Not so OK, cupid.

     It was going to be a solid article, had anyone bought it.  But that's the problem with freelancing; you spend your time stuck in front of a glowing computer screen, hacking at the keys, sending email after email after email, and then waiting and hoping for someone to respond, and half of the time (more most of the time) no one bites or even responds.  It was going to be my opus, my take down of the online dating world, my proof that women were desperate and online is where standards dropped to nil.  I had set up two profiles on OKcupid.com, one with the cliché idea of what the ideal man is (going off of rom-com archetypes): a decent salary, a love for chick flicks, able to cook, interested in vanilla music they would play at the Gap, ambitious, etc.  Then there was the second one, a few pictures with dead animals, heavy handed serial killer overtones, the use of cliché stalker clues, and a general disdain for most people. I had hypothesized that women would flock to the creep, leaving the nice guy alone.  It was a success in that regard.

 The problem arose with the fact that I had all of this data, this whole article, but no one to take it.  Rejection after rejection after no response, it was going nowhere.  I'm not sure which came first, the idea that if I went on a date as each of the guys, brought them into real life, played the part, that I would be able to land a home for my story, or if I was asked out to tea, but somehow I ended up making plans and heading down to the Belmont redline stop to meet "K######" ("Laura Goldstein.")  I may have been playing the creep, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to look nice while I did it.  I tossed on a nice sweater and some slacks, and wandered down.
     I don't know what I expected from a girl who A. was going on a date with someone she "met" online and B. was going on a date with some objectively creepy guy she "met" on the internet.  But when Laura showed up, she was wearing a worn down long sleeve t-shirt, "Las Vegas" printed across the front.  She was shorter than I imagined, looked nothing like her pictures, and had a nasally voice akin to Sarah Silverman on helium.  She was also younger than she said she was.  Freshly twenty, not twenty-two like her profile had said.  There's still something in the back of my mind that says I should have carder her to make sure she was eighteen.  "It's just tea, it'll be fine."  It will be fine indeed.
     During the walk to Argo Tea, we had to make awkward small talk.
     "My parents are paying for me to study abroad in China."
     "That's very nice of them."
     "Yeah, they're, you know, Jewish- Goldstein- Jewish."
     "Man, I wish I was Jewish.  My parents are Latino, so, you know, we're poor. Obviously." 
     "Oh. So you're a spic eh?  My parents won't like that."
     "I mean, we're also Catholic, so I can't bring home a Jewish Princess either.  Not that this would even come to that…"
     We weren't trying to be funny.
     It was one thing to ignore or try to make jokes about the racial slur.  But when we got our drinks and sat down to talk, she pulled out her invisible braces, setting them on a napkin, long lines of spit like telephone wires coming from her teeth.  She leaned in while she told me about… China?  DePaul?  The weather?  I don’t really know.  I was spending more time tearing at my croissant, rolling my tea along its bottom edge, and faking phone calls to step outside and not deal with her.  Things weren't going well.
     "Can we go back to your house for a bit?  I think we should drink something."
     "Well, alright.  You want to throw down on a jug of wine or something?"
     "Oh, I thought you could just get it.  Steal it like a good latino."
     "Ah. I see.  So this is how the Jews keep all their gold.  Stingy bastards."
     We walked to the store, grabbing the cheapest, largest bottle of wine I could, since I needed a drink to make myself comfortable with the idea that I was ignoring all of the annoyance, all of the racism, all of the grating voices, in an effort to maybe, hopefully, fuck some stupid girl I met on the internet.  I hadn’t been the best of people in return, and I had heard online dating stories, so I assumed that everyone is really only in it for the casual sex.  The random meet up.  That the coffee or tea or drinks in a bar, or any of the pretense, was just that, that the main goal was to get to someone's house and slam up against each other, sweating in the dark, all with the glow of the computer screen in the background. 
