It always amazes me to see the sort of search terms that people find my other site through. For instance, ever since I made a comment about slug peni, I’ve been getting hits thanks to strange penis related terms. Those can be found here btw. I’m slowly but surely providing people with something to see in regards to those terms . . . whether those results are what the person was originally looking for is a whole other story.
But I looked this morning and found that someone had found my site by putting in “Stephen King.” Now, how the hell that did bring them to my site?
I tried to repeat it in an experiment, but gave up after 5 pages of searching. So that means that the person went through more than 5 pages and then clicked on my page??? I mean, I regularly go through more than 5 pages of results, but when I do click on a page, it usually has something to do with my original purpose. *smacks head*
Maybe they thought I looked interesting.
I read a post the other day where the person was talking about creating pages to match the search terms that they got the most often. And I thought to myself, “Huh. Well, that’s a concept.”
I guess I already did that with my penis search terms page, but to do that on a large scale basis just seems like . . . cheating, I guess. It’s perfectly legit of course; logically I know this, but I’m always wary of things that seem too simple.
Well, since one of the most often used search terms to find this particular site is “Overflow System,” maybe I should explain about that.
The name, for me at least, is directly related to one of my most favorite X-Files’ episodes ever, called “The Host.” The Host had all the elements of a really good story to me, because it hit a few different long term interests of mine: radiation, sewers, Chernobyl and monsters. Sounds like something you want to see now, doesn’t it.
For the handful of you who have never seen this episode *glares at you slightly* I shall attempt to give a background of how these things all come into play together.
Russian sub is hauling equipment that turns out to be salvaged from the Chernobyl site. It’s radioactive equipment. In the depths of the sub’s sewer system (or whatever it’s called), in radioactive sludge, this monster is born. The episode starts out with there being a blockage in the sewer system that a young Russian soldier is made to work on by one of his old [fat and probably smelly] superiors. I make a big deal of the old and fat merely because I don’t like this guy. That and the young man is kinda cute. But I didn’t say that.
Anyways, I digress. The young man is attempting to locate the blockage when suddenly something grabs him and pulls him under. His foot gets caught in the steel ladder attached to the wall, which allows two or three other men to run and grab it in an effort to save him (one of whom is the fat smelly guy). They pull, the monster pulls, and the monster wins. Shortly thereafter, the smelly guy orders the system to be purged in an effort to find the cute guy. No dice on that account.
However, later in the story, folks in the New Jersey sewer systems start showing up dead and Agent Mulder gets put on the case–much to his dismay, I might add. Oh, and this is one of the umpteen million times that X-Files have been closed down; so not only is Scully*** not there, but he is also not working with a partner.
Anyways, towards the end of the episode, we find ourselves at this section of the plot, helpfully borrowed from Schwicky.net.
FOREMAN: Agent Mulder!
(Mulder pulls the phone from his ear and looks behind to see the
foreman yelling to him.)
Linesman spotting something down in a section of pipe!
MULDER: Where?
(Inside, the foreman unrolls a blueprint of the pipe system.
He points to a section.)
FOREMAN: Here.
MULDER: That’s near where we found the first body.
FOREMAN: Right, except this is an old overflow system that dumps
into the harbor during heavy rainfall.
MULDER: That must be where it got into the system.
(The foreman nods.)
It’s working its way back out to sea.
(They look at each other, worried. Mulder and the foreman race to a
sewer grate where workers are standing by. Mulder grabs a flashlight
from one of them and heads down. The foreman follows. Mulder has to
cover his nose from the smell.)
The underline and bolds were put in by me. If you want to read the whole episode, it can be found here. Thus, we have the term “Overflow System.”
Now, for me, this term is used for when I’ve already written something recently at my other site, but I still have something else to to say. Plus, I feel that some of my posts are not really in the style of that site, but I still want to say them. Thus, I created my own overflow system.
