PRESIDENTIAL DECREE No. 1563 (Mendicancy or another fancy way of saying begging)

I find it highly unpractical and unusually cruel to be impassive, so dense and without soul, to leave behind fellow men in the streets.

I once argues over this with a man on a jeepney I won the argument as he could not name this decree. I named the human rights. It's particularly distressing how in my argument human rights won over for the mendicant. I was utterly surprised when beggars weren't allowed to beg, and just die in the streets because they're "so useless." They're no useless. They're opportunity-less. They lack what every other "human being" who has a job, callused to mankind's true plague, mindless and drones on with life without a tarry for the other man "on the job." They lack the power of governance over their lives that the government was supposed to be for them. The goverment was supposed to help them. They're fellow men were supposed to be fair to them and give them chances and help them recind their ugly ways. Ugly. Ways of man's rebuttal to man's cruelty.

I'm beginning to understand why I hated them. So much. I was sure humanity deserved better. I was. Now, I don't know who's "human" anymore.

---

Insanely me ;)

New Reading List for 2011

I cannot believe that I did not notice the freakin' list. I mean, come on! I made the freakin' list! This list would be fulfilled this year. I'm planning on buying these things throughout the year starting with the first one on February. February 15th, to be precise! Yosh! Imma save for it!

The Practical Guide to Drawing Techniques
Peter Gray
275
Format:: Trade Paperback
Publisher: Arcturus Publishing Ltd.
ISBN: 1848372779
Weight: 0.19 kg

The Art of Pixar Short Films
Amid Amidi
1500
Format:: Hardcover
Publisher: Chronicle Books
ISBN: 0811866068
Weight: 1.15 kg

The Practical Guide to Drawing Animals
Peter Gray
275
Format:: Trade Paperback
Publisher: Arcturus Publishing Ltd.
ISBN: 1848372736
Weight: 0.19 kg

This list needs more books... Let's add some more! :)

This January: Gastronomique for my BFF! :D:D:D:D and, if I would be able to sneak in: Code Complete and Code Complete 2.0 by Steve McConnell.

Don't Make Me Think by Steve Krug -- A Book on Usability

The Mythical Man-Moth (Second Edition) : Essays on Software Engineering by Fredrick P Brooks, Jr

Rapid Development by Steve McConnell

Peopleware: Productive Projects and Teams by Tom DeMarco and Timothy Lister

The Design of Everyday Things by Donald A Norman

The Inmates Are Running the Asylum : Why High Tech Products Drive Us Crazy and How To Restore The Sanity by Alan Cooper (FTW! Godfather of GUI)

About Face 3: The Essentials of Interaction Design by Alan Cooper

GUI Bloopers: Do's and Don't's for Software Developers and Web Designers by Jeff Johnson

Programming Pearls by Jon Bentley

The Pragmatic Programmer: From Journeyman to Master by Andrew Hunt and David Thomas

Mastering Regular Expressions by Jeffrey EF Friedl

Designing Web Usability by Jakob Nielsen

Visual Explanations: Images and Quantities, Evidence and Narrative by Edward R Tufte

The Visual Display of Quantitative Information, 2nd Edition by Edward R Tufte

The Dynamics of Software Development by Jim McCarthy and Denis Gilbert

Beginning Japanese: Your Pathway to Dynamic Language Acquisition
by Michael L. Kluemper, et al

---

Insanely me ;)

Daughtry - What About Now

This song moved me so much, that I watched it three times in a row and cried that many times as well. It's so inspiring and heartbreaking at once. This is a state we all try to ignore but persists till we find ourselves and our calling.

---

Insanely me ;)

Because I said so...

Dedicated to my Mother.

Because I said so...

Because I neglected what I knew from the beginning... I get into this mess. It really is a mess, huh? Well. That's something to tell me Grandkids, if I ever get them.

Rambling like an old man already, eh? I wonder if he's rumbling like a loon, too. Something about our jobs are just that fucking perfect all the time. Perfection is not within human grasp though, we still fight for justice to be done for all of us. For all that would be. Now, I'm in the past, and Wright's there. Fighting.

Though, what is he fighting for now? The cop who's luck is close to non-existent? Butz? The weasel got out of my hands, not because of slick--that's Trite's job.

The rain falls out side and the cell echos with the darkness from all men once they see no light and feel aggravation. Just those and nothing more. Then, they're left there to be smothered underneathe all that as it grows exponentially with the darkeness' echoes of denial, regret, and longing. Longing for only one thing. Though, there are several ways to achieve so, one is clear as the daylight that never existed once the curtains were drawn and the bolts locked in place. This world was created. The stretched corridors are lined with various shades of gray pitching to black, never white. And, the walls are stirred from eternal smoothness with scratches, cells, and dents. Some arms lay in sight from the outside of their cells and some keep to themselves.

All cells were designed to be dismall and dank with wretchedness, but there were men that made their presence known to their quarters and kept to themselves and then the room would spill those men's auras and they weren't as dank. They were horrible to be in, as all their melancholy floods your senses. Though, nothing is out of place. All smells agreeable and the sight is ubiquitous. Nevertheless, it is unnerving to be in a room where men think.

