There is never a week that goes by when something entertaining isn’t going on. The Climate Change denial is real. The covfefe is real. The bragging about things that really don’t matter enough to be bragged about is real. But enough about Donald Trump. I can see the logic behind the argument against the Paris Agreement, but there is some fault in it. Namely, that if we don’t have a livable globe, the fact that someone is “for the people of Pittsburgh” is irrelevant. Because there will be no people left. Although, being for the people of Pittsburgh would indicate being for the people at all, which isn’t even clear to me. Though presenting a healthcare program that knocks some twenty million people off healthcare doesn’t seem to support a “for the people” position in the slightest.

Whatever. There are too many things to talk about today and I don’t want to get sidetracked through this whole post. Climate change. It is important because it is real. For anyone saying it isn’t real, take a moment and think to yourself: is it possible? If you answered yes, please read over the science, as I think you will find that your assertion is incorrect when presented with evidence. If you answered no, I’ll be responding personally.

So why not? Why can’t people cause climate change? Is it that the Earth is some sort of infinite object? For those of you reading along, this is one of the biggest reasons people don’t get climate change. They believe that the Earth is too big for us to have a real impact on it. This dates back to the Old Testament, and other religious inclinations that swayed society hundreds of years ago. The Earth is viewed as immortal, evergreen, etc. But think about it. It isn’t. It’s just a ball of matter.

Think of any ball of matter. Actually, lets think specifically of a ball of wood, the size of your hand. Put a lit match to that wood—just one. Now, it probably didn’t light up. Add in a few more matches. It might still not light up. But eventually, it will, right? Maybe after 10 matches, it lights up on the side, but dies out quickly. After 100, it ignites. That’s the problem with man-made climate change. It takes literally billions of matches to make an impact, because the Earth is huge. If you saw your house burning, you wouldn’t say “that’s nothing.” You would be thinking “Oh god! How do we put out this fire!?” The science is the writing on the wall, in the moments before ignition. The fires have started, and while some have burned out, people are still lighting matches. It won’t be long before it burns up.

Ok, yes it is true this is a bit of a crude metaphor, but it is a metaphor for a reason. And the logic is sound. The Earth is a ball of matter, like anything else, and it can only be burned so much. Pulling out of the Paris Agreement displays the ignorance of this situation. Truly caring for citizens—both of Pittsburgh and the rest of the world—is to protect them, their children, and all peoples there after.



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As the tide rolls in,

The sand crabs burrow away,

Fearful for their lives.



The piano hums

With twilight melancholy,

That hints our sadness.


The Ruler

There’s the twelve-inch man,

Straight edged, erect, and strong. That’s

Why he’s called “ruler.”


Blanketed Sunset

As night ousts the day,

The busy beach falls silent,

But we’ll still be warm.


Call to Arms

The beat of the drum

Rolls like thunder in the sky;

Our footsteps the storm.



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The party’s over; the party was nice.

Those two little hussies called your name twice,

But here you are at four a.m. alone,

With no one to join you on the drive home.


Now it might be good to visit Denny’s.

Scrounge together the last of your pennies

And buy yourself a nice place of pancakes.

I doubt they can tell how much your heart aches.


Lather your cakes in a syrup so sweet,

Like you lather your life with women’s meat.

Remember all the girls with which you’ve lied—

How you made them swallow spoons of your pride?


But in three years they’ll be a happy muse,

And you’ll still be here with four a.m. blues.



*          *          *


Did you post your pic? Did you sing your song?

How many likes do you need to be strong?

You left him on read, now, isn’t that cruel.

Just ‘cause you think looking single is cool.


You sway down the sidewalk while cars drive by.

With heels in hand and a glassy eye.

You stagger to a lonely breakfast stop;

Trip on the Porsche in the handicap spot.


Sure, Tom will be mad that you’re late back home,

But isn’t that why he’s in the friend zone?

Slip in the booth with the dapper rich man,

And ask him to drive you home if he can.


You might think that you have nothing to lose,

‘Till he puts you in the four a.m. blues.