     At my apartment, we sat awkwardly in the two chairs, a La-Z-Boy and an overstuffed armchair, the only two pieces of furniture in the house, me caught between roommates.  The chairs were positioned in front of the TV, making conversation difficult.  It drifted, from cats to things we had seen on the internet, briefly hitting the "so why are you internet dating?" category, before we awkwardly got quiet, neither of us wanting to confront those particular demons.  I had brought my laptop out, setting it far back against the wall on a milk crate, putting on some Black Flag in an effort to drive her away.  By this time, I was drunk and just wanted to go to sleep.  After Henry Rollins declared that there would be a TV party tonight, alright, Laura turned to me and asked
     "Can I put on some porn?"
     "What?"
     "There's this Czech guy, and- he's so smooth.  He goes around giving women money to show him their tits, then he keeps giving them money until the suck his dick, and eventually he gives them more to fuck them, and occasionally gives enough to get anal."
     "What?"
     "Here."  And with that, she started surfing the internet, finding her preferred porn site, scrolling through videos giving a "this one is good" or a "this sucks" or a "this girl is so hot" and the whole time I just kept thinking "so this is it.  I guess I should grab a condom."
     The Czech guy had a shaky, crappy video camera, handing some mildly attractive, dark haired, overly painted like a trollop, girl a fist full of koruna.  The captions read "here, here! 100 koruna to see your breasts!" before she was quickly convinced.  (100 koruna is five American dollars. I knew this from friends who had gone to Prague that summer.) It escalated quickly, and I started wondering what was especially hot about seeing some poor girl sell herself as a prostitute, desperate to get the money, or maybe it was the camera, but lose her dignity no matter what.  I felt awkward, as if I was being shown what I was trying to do.  Sure, I wasn’t offering her money, but I only had one goal in mind, one mission and I started to feel sick.  Not sick enough to be totally distracted when she got behind me and started massaging my shoulders as the porn played in front of us.  "Fuck it," I thought, as the man gave the girl another two hundred koruna to fuck her in a bathroom, "I'm getting laid."
     She moved from the La-Z-Boy to the armchair, behind me, pressed herself into my back, massaging my chest, breathing heavily on my neck, grinding her hips into my back.  Soon she stopped, spinning out and looking at me, saying "lift up your shirt, I need to check your nipples."  It was the first time someone had asked that.
     "What?"
     "I need to make sure you don't have weird nipples.  Let me see them."
     "What?"
     "Here." And she pulled up my shirt, inspecting my nipples like a jeweler inspecting a diamond, searching for the smallest flaw.  Satisfied, she let my t-shirt fall back, nodding approvingly.  I felt my chances of sex growing. 
     "Well, since you saw mine, I feel like it's only fair that I see yours."  I was a sly sonofabitch.
     "Alright," she said, pulling her shirt up, then off, taking the bra with it.  She stood there, confident, straight, and proud of her breasts.  They weren't much, two halved peaches, somehow sagging despite their size and her age, with more or less symmetrical nipples, two short black hairs sticking out of the right one.  Under sober circumstances, this would have been the final straw, the work that I had put in (what a disgusting sentence, the work put into trying to have sex.) not worth the pay out, but with half a jug of wine swirling like brandy in my stomach, it seemed like a good time to try and kiss her.  I went in slowly, trying to be smooth, but drunk enough that I'm sure I looked terrible.  She stopped me, holding a hand between us, offering only "I think I've been giving you mixed signals," before putting on her shirt, and standing up.  I stayed in my half seated position, puckered lips sliding back into place slowly, head still cocked to one side.  She asked  "Well, now what?" And suddenly I felt my testicles resting in their sack.  Suddenly I felt all the machismo I had been fronting.  Suddenly, the wine gave way to a drunkenness typically fueled by whiskey and I felt sure of myself and not at all misled. 
     "Maybe you should go." 