***Side note — my spell checker said that “Scully” was not a word, but it said nothing about “Mulder.” Huh.
Sure, some people talk about Batman having it easy–what with being a billionaire and all–but truly people are discounting his struggle completely when they say that. Sure he has the toys, but he designed and made the “toys.” He did all his training on his own. He threw his life into the hands of fate and went out to find his destiny. He has a real reason to fight to keep others safe; he knows what it is to lose something so precious to you that it makes you physically hurt just to contemplate its memory. He takes a chance every night that he goes out. He uses his brain and skills that he has mastered throughout the years in order to fight with. Occasionally he gets knocked out and beaten to a pulp; look at the whole thing he went through with Bane and getting his back broken. And yet, here he comes, always fighting back, always trying.
Never giving up. He fights because he believes it is the right thing to do; because he knows the horrors that can happen; and because he believes that if he can use what he is to save just one child, one person, then it is worth it and he has done better than most of the population . . . super powers or not.
Superman, on the other hand, just is. Batman can be a son-of-a-bitch, but he has a reason to be. Look at the amount of insomnia that man has endured. Geez.
Level II: Conventional/Role Conformity: Moral values reside in performing the right role, in maintaining the conventional order and expectancies of others as a value in its own right.
Stage 4: Authority and social-order-maintaining orientation
Orientation to “doing duty” and to showing respect for authority and maintaining the given social order or its own sake.
Regard for earned expectations of others.
Yup. That’s Superman alright. Compare with Batman then. I’d say that he’s here:
Level III: Postconventional/Self-Accepted Moral principles
Morality is defined in terms of conformity to shared standards,rights, or duties apart from supporting authority. The standards conformed to are internal, and action-decisions are based on an inner process of thought and judgment concerning right and wrong.
Stage 6: The morality of individual principles of conscience
Orientation not only toward existing social rules, but also toward the conscience as a directing agent, mutual trust and respect, and principles of moral choice involving logical universalities and consistency.
Action is controlled by internalized ideals that exert a pressure to act accordingly regardless of the reactions of others in the immediate environment.
If one acts otherwise, self-condemnation and guilt result.
Newsweek ran an article about autism and Asperger’s Syndrome a couple of weeks ago that I just now happened to run across. It’s called “Mysteries and Complications.”
It’s not the ideal, but it got a lot closer to what I’d like to see in a news article concerning autism and asperger’s. For one, it actually mentioned both sides of the issue. On one hand, there were some quotes from Autism Speaks–but even their quotes weren’t overly insane. Boy, I’m betting that pisses them off.
Here’s a quote from the article concerning the Hannah case and mitochondrial disorders:
It’s possible, scientists say, that a challenge to the immune system—be it an infection, a vaccine or some other trigger—could stress already fragile cells and exacerbate the problem. Scientists want to know how many children with autism have mitochondrial disorders. And would it be possible to identify those who might be vulnerable to vaccines? “This case is a call to action to continue to understand this very complex disorder,” says Geraldine Dawson of the advocacy group Autism Speaks.
I love how they referred to Autism Speaks as an “advocacy” group. Advocacy for what? Genocide? Hmm, I’m not going to say anything else about that. You can decide if it’s okay for a mother–stressed or not–to say she’d like to put her child in the car and drive both of them off the George Washington Bridge just because the child is autistic.
This is the link (although, as of 9 pm April 9th, 2008, it was apparently down–as in, like the entire site was down).
On the other hand, Ari Ne’eman got some quotes in too. He’s an aspie btw. He and I are actually in contact via email. He’s the president of the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network (ASAN), and involved in the New Jersey legislature. Did I mention that he’s only 20?
[He] believes in neurodiversity, the idea that differences in human behavior should be celebrated, not fixed. People with autism should be called “autistic people,” he says, not “people with autism,” the language favored by mainstream advocacy groups. “Our feeling is that the autism spectrum is an intrinsic part of our personality that cannot be separated,” says Ne’eman. And he worries about research that might one day locate genes and other markers that could help doctors test for autism. Researchers say such knowledge would allow them to intervene early, during a critical window of development in the first year of life. Ne’eman’s fear? That autism will become like Down syndrome—essentially selected out of the population.