*          *          *


You both had your fun, back at his fine place;

Woke up the neighbors with your reckless pace.

The screams, the moans, and the childish grins;

Both ache to relieve the weight of their sins.


He rises and smokes a detached cigar,

And you have no clue as to where you are.

The heat in your loins hasn’t calmed the pain;

You know, he doesn’t even know your name.


She lies there staring at the crimson wall,

And you have no clue as to if she’ll call.

The ache in your heart set in as she came,

‘Cause she had called out someone else’s name.


Tomorrow you’ll both tell friends the good news,

But I’ll still know ‘bout your four a.m. blues.



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The streets filled with the thunder of footsteps as we marched down to the capital. Thousands of us had heard the imperial message of our leader, reminding us of the tentative balance that democracy constantly hung in. Unlike the indecisive nations of the world, however, we were unafraid of our government. Our revolution had been different. Main Street—the street we now trampled on—had been the site of our reincarnation. It had been a bloody debacle, in which many lost their lives on both sides. In the end, however, we had claimed victory, though the red from the blood baths had permanently stained the street a faded red.

I was the flag-bearer—holding the large steel pole to display the symbol of our nationalism. The fabric was a vibrant red, with a gash of heavy crimson through the center, to symbolize the scars of our nation’s beginning. I was near the front, pushed off to the right so that the heads of the masses could approach first. The front-runner was a man dressed in a black leather robe, with a dull silver lining around the edges. On his head sat a matching hat, and he had donned a pair of intimidating shades, despite the overcast weather. He walked with a terrifying air of power.

Since the revolution, he had been named the Enforcer. The role of the Enforcer was just what it sounded like…to enforce the law. He had rescinded his name the day he had been given the role, twenty years ago. His strength of youth had left him, and his stark black hair had been speckled with the salt and pepper of age, yet he walked with an air of resilience. Each of his large strides (for he was nearly six-foot five-inches tall) seemed to rise above the clatter of boots behind him, and each step seemed to shake the Earth itself.

Around his waist were the only two guns in the whole of our nation. After the bloodbath of Main Street, even the most remote villagers could not argue with the destructive force that these weapons were capable of. Only the Enforcer, the final level of judgment, was allowed to bear arms. He was a zealot, but not an unrestricted or careless man in his demeanor. The only zeal he defended in his life was the just treatment of things in life. Hence why he alone could wield the twin pistols with the power to take life in an instant.

But it with the strength of power that men become the most susceptible to corruption. While the Enforcer was a great man—and in many ways still is—he himself has failed his own duties. Perhaps that is why at the capital building there stood a legion of men in all red. They stood atop the stairs, looking down on us, and we halted at the base. The white marble steps contrasted the red of the street stunningly, the way a pillar of light cuts through the darkness around it.

Yet as we stood there, the crimes of the Enforcer paled in comparison to those of our ruler. Broken promises, violent language, and irresponsible behaviors. The minor follies of the average man beg the forgiveness of his peers. I, myself, struggle with my sexism. Even now, I refer to men and mankind, rather than the humanity we live in. Yet in the end, is it our struggles, or whether we overcome them, that should be judged? Do we mock the single stray bullet, or praise the steady hand that has time and again liberated us?

These questions I pondered, with the cool steel of the flagpole in my hand, in the moments before we tore down the regime of anarchy, cut down the battalion before us, and restored order to the people. After, I returned to my lonely desk job, the Enforcer went back to his building, where he drank his nights away, and I assume the rest of the crowd dispersed back to their usual lives…but that one day, the moment we chose to overthrow tyranny and return the power to the people…that’s what makes living worth it. That’s what makes our country great.



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Too Many Writers

I read less than write,

But all that I write is read.

Does that make me wrong?


Lecture Halls

Click-click goes the pen

As the class drifts off to sleep.

Higher thought indeed.


Sleepless Nights

I just want to sleep,

But there are too many lights.

Mom! Stop partying!



“Praise be unto Zeus

For he has brought us the rain!”

Words from a rapist.