     A few days later and she texted me, asking to meet up for a second date at the Museum of Contemporary Art.  I said I would meet her out front, never planning on leaving my house.  Had I managed to get any more information, anything useful to use in an article on internet dating?  Did women really get desperate enough to ignore red flags?  A girl, far too young to be on okcupid.com anyway, wanted to meet for a second time with someone who shared no similar interests, freely used racial slurs, and spent the entire time trying to sleep with her instead of getting to know her.  Did any of it really matter anyway?
     Online dating seems to be the wave of the future, and for good reason.  Instead of heading to bars or clubs, places where at face value there is only one shared interest, or even worse, approaching someone based solely on looks alone, commonalities are displayed right there on the screen, percentages spelled out for seeing before a word is spoken how good of a match you might be.  Casual sexual exploits thrive in the bar scene, and sites like Grindr and apps like Break the Ice have the hook up game cornered, leaving sites like ok cupid to flourish in legitimate match making.  Typically.
     That driving urge to stick it in, or have it stuck in by a pretty face will always exist, and humans, particularly with the anonymity of the internet have no reason not to try, striking out being no more taxing than not being retweeted by a celebrity.  It means nothing, with no face lost at all.  Will men and women still be creeps, still ignore how crazy a person is while trying to sleep with them?  Absolutely.  Is it expected? Sure.  Should it be? Fuck off, I'm no sociologist or philosopher.




While "researching" this article, I ended up having a message exchange with someone on the "nice guy" profile.  Before we met, I told her about the article, the other profiles, etc.  We are happily dating.  So, you know, there's that. 

      

Death of the Protest

            It was a terrible plan, trying to push through the police line.  At the end of the march, while everyone was told to leave, told to walk west down Cermak, away from McCormick Place, away from the line of riot cops in their straight-out-of-68 blue helmets who stood in front of a line of white shirt officers, who stood in front of a line of officers on horseback, who stood in front of a giant metal fence which loomed under the visible sniper, under the trying to be hidden spotter on the building opposite, the Black Bloc anarchists and other dissidents decided that they would march east, into the fray, in an attempt to shut down the NATO summit.  I pulled out my camera, like everyone did, journalists, citizens, trying to document the moment where things would “get interesting.”  This was the moment we had all been warned about.  This was where those pesky anarchists would start rioting.  The pepper spray, the rubber bullets, the arrests and broken windows, the anarchy signs and burning dumpsters.  This was it.

            

            This is what the protest had boiled down to.  It was a long day filled with passionate speakers, with nearly ten thousand people marching with an amalgamated message that said no to war and no to austerity, with veterans pulling their medals from their chests and throwing them back to the NATO generals inside the summit.  A peaceful day that meant so much to so many people, that showed, as Kundera called it, “the euphoria of solidarity,” meant nothing to the media, corporate or independent.  Everyone wanted the visceral.  Everyone wanted to see rocks and blood and the shiny new weapons the CPD got, and to see a charge by the police and running street battles.  And this, this attraction to violence, this collection of cameramen and women, of onlookers putting themselves in harm’s way just to see something “exciting” happen is exactly why the protest, the marching, sign carrying protest is dead.

            This isn’t directed at any one particular movement, although it can be more or less directed towards the left.  Still, headline whores in the corporate media, directing their attacks towards OWS, only see the small picture.  Occupy groups themselves only see it too.  The left in general seems to think that marches and demonstrations are effective or useful or interesting or pertinent, and that is where they are wrong. The Tea Party had their moment in the sun, and that was the tipping point. 

            The Tea Party faced public scorn for being racist, rightwing extremist bigots.  However, even while showing up to rallies with loaded weapons, not a single one was beaten by the police, pepper sprayed, or told to get a job. They just made their noise, and got politicians to back them.  They made people think that even the everyman could actually have a stake in their government, or that with enough noise, change would be brought about.  In some ways, their extremism is what made Occupy such a strong voice for the left.  But that is where the differences lie. 