Whoo hoo! Tell ‘em how it is!
Oh, if you really want to make yourself crazy, go check out the comments section of the Newsweek article.
Yes, so, the reason that I have this particular blog is so that I can post multiple thoughts in one day, but not over clutter (overburden) my poor other blog.
BTW, I know the whole patriotism thing isn’t really the point, but I have to say that after 8 years under Bush, my sense of patriotism has grown rather thin indeed.
I think I mentioned this last time. I’ll just set up two or three columns, each starting with a different two or three lettered word, and then keep increasing the number of letters in the letter specific columns until I can’t go any longer. It’s fun. And possibly boring. But fun still. Dictionaries aren’t allowed except for spelling purposes.
I’ve played games against myself all my life. That’s what you do if you don’t have anyone to play with. I was alone for some of that time because I couldn’t find anyone to play with me; the rest of the time, I didn’t even bother. And part of that time was because sometimes you just feel like being alone.
I have a small travel sized set of chinese checkers. It’s a small, circular, wooden board with wooden colored pegs instead of marbles. It’s great for playing against myself. I just play all 6 sides at once and just keep turning the board until they’re all back where they’re supposed to be.
I play monopoly against myself too. Well, usually I play it with my stuffed animals. Either way . . .
One of the signs of my Asperger’s syndrome that no one picked up on when I was younger was the way I played pickup sticks against myself and my bears. I would tally up the scores each time and would do this for pages and pages and pages. My mother said that I was one of the most boring children she had ever knew. She has a theory about the world related to Sesame Street. She says that the entire world is made up of Bert’s and Ernie’s; Bert with his paper clip collection and Ernie with all of his crazy experiences (mostly in the middle of the night, if I recall correctly). She says I’m a Bert because I enjoy things that most people consider dull.
Speaking of aspie signs, when I used to play with matchbox cars, I’d line them up and arrange them by family (color). And then they’d fight usually. And I’d crash them into one another. Repeatedly. And then I’d set up a car wash and meticulously wash them all one by one (I inherited about 20 from my brothers–real metal ones, and I had about 20 or so of my own; so this was a long process). I also washed all of my rocks.
Lately, I have a new game.
I start out with two columns:
1. 1
And put in the shortest words (of equal length) that I can think of, starting with two different letters, like this:
1. at 1 be
Then, the next level is to put down a word for each column that is one letter longer.
1. at 1. be
2. ate 2. bet
Then it continues.
1. at 1 be
2. ate 2. bet
3. ages 3. bean
4. after 4 beast
5. alters 5. better
This continues until one column can no longer thing of any words that are longer and then the other column is called winner.
Of course, technically, I’m winner both ways, but I don’t necessarily think of it that way. Oh and the other thing is, you can’t use a dictionary or anything like that. It has to be all from your head.
In the second semester of my freshman year in college, we had to discuss this song. I think that was the first time I ever heard an Eminem song, but it wasn’t the last. I think this might be what put the early seed of music therapy in my head.
Look at the 3rd verse:
They say music can alter moods and talk to you
Well, can it load a gun for you and cock it too?
Well if it can, then the next time you assault a dude
Just tell the judge it was my fault, and I’ll get sued
See what these kids do, is hear about us totin’ pistols
And they want to get one, ‘cus they think the shit’s cool
Not knowin’ we’re really just protectin’ ourselves
We entertainers, of course this shit’s affecting our sales
You ignoramus. but music is reflection of self
We just explain it, and then we get our checks in the mail
It’s fucked up ain’t it, how we can come from practically nothin’
To bein’ able to have any fuckin’ thing that we wanted
That’s why we sing for these kids that don’t have a thing
Except for a dream and a fuckin’ rap magazine
Who post pinup pictures on their walls all day long
Idolize their favorite rappers and know all their songs
Or for anyone who’s ever been through shit in they lives
So they sit and they cry at night, wishing they die
‘Till they throw on a rap record, and they sit and they vibe
We’re nothing to you, but we’re the fuckin’ shit in their eyes
That’s why we seize the moment, and try to freeze it and own it
Squeeze it and hold it, ‘cus we consider these minutes golden
And maybe they’ll admit it when we’re gone
Just let our spirits live on, through our lyrics that you hear in our songs
And we can
We discussed the power that music can have over a person; or perhaps, the power of music to influence your emotions.