I fell through a haze

Of smoke that was in my car

To the universe.



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Hello everyone,


Today I wanted to talk to you all about power. I have been watching House of Cards over the weekend, because I was deathly sick with something, and was bedridden pretty much the whole time. Anyways, if you have not seen it, House of Cards is a show about a politician named Frank Underwood, who uses his political prowess to rise to power, subverting the traditional means of democracy. He uses anything from intimidation to extortion to get what he wants. When people do not give him what he wants, he will not hesitate to take them out. That’s the basic idea of the show.

Now, these are all traits of a dictator, and they are pretty static concepts when said broadly (like I just did). Let’s take the famous Machiavellian quote “it is better to be feared than loved” and consider it for a moment. It’s certainly true, right? At least, for a leader. Beowulf is a famous example, who was loved by his countrymen but also, deep down, feared as well. Seriously, in the story of Beowulf, kingdoms much bigger than his refused to challenge his because he was so feared. There are many literary examples of this, but even historically it’s true as well. Stalin is perhaps the best example of fear. Stalin was an awful guy who ruled with an iron fist, but nobody questioned his title, even though it was undeserved. Those who did…well…added to the death count.

Of course, fear fails. Not immediately, but eventually. Nearly every revolution was born because someone stopped being afraid. Or rather, many someones. Eventually, someone slips through the cracks, and starts a movements that ends the regime. Whether another regime replaces that regime is a different story, but it can be said that the power of one individual runs out eventually, no matter how much they are feared.

Love, on the other hand, is ineffective for individual leaders. Certainly, it is good if a monarchy is loved, because there is less likelihood for the want of a revolution, but it is impossible for a monarch to please everyone. It’s part of why presidential approval ratings are typically not in the nineties. However, it is good for leaders to be loved in communal societies. When the focus is not on the one, but rather the collective, then the need for love increases. Typically, these societies do not have one individual “king,” and if they do have some sort of leader, that leader is not considered superior to their group. Rather, these groups need love because they need to be able to work together and discuss, constructively, the different avenues to success. Without discussion, no progress would be made.

I bring this up because we live in extremely divisive times. It seems that nobody wants to sit down and talk to each other, rather they rally behind their leader of choice, and hope to dominate the opposition. Which is unfortunate, because I think what made America great is the community. The idea that we can be individuals, but united by a single goal. Not a person, but a goal: each other. That’s something I think we need to get back to.



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The drive home from work takes a short while. Some twenty minutes. It’s nothing special—I certainly wouldn’t write home about it. For the past few weeks, there has been a construction crew on one corner, where the road forks into east and west. I had never seen the construction crew working—I assumed they worked late at night, after I had left, or early in the morning, before I arrived. But today, things were different. As I was coming along the curve of the road that leads up to the fork, a construction worker with a large, abrasive red stop sign jumped out in front of oncoming traffic. The blue Toyota Prius that was three cars in front of me, slammed on their breaks, which caused the following cars ahead of me to do the same. I, like the cars in the lane parallel to us, did the same, and we came to a stop about fifty feet from the fork.

The construction worker was dressed in the abhorrent orange vest that they wear for their safety, with a pair of intimidating shades. It would not have appeared quite so bad if he had not had such a smug grin on his face—like he had done this solely to ruin the waning hours of our day. What was worse, is that there was a tractor with a towing cable tied to it backing up from between the fork—in that space where, if you were to drive full speed through, you would eventually hit a tree. Traffic was dead stopped, and the lanes were backing up. Still, this guy stood there with a grin on his face.

Now, I could not fault him—I mean, it is his job and he probably knows it better than I do. But the tractor was in the left lane—the one to head west. I was in the right lane, which heads east. There was a full five feet between the tractor and the lane—plenty of space to fit by. In fact he should have only stopped the left lane. I felt a twinge of anger inside me. The roar of horns behind us did nothing to calm me down, either. The incessant BEEP-BEEP BEEEEEEEEP of the horns was infuriating. I was looking around—behind me, ahead, to the sides—looking for a way out. And finding none.