The bars of his cell were a respite from the solitary he was sent. He had no more companion for this term of the prison. They made sure of that. Poor chap shouldn't have talked with him.

The linen of his bed was still pure white barring where he now sat. His back pressed to the wall and head leaning toward the small square of the outside world, he sat. He sat all day to-day without moving and without giving an inch. His guards were starting to worry if he had drugs inside solitary that weren't prescribed. He had them before the last day of his first term inside after all. Still no lead where he got them.

His back to the wall, he sat and thought. He sat and thought of all the things he had done inside this hell hole and what he would do when he got out. He sat and thought of all the things added do his sentence though there were none. They couldn't really tell. He made sure of that. He sat and thought of all the people he would have to come into terms with seeing without his grin and with it.

Mostly, with it. Stupid.

He sat and thought, most of all, in any room he was in--caged and unafraid--he thought and sat for hours just because of Wright and how contrite his feelings and thoughts were of the man's life and his morals and his sensibilities. He thought of why things turned out the way they did and all blame still landed on him. Though what he did was justice in his own right. His own.

Trite's justice is not flawed when you think about all his morals. Morally.

What about how he would've done? How about he did it? Never mind, scratch that thought.

There was clanking and he still thought of him. Was he inferior? Was he the victor?

"You should stop it with the drama moments, you know? Gets old around here."

"Never gets old, when I can see your ugly mug every weekend." He shifted to look past the man's head.

"I would count myself lucky, if I was you--"

"You're not."

"Says me, because there are lots of mugshots here. Lots. You earn yo--"

"I still have rights. Shut up about what's earned, you never earned anything--also, now. Look at you. You're round." He stared directly into the intruder's eyes. He should be thinking right about now. Should be getting ready.

"Didn't you hear me? I said you're lucky. That's it." The man trudged up to where he was and called for a guard to bring him a chair. This would be a long talk.

"Yeah, I heard that I was. Don't believe any of that," said the convict.

"Yeah. You wouldn't be here if luck would've had it. Now, would you? Of course, that friend of yours is slick, he'll catch on, right?" snickered the man, intruder.

"'Course, too chicken to ball up when he wants something. He'll jail me." The convict turned to where the square of freedom laid. It was snowing already? What month is it? Oh, it's--

"Hey, you listening?" asked the irritated voice.

Who was talking to him again? Oh, it was the warden. Splendid.

"No, not really. I'm not particularly interested in unintelligent dribble. You may continue to drone though. Fits the weather."

"You're a sad and twisted man, Mr Armando."

"That name doesn't exist behind bars. It exists only in name, nothing more and nothing less..." the ebony-haired man looked up to the sky for the first time he's been spaced out on the "outside." Outside.

"The world's dirty, isn't it? I, mean, we make laws to suit common men. Common. What does that mean?"

"Have you lost it? This ain't an asylum kid."

"It is." He twisted his head and looked down on the jail warden.

"It is when you're with me. I can't stand for interlopers. Gets on my nerves, you know. Old man." He finished without lifting anymore muscle than he needed. The snow looked cold.

"One of these days, I'll get you for those things."

"Yeah. Because I'm quarantined and being noticed. You'll definitely do that. Oh, warden, you might wanna zip up your fly. Nobody wants to see that. Here, I mean. No offense you your wife. You have one right?"

Banged the cell shut. He thought some more. The snow looked cold.

---

Insanely me ;)

This is another thing that I did not plan well for... O_O

What? What is this shit?

I turn around one minute and I have another blog? O_O /twitch

Alright, I got things straight there though, I dunno what to write here except for my entries to FF.net. T_T

I so fail right now in whatever because all I can focus my obssession powers on is math. MATH, people! Calculus loves me. Jk.

Let's try writing now,

Because I said so...

Because I neglected what I knew from the beginning... I get into this mess. It really is a mess, huh? Well. That's something to tell me Grandkids, if I ever get them.

Rambling like an old man already, eh? I wonder if he's rumbling like a loon, too. Something about our jobs are just that fucking perfect all the time. Perfection is not within human grasp though, we still fight for justice to be done for all of us. For all that would be. Now, I'm in the past, and Wright's there. Fighting.

Though, what is he fighting for now? The cop who's luck is close to non-existent? Butz? The weasel got out of my hands, not because of slick--that's Trite's job.

The rain falls out side and the cell echos with the darkness from all men once they see no light and feel aggravation. Just those and nothing more. Then, they're left there to be smothered underneathe all that as it grows exponentially with the darkeness' echoes of denial, regret, and longing. Longing for only one thing. Though, there are several ways to achieve so, one is clear as the daylight that never existed once the curtains were drawn and the bolts locked in place. This world was created. The stretched corridors are lined with various shades of gray pitching to black, never white. And, the walls are stirred from eternal smoothness with scratches, cells, and dents. Some arms lay in sight from the outside of their cells and some keep to themselves.

All cells were designed to be dismall and dank with wretchedness, but there were men that made their presence known to their quarters and kept to themselves and then the room would spill those men's auras and they weren't as dank. They were horrible to be in, as all their melancholy floods your senses. Though, nothing is our of place. All smells agreeable and the sight is ubiquitous. Nevertheless, it is unnerving to be in a room where men think.

---

Insanely me ;)