            The Tea Party played the game.  They wanted their political party to be even more like their political party used to be.  They were sick of people deviating away from their trenches and coming closer to a centrist compromise, and wanted it to be business as usual back in congress.  They didn’t have a problem with the system; they had a problem with other people using their system.  They didn’t care about lobbyists or corruption.  They cared about someone they disagreed with having too much power and passing laws that didn’t agree with their implicit or explicit racism and bigotry.  They were able to get what they wanted, because they didn’t really want anything.  They didn’t ask for change.  They asked for things not to change. 

            Leftist groups, forever, have been trying to fight against the system.  This is why there are always arrests; this is why there are always violent flare ups between extreme leftists and police.  The anarchists and the anti-police protesters fight unfair fights, suffer injuries, persecution, and prosecution, trying to demonstrate the sheer force of the police state, but without having real victories.  The more moderate protesters celebrate perceived victories, thinking that changing the national dialogue, getting their cause mentioned on the media that they despise.  But it’s all for naught.  The dialogue changes as soon as the next celebrity is caught in public without underwear, or a sports star goes down for the season. 

            It’s not that the populous should simply roll over.  It’s that we as a people need to understand what is going through the minds of those with power.  A source from inside the summit heard Georgian President Saakashvili belittling the NATO protesters, particularly the occupy movement.  When offered a chance to ask him a question, she asked if his current economic status had changed his mind on popular movements, seeing as he came to power after the Rose Revolution.  He elected not to answer her question.  This is how the powers that be behave behind closed doors.  President Obama was elected through a popular, albeit tame, uprising in America where people were tired of the way things were going.  Now, it’s back to business as usual (even though the Tea Party still isn’t happy). 

           

            When the anarchists tried to break through the police line, and things started getting hectic, one of the main points that a WGN newscaster was making is that it was “no longer a peaceful protest.”  This was true.  Peace was no longer at the forefront.  People had started throwing bottles, the anchor pointed out, as well as sticks and debris.  Everything erupted because of the anarchists. 

            This is both true and a blatant lie.  The anarchists did provoke the police, very intentionally and with no plan.  However, their form of action was walking in a line.  They tried to walk through the police. They didn’t draw first blood, they didn’t start throwing things, they just tried to walk west.  It was the police, thick wooden batons at the ready, that started swinging.  The passive direct action sparked a police blowback that was greater than necessary and opened many protesters heads.  The bloody were dragged away from the front line, disoriented, onlookers calling for medics.  The police then got reinforcements, and surged forwards, pushing the crowd into metal barricades, the only way for them to go since more riot cops lined the streets to the north and south.  The barricades collapsed, and down went part of the crowd.  I had turned around just in time to watch the crowd fall on top of me, spending the next few minutes as a human bridge while scared and bloody protesters climbed over me.  According to a friend at the protest, the surge stopped when all of the anarchists gave a hand signal, then sat down on the ground peacefully, the cops still swinging, then stopping confused, finally seeing the collateral damage and letting those who didn’t want to be there escape the fray. 

            This was seen as “great restraint” on behalf of the police, and a great success by Mayor Rahm Emanuel.  The protesters called it police brutality.  I call it the sign that the end has come.

            Today, the end of protest riots are expected, planned, and even wished for (secretly).  The “news” was choked with fear of looting, destruction, and spray painted symbols of an ideology for months.  This is more important to the collection populous than what those anarchists were there for.  The rally as a whole gave people little to latch onto viscerally.  The march was a sharing of ideas and a show of strength in numbers, like all protests are.  But America doesn’t care about that.  They care about finding the next explosion.  They care about seeing the next fractured skull.  They care about following people who terrify them because they dress in all black, even on a 90 degree day, then sensationalize anything they do.  Occupy as a whole was a mundane attempt at getting a popular movement to change things.  The municipal governments managed to suppress them long enough, managed to avoid them long enough that the steam was lost.  There people aren’t there to keep it rolling, because they are waiting in line to see Battleship in 3D while eating McDonald’s and listening to their iPods. 