Apparently, I was not alone in this feeling. In a surprising burst of speed, the blue Prius shot forward. The construction worker looked on in horror as the little machine whizzed by him. It was like the floodgates of a dam had been flung open, and our whole lane surged forward with waves of anger. But it didn’t stop there. We rounded the corner going faster—faster around the corner than we had ever gone before. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour! We shot through the red light like a bullet (the blue Prius had not been quite so lucky. Its entry was met with a crater into a white Honda Civic. But small losses are needed for revolution. We sped and sped and sped like a herd of beasts through the road, until finally I came to my turn off point. I realized that I could not make my turn, and terror took hold. I was no longer the pack of noble animals coursing against the flood of a cruel system. I had become the wolf—the cruel, malicious hunter who decimated everything in my path.



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“And we’ve returned for another exciting adventure!” The neon green man yelled out from the billboard screen. Exciting indeed, I thought to myself dryly. I was walking along the sidewalk on a dreary Monday, with the sky threatening to break above us. Like myself, everyone was dressed in gray. Gray shirts, gray shoes, gray pants, even gray scarves. I mean, certainly, not everyone was dressed in gray, but it had the gray feel to it. You know, when everyone looks so boringly the same? A couple people had preemptively put their umbrella’s up—though I wonder whether that’s because they expected the rain, or were simply too oblivious to realize that it was not falling yet. I could hear phones buzzing (nobody ever set their phone to ring anymore—who could really take the looks of wonder from strangers when an unexpected song burst out? This was no Disney movie).

I, personally, do not own a phone. Not that it’s a bad idea, but I do not have much reason for it. My family died out a few years back—my mom died after a bout with brain cancer, and I never met my father. If I need to contact friends I know I will see them at work. Work. Everyday, everybody would pile onto the tram and—what? No no no, the tram. There’s no cars where I live. There is the work space and the living space. Each tram travels along a massive circular railing, roughly 8 feet from the ground, with break points at each living space, and at each workstation. To save time, the chairs of the trams fall out and drop people from their seat onto a padded surface. This initially was a problem, until people realized (or rather, were told) that they did not need all the extra baggage they carried. There were printers at work, and everyone’s documents were paired between their workstation and their home. And besides, who has time to do anything special like that anymore? It’s not as though we had energy to do anything after we got off work at night.

After people got off the tram, they would walk through the narrow walkway back to their home. Roads were disposed of quite a while ago—they just took up too much space. The living spaces were already at their maximum safety height—at least, maximum in terms of cost efficiency to safety ratios. And the people had grown so obese that they were losing functionality sooner. A short walk to home on our own time was a little trade for both our health and government time. Still, I feel bad for the eighties. They live nearly ten miles away from the nearest tram stop. But, that’s punishment for low efficiency units.

I live in the fifteens. Fifteens are a great lot. They’re far enough away that the air is still crisp, but not so far that it’s a voyage to Tram Stop #3. There’s no “early to work” or “late to work” anymore. People come and go as they please. The companies decided it would be more freeing to do that. But there is a minimum work efficiency barrier, and in the even that it is not met the companies and the government have taken measures to motivate people to get back to work. They will limit warm water, leisurely Internet access, and reduce the quality of food flavor. Consistently low efficiency units are moved further away until they fix their problem—assuming their space hasn’t been reassigned yet. The fifteens are pretty high—I have worked quite hard to earn my flat. It even has a couch. You never really realize what it’s like to not have a couch until you sprawl out on one.

But enough thought about home. The walk to work from the tram station—Tram Station #92, to be precise—is quite a sight. The busy lights, the gray masses of men and women. It’s really something to look at. Everyone has a screen in their face, protective glasses on to keep the light from frying their eyes over time—early blindness was a sign of systematic inefficiency. The air was moist, yet as always it was nearly odorless. The light scent of rose petals wafted through the air. I’m told somewhere, a higher up has the last garden in the sector, and that we are lucky they leave the window open for us to smell it. Though, truth be told, I’m almost certain they simply pump the scent into the airwaves. Otherwise that would be a vacation attraction.


