet made no sound as she slipped down the cobblestone street. The buildings that lined the narrow avenue were tall, two and three stories, and lent their shadow to a deeper darkness that swallowed Elle completely. Even so, she kept her face hidden and her back bent, shrinking beneath her black cloak. She crept close to the shops and inns, avoiding the dark windows with their secrets. Somewhere in the darkness a door creaked. Caught in the open in front of a particularly large tailors shop, Elle dashed forward as quickly as she dared, her pulse quickening. Ignoring the enormous and expensive window that fronted the tailors, she traversed the width of the shop and slipped into the alley mouth at the corner. She retreated a few paces into the narrow space and pressed herself against the wall. She slowed her breathing and strained her ears, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. Something thumped to the ground, and before Elle could so much as blink a shape flashed past her ankle. It streaked out of the alley and out of sight, mewling. Elle closed her eyes and permitted herself a small sigh of relief. When she opened them again, she was blinded by a sudden burst of light. Shrieking, she turned to flee, but an arm got in her way and she fell, attempting to break free. She propped herself up on her elbows and tried to scramble backwards, but found a wall. Defeated, she squinted up at the light, trying to make out the face that hovered behind it. Well, look at that, said the face. Her vision adjusting, Elle saw that the speaker was a man, tall and young, with a close-cropped beard and wavy dark hair. He leered down at her and said, You must be one of them informers. He set his lantern on the ground and squatted in front of her. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her blond hair, and her cloak had opened, revealing the short silken shift that was all she wore. The mans eyes noted that fact, roving over her body. Elle stared at him, her face reddening and her breath catching. Yes, definitely an informer, the man said. Elle tried to speak, but the breath hissed out of her throat in an unintelligible rattle. The man laughed. Scared out of your wits, arent you? I cant imagine why. He stood and picked up his lantern. Get up. He held out his hand. Elle stared at him in confusion. She ignored the proffered hand and stood of her own accord, drawing the cloak about her as tightly as she could. She finally found her voice. What are you doing? she stammered. The man grinned. Courting conquest, of course. The sound of heavy footsteps drifted into the alley, accompanied by voices and a metallic rattle. The mans smile fled, and he held out his hand again. Come, he said urgently. We must be off the streets. The soldiers do not take kindly to our sort. Elle hesitated, but the sound of the soldiers patrol was growing louder. Wordlessly she took the mans hand and followed him deeper into the darkness. -------- Short, but it's a start. Read, comment, critique, hate, whatever.

I think you can really boil euthanasia down into two categories: One in which the person is lucid and has a conscious choice, and one in which he doesn't. In the case of the latter, I really believe euthanasia is the best course of action. Someone who is in a vegetative state and relying extensively on life support is really not experiencing life. Medically, they are alive, but so is a corpse being artificially stimulated. One can argue the definition of life, but the truth is someone like that is simply not living like a human being. If there is no or slim chance of recovery, death is little different than the "life" they have. On the other hand, someone with a terminal illness who has full control of their actions and choices should not simply be killed without contest. Physician-assisted suicide is not something I agree with. The Hippocratic Oath compels a doctor to help the patient, not kill them. And no, killing the patient is not helping them when there are plenty of viable alternatives out there. Rather than saying, "Ok, you want to die, then die," the doctor should seek to make sure they aren't clinically depressed to begin with, then enlighten them on the subject of hospice living. Hospice focuses on relieving pain and giving comfort in a person's last days, rather than experimenting with medications trying to keep them alive or simply shooting them up with poison. It is certainly a much better way to go than alone and bitter.

Mlbfan. I just can't pull away from his incredibly funny and witty posts. I mean, he's hilarious.

Yeah, that's why I'm getting pretty exasperated with the whole thing, I can't even tell if it's tuned right. I dunno, the electronic tuner is ok I guess, but it keeps devouring 9-volt batteries and the instructions were crap, so I'm not even sure if I'm using it right.

Don't mean to jack this thread, but since I'm sort of starting too I thought I would ask here. I've had a Squire for a few years now, but I'm only just now starting to play it in earnest, and my one biggest problem is tuning. I really can't tune it by ear because I don't even know when the thing is tuned correctly in the first place, because I am of the opinion that the electronic tuner sucks. Halp?

Strunk isn't suggesting we knock a novel down to a page. He is suggesting that we remove superfluous material to ensure that the work as a whole has meaning, rather than only particular sections having meaning. Trapical's post certainly is a breath of fresh air, and I greatly appreciate somebody who takes the time to write down their thoughts in full, structured English. However, I feel that his writing style can be greatly impproved by choosing his words in a more concise manner. This is, of course, just a piece of advice, one which he is welcome to reject. :lol: Actually, I think that making the language more concise will reduce the quality of the post. Part of Trapical's charm lies in that he's concise enough to put across complex ideas efficiently, but not so concise that the style and flow of the writing is lost. Uh, no. The post doesn't flow so much as meander, and if style is lost by reducing the amount of superfluous words then it is a bad style. Hence the improvement that will come of writing in a more concise manner. That being said, I certainly don't regret reading it, but the wall of text was a bit of a turn-off.

The Flaming Lips - Fight Test Rediscovered. Still awesome.

Jesus [bleep]ing Christ.

Lol. I'm betting the Dr. Pepper was the thing that actually got them to release the album.

Those things just keep coming back. You think the fad has passed, and BAM everyone and his mother is carrying one around in the halls. I learned to solve one myself, but unfortunately I've forgotten some of the algorithms now.

[hide=]Peter read Suresh's mind, remember?[/hide] [hide=Hide these tiring spoilers with these tiring hide tags, in order to hide from unwary eyes what rightfully should not be hidden, on account of the fact that they are, in essence, hidden by the spectaculary concealing feature of the forum topic, which the hidden user should not click if they wish for these hidden spoilers to remain hidden.]That was in the future, when Peter found Sylar in Costa Verde.[/hide]

I made over $100 charging $4 for a parking space in an empty field that we own right down the street from the site of our high school football game last week. Most of it went to a fundraiser in that instance, but I'm seriously considering doing that regularly. Funny thing is, the school that the field is near is the one my school was playing, not mine ;)

Sylar just moved up a few spots in my list of greatest characters ever.

No, but nice try. Editing the post 2 hours after the fact in response to being called out doesn't cut it. Anyway, I agree for the most part with the article. There isn't much else to be said, really. Actually, I must affirm that I am a boob man. That is all.

Yar I know about TWIE and NFMH, I haven't even 4-starred NFMH but I have TWIE, lol. Other than those two all I need is TTFAF, FCPREMIX (20k or so away) and Raining Blood, all 4-starred. FC'ed Avalancha yesterday, though. Yay. EDIT: I also have 500k on both One and NotB. Easy, really.

Dude, fix your tenses. You used a crapload of them in one paragraph. Overall it was decent, but felt a bit lifeless. There was no . . . feeling behind the words, it just sounded like a monotone in my head. If you have no dialogue you have to compensate to keep the prose from droning.

Hate to keep harping on about it, but just because there aren't lightsabers and spaceships does not mean it shares no similarities. Why does that keep going over people's heads?