            Protesting is useless.  But then what is to be done?  The corporate whore media suggests leftists try to work inside the system.  Very close, dear people to me agree and are trying to do just that.  Everyone seems to agree that some change is needed, but no one seems to know how to bring it about.  The anarchists want to smash the state, and let people govern themselves, and honestly, I think they might be half right.  If the state continues to suppress protesters, continues to devalue the first amendment and try to spark outrage or violence in order to justify further crackdowns, then how else do the people defend themselves but by getting rid of the state?  Not in a violent overthrow of the government, no.  That would never work and only cause the government to be able to come back twice as hard against its citizens. What would be needed are peaceful protests, people standing united in the streets, rallying around a cause. 

Too bad that never works.  The cycle starts again.

Whose Hearts?

     The drum circle pounded out the rhythm that blasted from my chest as I stared at her through the police line. There, bundled against the autumn chill, scarf, knit cap, pea coat, stood a vision of beauty that this ugly world hadn’t managed to pillage just yet. Her oversized glasses slid down her nose as she held a gloved fist in the air, chanting, yelling, until her face turned red. “The whole world is watching!” Little did she know that I was watching her.

     We sat, arms linked, trying to hold a public space, trying to give a permanence to the movement that has grown from a perpetual disgust in where we were and where we were going. But all the hatred, the anger, the looming police officers with plastic zip-ties, ready to cart us off to jail, all of it melted away as I stared, catching her eye once, for one fleeting moment, as she pressed up against the metal barricade on the sidewalk. Through her indignation, her rage at what she yelled was a “police state,” she flashed me a corner of a smile, warming my heart, igniting my blood, not with a passion for a protest, but for her.  Her copper red hair was whipped by the wind, and the police spot lights caught it just right, illuminating her halo, saintly in appearance as she demanded justice.

     An hour passed and it was my turn to be stood up and arrested. My hands were gently placed behind my back as the police officer told me I was in violation of a city ordinance. His voice was tired, and he walked me slowly, casually, to the awaiting bus.

     “Why did you choose to be arrested?” He asked, having given me the option to walk away.            Why does a young man do anything? I looked over to the barricades at her once more, her hands pressed together and held against her chest. Her eyes got wide when they met mine, her tears welling up as if she had expected all of us to be let go, to stay and fight against the system that had wronged her. She looked at me like I was her lover leaving for war, as if she knew better than I did that she would never see me again. The officer looked over at her.

     “Is that your girlfriend?” he asked, a smile in his voice. We had reached the door of the bus.

     “No…” I said, stealing one last look as her first tear fell.

     “Too bad.” He said, “She’s gorgeous.”

     “You have no idea.”

Art School Student Politics as a Microcosm: Maintaining Power Through Lap-Dog Ethics.

"Through civility and compromise, we were able to get everything that we asked for." This was Cassandra Norris' idea of the democratic process, her idea of change and improvement, involvement, and action. Which, to a point, is wonderful. The Student Government Association president has learned to set obtainable goals, to align herself with the Administration, and to ensure that she reports back with victories. It's how left-leaning political institutions have ran for decades, it's how the current national government deals with disputes, and it works, right?

The notion that a civil, calm discourse is the way (note: not a way, but the way) to a successful campaign is the mainstream normative ideal. In her pre-address speech, her introduction for president Carter, she mentioned the struggles that SGA had maintaining membership, the cost of tuition rising for a student organization. She used that as the bond she had with those who were dissatisfied in the audience, with the newly formed coalition of students and faculty and staff, all being (whether rightly or wrongly) headlined as the independent group Occupy Columbia College. She mentioned that she wanted her concerns met as much as they did, and those concerns were enough for her to occupy Columbia, Chicago, and any other place that needed occupying. She did this , trying to connect, to form a bond, to attempt to co-op the student anger and movement while simultaneously leading the audience to her next point, the previously stated civil and compromising efforts the SGA made while dealing with the Board of Trustees and the President.