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A silence wafted over the crowd,

As the man raised his arm to the sky.

“My people,” he bellowed into the mic,

“It is our time. The time to take our place!”

The silence burst into a rupture of applause.

I turned to my father,

Who had began to walk away, and asked,

“Where is our place?”

He paused, and turned back to me.

He knelt, and smiled a tired smile at me.

He put a hand on my shoulder,

And an arm across his chest.

“Our place is, and always will be, together.”


His voice was like a pebble

In an ocean of people.

And like a pebble,

the ripples of his words

Carried a silence through the crowd,


Until a circle of eyes landed on us.

There was a pause,

Then the man’s voice called out to us.

“What is it?”

His voice was filled with contempt.

The people edged closer to us,

And my father stood up.

“My friends,” my father called out.

He pointed to the man on the balcony,

“Do not let this man

Steal the fire of your mind!

We have lived for each other!

Not as the fists of one man!”


The crowd turned back to the man

With expectant eyes.

They seemed unsure what to do.

The man brought his fist to his chest

And said,

“Do you not see what I have brought you!

Do you not see the respect we have gained?

A respect that this man,”

He pointed at my father

“Abandoned for personal gain.”


The people turned back to my father,

With eyes full of hate.

He glanced at me, and mouthed


I backed away into crowd

And my father was pushed out of sight.


I didn’t know then

That his tired smile

Would be my last sight of him.


A voice in the East rallied the crowd,

And they charged at him.

They buried him in a rage.

Then I turned back to the man

Far up on the balcony,

And I could see a faint smile.

A smile that said he had won.


Hello everyone,


Ok, I decided to take a break from creative writings today, which I’ve been on a bit of a roll with. The other day, I had a class where we had a guest speaker named Dr. Jawaharlal come to talk about the social aspects of Engineering (the class is closer to liberal arts than “pure science”), and he brought up some issues that I have already talked about at length, but he got me thinking more deeply about Nature and Nurture. Now, I’ve always been pretty far on the side of Nurture as being the key aspect in development of thought, and for the most part Dr. Jawaharlal agreed with that. He used the term “social background,” which I think is quite fitting in many ways.

That being said, he was talking about how a person’s background is the main reason they do not succeed in certain areas. For example, at a young age girls are told—directly or indirectly—that they are not supposed to be good at math. Even unintentionally, people are pigeonholed to think they cannot or should not do something. Take genetics, I’m sure someone has heard the phrase “I don’t know where she/he get’s that from. It’s not from me, and it’s not from his/her mother/father.” Isn’t that somehow negative? Well, Dr. Jawaharlal went a little further, and said that this is creating an expectation within someone that they should not be able to do this, and therefore they are less likely to choose a path that takes that. Through the trends of this, less women are pushed into STEM areas (STEM stands for Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math). Now this is a pretty smart engineer—he’s currently working on biomimicry, which is creating technology that is based off processes in nature so as to reduce waste produced by modern technology.

That aside, his idea of a social background got me thinking that nurture is more than just our environment around us, but also ourselves. Think about it, if you tell yourself “I can do this” a thousand times per day, won’t you eventually succeed? What if you told yourself every day for 10 years “I can’t ride a bike.” When you get on that bike, do you think you will be able to do it? Would you even get on the bike? So apply the same logic to math. And sure, it is easy to write this off by saying “well, that’s their personal error. They should be able to drone out the voices of others and be more positive.” But that’s hard to do in reality.

I know there is a term for this; it is called internalization, which means you take something to heart from outside. The psychology idea is a self-fulfilling prophecy (sort of). Yet neither of these ideas have an answer for how to fix it. At least, that’s not what is taught in classes. Problems without solutions. The answer is simple in reality—don’t put people down like this. Think before you speak. That doesn’t just mean figure out what you are saying, but also figure out how they will impact the people around you. There’s a huge difference between “you suck at that” and “you could do better at that.”


*Once again, I do not own this image. It is from the University of Surrey website.