I think the reason that I keep coming back to Eminem is that, number one, he’s really interesting as a storyteller, but also because he’s been through shit and more shit, and even though you might not agree with his views, he’s still here and he’s still fighting.
Have you ever been hated or discriminated against, I have, i’ve been protested and demonstrated
against, picket signs for my wicked rhymes, look at the times, sick is the mind of the
motherfuckin’ kid that’s behind, all this commotion, emotions run deep as ocean’s explodin’,
tempers flaring from parents, just blow ‘em off and keep goin’, not takin’ nothin’ from no one,
give ‘em hell long as i’m breathin’, keep kickin’ ass in the mornin’, an’ takin’ names in the
evening, leave ‘em with a taste as sour as vinegar in they mouth, see they can trigger me but
they’ll never figure me out, look at me now, I bet ya’ probably sick of me now, ain’t you mama,
I’ma make you look so ridiculous now…
That’s from “Cleanin’ Out My Closet.” That’s one of the songs that my bestest friend in the world introduced to me back in my freshman year of college, somewhere after the class experience–or just right around–I can’t remember to tell you the truth. Freshman year was back in 2002/2003. I’m in grad school now btw.
Plus, he’s got seriously good rhymes and rhythms (not exactly the same thing) and he actually says something in his songs.
Unlike some.
Like I said, you don’t have to agree with him, but he’s been through hell and he’s still here, and what’s more, he has something to say about it.
And you look at the thousands of kids and adults on the spectrum, whether they have something to say or not is often irrelevant, since a good many can’t speak, and those who can, it’s not really their strong suit (hi there), but if they did, would they say anything anyways?
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You want it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo,
I think there’s been plenty of times when I should have said, done something, and the fear just clamped over my throat, or I said something, but I couldn’t tell how loud I was being, so no one heard, or no one responded . . .
Or like, you’re having one of those dreams where you’re screaming at the top of your lungs for them to stop doing what they’re doing to you, but no one is listening, and you might as well not be there and not care, but damn it, you care so fucking much. And people tell you all your life that you’re too sensitive and you should just get over yourself, but how can you? When you’re the only one who hears you, you can’t just discount yourself. No one else is listening.
I spent years with myself, just myself.
Because those damn perfect people, those people that everyone likes, the people that are class presidents and scholarship winners and honor students, those students whose smiles are filled with sharp molten darts, those students that rip out your heart and then crush it between their hands, those students, those kids, those people; the people who think they are so damn good–godlike, treating autistic kids/people, and disabled people and people with learning disabilities and poor kids and kids that just don’t have it quite together, they treat those kids/people like trash. Can’t you see the irony here? The teacher looking over you, pissed off ’cause of some damn so-called stupid thing that you did in their eyes, and they’re saying things like, why can’t you be more like ______? How ’bout this, we bring guns to school and make up all that time of NOT being like them?
‘Cause listen, the school system’s fucked up and no one representing the voices of the unheard, and there’s nothing you can do. You have three choices:
Either suck it up. Get treated like shit. Laugh at prisoners who think they have it tough. Try being an “other” kid in a public school system. Try being the kid that the popular ones use to cut down, so they can be taller by standing on the bodies of those sliced down. Trying being an adult in a world that doesn’t recognize your adulthood. Either you look too young or you don’t treat other people like shit, and so people think you’re not just like them and they say, ooo someone else to fuck up. I’d like to see what God says in heaven when we get there. All of these “good” folk, thinking they’ve been doing sooo good sooo long, and then God says, well what about this kid and that kid? And they answer with, who, that dope? You don’t think they actually counted for anything, do you? THEY DID??? Oh shit. Made in your image? Sorry God, you’re not popular enough. I don’t think I can follow you any longer. (I mean seriously . . . *rolls eyes*).