That civility and compromise, that idea that marches are wonderful and raising one's voice is great in a public square, but accomplish little in the ways of policy change is a sentiment that had been echoed, nearly verbatim, by the Columbia Chronicle to a certain degree. The headlining articles typically offered a more empathetic position to the students, Heather Shoring working with a directed passion for getting the story, however, the rest of the paper's reporters seemed to see things a different way.

In an editorial that was published several weeks before the State of the College Address, published following a large student action where Occupy Columbia delivered a petition after holding a rally, it was mentioned that the noise being generated was doing little more than scaring students and delivering erroneous information. Ms. Norris warned of rumors and misinformation during her speech. A lesser pass was made at the college for their previous refusal of transparency in the prioritization process. Instead, a victory was touted, with the first round of documents from the prioritization process, the original blueprint, finally being made available to put online and disseminated to students. A victory, made through civility and compromise.

A second victory was the inclusion of the yet undetermined way of getting a student prioritization recommendation list made. This would be open and available to anyone who wanted to make their voice heard, and the president promised to read it, a promise he was sure to keep as he was told by the student board that it would be embarrassing for him if he didn't. The small victories touted as triumphant progress made toward the student goals (decided by who it is unknown) of being a part of the prioritization process did little to quell the onslaught of student questions asked at the open Q&A, angry, visceral questions that led to a student being removed by the all too large security presence for calling President Carter "a fucking liar" and for the president to tell one student upset by his very large, six-figure salary to "shut up." These exchanges showed exactly how civil and open to compromise both sides planned on being.

Cassandra Norris acted her part. That part was a student liaison to the administration, a talking head, an imaginary crusader for the student voice. Cassandra effectively filled her role as Carter's lapdog, constantly scanning the crowd and signaling to the head of security (or vice head, or the other made-up positions that spend far too much time being wary of students who are unhappy with their college) whenever she believed there was going to be an uprising. If any member of the Occupy Columbia College contingency shifted in their seat, she would make eye contact with one of the suits, nodding in the direction of the comfortable-position-seeker (it should be noted that campus security was prepared for a riot. While the bald vice president of campus security waited for the first interruption, even after preventing the public meeting from being public, college IDs suddenly and inexplicably needed, he was texting the office about what property could be damaged [two speakers and two TVs.])

While the SGA president was working directly with the administration, the rest of the SGA presence (save for a few senators) were busy playing their parts as members of the student body. Carter knew where his go-to section was, those who would show that he had support, that he had students who wanted to go along with his plan. In regards to the multi-million dollar mansion and the lack of the alleged public space that was to go along with it (information from a Chronicle article from 2001) he asked those who had been there to raise their hands. The SGA kids in front, all in business casual, many in a shade of light blue, but all bunched together in three rows, raised their hands. Later, when told that the students as a whole did not want prioritization to happen at all, Carter asked who thought that prioritization was a good idea to raise their hands. The exact same group in front, raised their hands, casting a sour glare at the student at the microphone, daring them to say how the students felt again. Through their orchestrated gesture, they attempted to castrate the anti-prioritization movement, showing that this was a fringe group who didn’t speak on behalf of who they claimed to represent, but instead were simply a minority. While it was known (or at least assumed) to the student coalition that this was a gross misrepresentation of the student body, the bodies were there to be counted, in a strong showing by the pro-prioritization lapdogs. They turned back to the president, him smiling down to them, them soaking up the possibility of a letter of recommendation from him [speculated and debatable.] Through civility and compromise, they managed to skew the feelings in the room, making the whole State of the College feel like even more of a sham than it already felt.

What I learned from pretending to give a fuck about the Republican Primaries

This is an article that was removed from a certain news website due to its profanity...

In the last couple of weeks, I've learned that no matter what, republicans will go with the most obvious choice, but only if they are brought to it kicking and screaming. Since the beginning, we've all known that Romney would be the candidate of choice, the obvious choice, the man with the bank account to actually run for president. Unlike back when another east coast politician with a lot of money and a strange religion, everyone got past the Mormon thing. Everyone also got passed Romney-care as well, deciding that his business experience made up for his actual care for human beings.

