Winters of Asgard

Lundgirn shovels the walkway that leads from his small, wooden chalet down to the lake. The night is still and each falling snowflake seems trapped in time as it floats slowly from the cloud covered, black night sky to the snow covered, white ground. His breath streams out in turrets of steam as he struggles only slightly with the work. The night was still. The only sound was the periodic scraping of his shovel against the stone path. The lucid night was soft and yet heavy around him as Lundgirn opened a way to the lake. The frozen lake. Lundgirn lived alone in his chalet. He was the sole person who lived in this part of the woods. He had spent many years perfecting his home and making it as comfortable as possible. Every morning he awoke to shovel the walkway. He would return, eat and then venture outside again to shovel away the newly fallen snow. Once finished for the second time he would enter his living chambers to gaze at his pictures. Night would fall sullenly and he would tromp outside to light his lamps. The woods would be alit with dim light, amplified by the white ground. It would create a slight haze effect. Like that of dreams. Lundgirn would then shovel the walkway a third time in the night before retiring to his bed chamber and dozing into a soft sleep. All year this is what he would do. All year the snow would fall. His setting would never change. The snow he shoveled would pile up but it never accumulated more than a day. Each day would bring the same amount of snow. Lundgirn noticed at first but eventually grew to accept it. He accepted it as he accepted that he would never see Hirst smile again. Hirst. Every time he got to the lake Lundgirn would feel a chill and he would know without looking that he had reached the end of his path. The cold air would not chill him the way that the feeling around the lake did. His soul would slowly get colder as he approached the edge of the frozen waters culminating in a frigid end as he reached the shore. He was chilled for what lay at the bottom of the lake. Frozen in time. Frozen in beauty. Frozen in ice. Frozen in life. Hirst. Lundgirn lived his life to pave a way for her when she would awaken. Lundgirn knew that the winter could not last forever and eventually Hirst would be free and they could be together again. The winter could not last forever. Each year he told himself that. Each new snowfall would be the last. She would rise from the lake, no longer a prisoner. He would no longer lift the snow from the walk.
The snowflakes almost seemed to hover in mid-air. Each one held in place by invisible strings. Dancing on the air but never acquiescing their place in space and time to give up their vigil amid their brethren in the dense night. Each snowflake trapped in time. A twinkle of lamplight off the top of the frozen lake. Lungirn lifted a shovelful of snow. He feels a deep chill and he begins to walk back to his hut, through the immortal snow.

Young, hip, connected

If they are young then they probably know everything there is to know about technology.
This is just a fact of life. The younger someone is, the more likely they are to have an insider's knowledge about the complex, mechanistic world of the future. We assume that children are raised in the strict, yet logical world of binary that fosters a sixth sense for all things electronic. Like Robert Redford, they whisper to the machines and the machines whisper back in kind with all the sordid details of their lives. The machines spout useful information at the mere mention of a young person's name.
The young are in synch with the tech. We should all bow down and submit ourselves, or just simply click "submit".

Why do we do this? Why do we assume that our more youthful have an untapped resource into the minds of the machines? Maybe it was first caused when they had typewriting lessons in schools that caused us to assume that we were training our children to be more technologically savvy. Or maybe it was when we first introduced the pencil in a quill-dominated society. Or perhaps it was the introduction of written language over oral repetition. Whatever the first cause, it is now a fad that has been ingrained in our psyches.

I do not take offense to this. I welcome anyone assuming I know something about anything. However, I do not welcome their inevitable disappointment once they hear me talk about the subject in question. This case, however, is different. This case revolves around things that I can still bull-shit my way through. I can still drop a few acronyms to confuse people into blind submission and "thoughtful" head-nodding. But it will only take me so far.
It is only a matter of time before those that are younger than myself expose me for the fraud that I am. All it will take is someone who is a few minutes younger than me to bring to light the horrible truth that there is yet another thing that I am completely in the dark about. And they will expose me withiout mercy. They will display my shame for the whole world to see. And all there will be left is a shattered man who became defragmented when his hardware became corrupted by time.

Belly Dancing Tips

Do Not:

1. Be fat

2. Be skinny

3. Shake your money taker

4. Dance to Dillinger Escape Plan

5. Stab out the eyes of a patron

6. Eat a patron's eyes

7. Scream "LORD GOD, ZEMUTHRA TAKE ME INTO YOUR TRIBUNAL!"

8. Sprout wings and fly out of a window into the night

Do:

1. Be just right

2. Shake your money maker

3. Dance to RuPaul

4. Be human

Family Guy Porn

You ever notice how things in the beginning are shitty but then they get better as they go on? I am talking about, like, when a band gets together and they record an album in their friend's basement and it sounds like complete shit. Then you go see them live and they sound like a polar bear being given a bad handjob during a leaf game. Then you're all like, "These guys suck donkey balls". BUT, friggen two years later, once the band has had time to "practice", they are super amazing. But then every pretentious asshole is all, "I like their old stuff better" even though you both know full fucking well that it was worse than meeting RuPaul in a public bathroom in a bad neighbourhood in San Fransisco.

You know when that happens? Well, I hope that myself/this blog/the world becomes like that.

It'll go from making noise as it breaks into the quiet house and being forced to kill the husband on the stairs to noiselessly entering the home and slashing the husband's throat as he sleeps so that you are free to do what you will with the wife.