Or kill yourself. You spend every single moment of every single day for years on, no one hearing you when you do complain, keeping it all inside, people treating you like crap constantly, crap is a nice way to be treated even, anything less than active physical/sexual abuse is fine. 2 people have dropped out of my grad program so far. I was thinking that maybe I was still here because my tolerance for crap is pretty damn high. Perseveration anyone? I never gave up because . . . well, I don’t think that I was supposed to, let’s put it that way. I was scared, but suicide was my way out. Get too overwhelmed, no way left to turn? Freaking out every day? Feel like there’s something screaming in your head and skin/nerve endings, and no one to talk to, to really hear you, and you’ve got these memories of things that you wished you could change, because you’re so damn embarrassed, so damn sorry for what should have been but what wasn’t, and to top it off, you’ve got nightmares, and you’ve got homework/responsibilities that keep piling up, and it’s dusk all the time, except for when it’s 3 am, and even the people who said you could talk to them can’t be talked to, because it’s freakin’ 3 am and no one gives a damn then, no daytime people are serious, they don’t mean it, no one means it anything at 3 am, and you’re stuck there in you’re own head, because that’s the only voice that’s constant, and you’re so damn scared of what could happen, and what will happen, and what might happen and what has happened . . . that you’re curled in a ball with your teeth gritted, just trying to ride it out, ride out the fear wave, while your entire body is tensed up and you’re sweating because you can feel your internal demons staring at you and laughing, and you feel like screaming to match the screaming in your head and arms and legs . . . and you think that you’re going crazy, but it wouldn’t matter if you did, because everyone thinks you’re nuts anyway and how would they tell? And what if you went crazy and then everyone thought you were normal and what is sanity anyway? And you think you know the answer, because you think that if you lose yourself totally, then that’s truly insanity, but that’s how they all want to fix you, make you more “normal,” but normal is insanity, because if they change you, then that’s all you have left and there really won’t be any reason to live then, because you’re only living because that’s all you’ve got in life; that, and the pain of life, of fear, of internal hate, of cold chills and hot sweat, of darkness, and of uncertainty and soft facts, the kind that don’t hold up anything, and the world is a world of maybes and somedays and sometimes. And sometimes you feel so crazy that you start laughing and crying at the same time, but no one says anything, even though you start doing this in public, and you wonder how compassionate can people really be if they see something like you hysterically crying and laughing and they just ignore you anyway, and you say to yourself that if that’s what compassion is, then you just don’t really think you need any of that and that’s what you say, but you’re screaming inside because nothing else is there for you to own. So you wonder why people commit suicide? Well I don’t. They do it because it’s the only way out, because life is not worth it; because they’re just so tired of being so damn afraid every single moment of their lives . . .
Or you can do the aforementioned, but take your revenge too and make the world safer by leaving it with a few less assholes. And I don’t recommend that either, because if you do that, you take someone’s life, then you’re just being them too. By that reasoning, almost every single person I went to middle school with was a murderer . . . People think of murder as physical death, but I think that if you take away a person’s sense of themselves, if you steal a person’s soul, if you make someone so miserable that they end up committing suicide later, then you are the murderer. And you can’t keep your hands clean by ending every phrase with, “Oh I was just kidding.” That’s fucked up. Does a serial killer take a gun up to a person’s head and kill them and then just stand over their broken body and say, “Oh, I was just kidding”?
Making someone’s life into crap, making them hate themselves, ignoring another person’s pain, ignoring the fear in their eyes, laughing at their fallacies in a world that only laughs at them, in a world that never lets them laugh, except in crying hysterics, is easily worse than murdering someone. And if you have ever done any of the above mentioned, then I’d be carefully questioning myself if I were you, question what you really are to other people. And what are you really as a person? More than that, what do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you sleep well at night? How do you know that you’re the sane one? They say that those who are insane don’t know it . . . they’re the ones who think they are the sane ones.