But not all of them. Romney loves firing people. He has experience too. But does any of that really matter? no.

Because the republican primaries have already lasted too long. Since the beginning we've fucked around thinking about all of the crazies, even giving Sarah Palin strong numbers even though she never announced an official candidacy. Bachmann, Perry (GWBII), and even Anal Leakage Party Representative Rick Santorum have all had their shot, and it was hilarious. But now, now it's time to get serious and elect the guy with the most reasonable candidacy.

Ron Paul.

Not that Ron Paul is my top choice for... anything. Other than crazy uncle. That would be awesome. But Ron Paul is the only candidate who has consistently held a position, has real republican values (outside of war mongering) and could possibly beat Obama in a debate, seeing as he can actually string a sentence together that doesn't involve copious use of the word "I." Plus, it would be entertaining as hell to watch polar opposites when it comes to spending go head to head.

So, to bring it to an actual point, to hell with South Carolina, and Florida for that matter. The primaries are boring and a waste of time. Let's pick a candidate by lottery. That way we could gamble on it, like real Americans.

It's been a busy winter...

I spent the past month or so working on a new webzine, which is up, and you should totally check it out:

http://www.ifeelprettyonline.com

it's pretty great.

Gram

I feel like there should be a disclaimer here. Fuck it.

It should be noted that Emmy was only fourteen years of age when she won the attentions of a thirty five year old man named Gram. This, however, did not stop him from pining over the girl, staying up with dreams ever-flowing from the challis of his mind, spilling over onto the tile of his sanity, eroding it until, like so many other men, it cracked and buckled and burst, drowning his heart with nothing but visions of her. Gram thought of former students, one in particular, Darla, who had once wrote in an essay on child brides that “age is just a number,” pushing her agenda that young women have inalienable rights, including who they choose to love and when. But Darla was a blonde memory now, and instead, as he sat behind his desk, staring out over the rows of metal desks and chairs, over the blossoming minds of his students, he stared and fantasized about Emmy.

One could say that this relationship between a child and their mentor, their teacher, is at best awkward, and at worst shameful and wrong. But I leave those judgments to be passed by the Almighty and not by mere mortals on this planet. For who among us is perfect enough to judge another? Moreover, who among us can tell a tale of love and strife of any kind without striking a chord somewhere in the throngs of people clamoring for such a tale? Some will be effected by the use of language, whilst others opt to struggle with the follies of those whose lives are being dissected for art, for make no mistake, the lives that we are dealing with are very much real, or at least, as real as you or I in the eyes of the universe.

Emmy and the rest of her class sat with their heads bowed, focused on the seemingly endless stream of empty bubbles to be filled in, number two pencils clenched between teeth, and sweat starting to form on their young brows. Although Emmy didn’t sweat. She was far too perfect for that, and even in her confusion over question number thirty two, she simply bit the end of her pencil, leaving a trace of lip gloss around the eraser, and pulled on her brown curls, which were lopsided and the product of half an hour in the mirror, trying to figure the process out on her own. Her chest heaved as she sighed, finally picking an answer, and Gram shifted in his seat, trying to see past the pimply faces that blocked his view of the budding B-cups that haunted the far reaches of his brain.

Here, Gram stopped in time. While outside of him, the world spun as usual, breaths were taken, heads were scratched, answers were read by other students, but inside, the Earth stood still, unchanged and unmoving. Frozen, Emmy leaned back, stretching, staring at the nerdy Asian kid’s test, memorizing the answers with a fake yawn that would have fooled the most cynical of teachers. But not Gram, as he watched her every move and begged any Gods that would listen to give him an excuse to force Emmy’s company. This was it, and as the world slowly started turning again, Gram half yelled, half squeaked “Emmy!” Though instead of authoritative, it sounded excited.

“Yes?” Emmy said, in a voice that would be used by a chesty blonde pulled over for speeding. She smiled, pouted, trying to use her looks that had come far too early to get out of the trouble she knew she faced.

“Bring your test up here. You’re going to have to retake this after class, when you can’t read anyone else’s answers.” It was brilliant, Gram thought, in the explicit punishment and handling of a student, as well as the implicit move to bring her closer to him.

The rest of the class finished, the bell rang, and the school day was over. Save for little Emmy, who now had a test to make up, in part to her cheating, in part to her teacher’s hidden agenda. Gram had never acted upon thoughts he knew were “wrong,” especially in his own eyes. Getting too close to a child less than half his age was certainly wrong. But something, some growing pressure deep inside had caused him to not only think of these deviant thoughts, but to also fantasize about them, to will them into reality in his darkened bedroom at home, sweating by thinking of the girl that he wanted, needed, to be with. He felt himself change inside, felt as though his blood ran black, that his heart was caked with a layer of obsession and perversion that he himself could do nothing about. Emmy wandered up to the desk.

“So now I have to take the test all over, just because I might have glanced at an answer?” Emmy said, leaning over the way her mother used to do when Emmy would get in trouble in middle school, leaning over the principals desk, asking for mercy, since she was young and still learning what was right and wrong. Emmy’s elbows were pointed in, towards one another, her T-shirt bulging the way no fourteen-year-old’s t-shirt should bulge. Gram, suddenly blacked out.

Now while Gram is unable to tell the police what happened in the ensuing moments, that doesn’t mean that the rest of the universe was not witness to it. And as the humble stenographer for the universe, it is our duty to relay those events.

First, Gram stood up, walking over and sitting on the front of his desk, next to where Emmy stood. Then, he glanced at the door, ensuring that it was closed. After seeing that they were alone, and that no one should be coming into his classroom anytime soon, he grabbed Emmy by the face, bending low, very low, to plant his lips on hers and hold her tight. While Emmy may have been suggestive, she had no idea what she was really suggesting, and it certainly did not include making out with her teacher, oh no. But that is what happens when men can no longer maintain their sanity. The insane among us lash out at the world, kissing fourteen-year-olds and grabbing at their young breasts. Gram pushed his mouth into hers, swallowing the screams, convincing himself that they were from pleasure, not fear, moving his groping hands lower, tugging at the button of her jeans, his hands much stronger than hers as they flailed, trying to scratch, to push, to pinch, hit, gouge, all to no avail as Gram pushed farther, feeling her warm skin beneath her clothes. She tried to kick at his groin, but the adrenaline flowing through his veins overpowered her own, and visions of them, both naked in front of a fire, feeding each other fruits and giggling into the night clouded his eyes, letting him see only fantasy, never understanding the horror that was fixed in her gaze or the poison in her tongue as his pushed it around, prying her teeth open, losing blood as she bit down.

Another moment passed, now with time frozen for young Emmy, her world being dismantled around her, but for Gram everything was happening too fast, his memories forming and losing detail too soon, not allowing him to revel in the moment, to take joy in the goings-on, to relish his victory. He had loosened her jeans, every kick from her allowing them to be slid down further and further, until they were at her ankles, tripping her as she tried to get away, sliding lower into his grip. He worked at his own pants now, his olive green khakis moving quickly to mid-thigh, Him moving his way inside of her. Her eyes widened as she felt the pain, and in a last ditch effort put her whole body into one swift movement, leaning her head back, breaking away from his forced kiss, and slamming it forward, stunning him as he pushed on, but only for a moment. She managed to take a breath before bellowing one quick scream before he was ahold of his bearings and able to force himself upon her mouth once more.

A fire had broken out across town, and as Emmy’s head made contact, a shrill, piercing sound came roaring down the street, just outside Gram’s window. The sirens wailed, the trucks headed towards a burning building. Emmy’s scream forced its way through the glass, and out into the world, being dragged along by the fire trucks’ cries, following them out into the city, off to rescue someone else from danger.