Unsplittable Square Roots

Oh my God, I hate math… now I’m having nightmares about square roots not splitting… the square root of 36 just wouldn’t split … I tried and tried, but it was being stubborn and I spent the entire test trying to fix it…


Classes draw near their end…

Today was the last Self-Defense class, got an A… woo hoo. Not sure I could actually defend myself, but I could give it more of a try than I could have before.

I took my final exam for my World Literature Class on Sunday, still waiting on a grade for the class.

This morning or was it afternoon? I finished my research paper on the dreaded subject: Hamlet. I am only proud of the last paragraph of it.

All I have to worry about now is imaginary number in real live algebra.

Bunchism by Proxy

It was the same every night, she’s sit there; bare legs tucked under her, a romance novel in one hand and the other holding some chocolate or perhaps a fork with a piece of steak on the end. Usually, if us kids had been lucky we had Mac and Cheese for dinner… if not just the mac. There always seemed to be money for a new romance novel, chocolate and steak for Mom, but mac and cheese was a luxury.

The four of us were, in retrospect, starved for attention. We’d come up with little shows or dance acts to put on for Mom and whichever Dad happened to be there at the time. There are the four of us, doing a performance of Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys, bouncing up and down and mouthing the lyrics. I wonder now who was the choreographer and who was the brains behind such schemes. Mom would watch us and smile always enjoying the show, unless or course something else was on that she needed to watch that meant we had to be quiet.

Maybe the truth behind it all is we had Brady Bunchism, the need to be dorky in a group.

Boolean Society

At the 100th Anniversary Convention of the Boolean Society, the worlds most secret organization, the biggest conspiracy of them all is finally revealed. The organizations members with the most clout, money, meet to discuss the history of math and how their vast plan has moved forward over the centuries.

It all started with two people in particular who hated everything to do with the art, music and theatre. They set out to slow down such frivolous nonsense by creating something that would slow the creative process and keep things more orderly and sane. In the beginning it was difficult, pressing the need to learn a few simple equations to mostly simple folk, but their idea won out—largely due to the complex circles in which the mathematician could talk. They would say, “x + y = y + x is the same as 1 + 2 = 2 + 1” and the common folk would respond, “so x is 1?” The Boolean would then explain that this was the case here, but in other situations the x could equal 252 or the y could equal the one as well. The common folk, immediately decide this is too much for them to decipher and hand over the reigns of all money handling to the Booleans. This goes on for years, the Booleans confusing the populace with x2 + 3y = 35 or x times itself is x2 and x + x is 2x.

Then a more enlightened person steps forward and proclaims this is nonsense, and starts to preach at the people, these Booleans are twisting the shape of numbers. The Booleans freeze all this persons assets, he becomes a penniless bum mumbling on the streets and considered by most to be insane.

Booleans find themselves in places of power within governments throughout the world. After years of the same formulas working they decide to change things up lest someone catches on and reveals their entire plot.

Unexpected help comes from a young woman in her 30s in college, an artist; forced by rules set up by the Booleans to take math courses that have her head spinning. She catches on to the formulas and the math/algebra starts to make sense, in a research paper to her Algebra Professor she creates a series of problems that stump even the top Boolean official. Her creativity, of course, is a death sentence they cannot allow the delicate balance to change even slightly so they kill her. Her ideas, if an answer doesn’t solve properly just cube it times itself is stolen and implemented into the plan immediately. This effect sends several Liberal Arts majors to seek ways to commit suicide.

The true celebration comes when the Booleans celebrate their greatest achievement ever: the number i. “The number i is such that i = √-1 (which is the same as saying i2 = -1).” The imaginary number. This concept, to further the confusion of the people, meant if an equation didn’t work out, just multiply it by i and it will all make sense. This i keeps all the money flowing into the hands of the Booleans, their vast fortunes shape the very political and socioeconomic landscape for all cultures.

Chances are, when this is published I’ll be murdered by Booleans quoting such equations as x2 – 6x + 9 = (x – 3) (x + 3) or √-64 is not real. The formulas themselves may be the death of me… pray for your average college student. And God save you from the Booleans.

Posting Issues

Trying to post a story I wrote, but can’t get it up… viagra anyone?


I can’t of course mention her name… she’d never forgive me.

She has the biggest heart behind the gruffest exterior. A buzzed hair cut, keys jingling as she walks by. Everyone knows her, no one truly knows her-she has touched the lives of so many.

She’s given gifts towards every cause brought to her attention, never takes credit, never signs the card. If something was done for you, by an unknown source, she did it.

The Spiderman statue joined my cubicle as a result of her actions, she’s always said to me: “You’re wasted here… .” There were mornings I’d come in and a woman and or children would be sleeping in one of the cubicles, she made sure they were safe that night. She tries to keep in touch with everyone, people will send the new baby pictures to her, the wedding pictures, people we hadn’t seen in years.

Everything changes now for her, for the rest of you who knew her… that place will never be the same, you’ve truly lost one of the better parts from those colorful walls.

Red Leather

Red leather gloves hit the canvas, air rushes out of his lungs and his gloves. The canvas bag swings back and forth, he dances on the balls of his feet; moving this way and that left hand jabs out quickly comes back guarding his face. He looks at the mirrored wall and adjusts his stance, his leg lifts-impacts the bag before the eye can see.

“No, No,” comes a deep voice “what are you doing, you know better than that. Hit it with some force, why do I waste my time with you?” the family resemblance is uncanny, must be his father. His shoulder slump, he nods, and swings again. “Are you a girl? Should I buy you some panties?” again comes the dad.

Leather covered fist slams now; not into the bag, but into the face of hate. The bag has become his father, and you see a smile finally come across his face.


I’ll be moving back to Washington, DC in one month (+/- a day or two).

What prompted? Well, mostly the recent trip up there for Michelle’s wedding. Even though it was a five hour trip (the way up there) and the tourists were in the streets like diaper rash on a baby… I realized I miss it: I have so many friends/family there… and reliable PUBLIC transportation, and jobs abound… My old room is available, with my old roommate (who I’m sure my cats miss, and I do too).

So there you are… DC bound.

Dismal Café

The café, with a large plate glass window over looking the Lutheran church, was a staple of Dismal, known throughout the tri-country area for its blueberry pie and the two ladies that met there every morning for prayer and coffee.

Ms’s Evelyn and Zelda knew more about the goings on in town than anyone else; they knew the histories of every family in Dismal for the last fifty years. They should, they were both school teachers in the, now closed, elementary school forty years ago. There wasn’t a long time resident of Dismal that couldn’t help but smile remembering how Ms. Zelda taught them their multiplication tables, or how Ms. Evelyn taught them to dot their i’s and cross their t’s.

Ms. Zelda’s family had been gone for a while, her husband had passed nearly twenty years ago, and her children refused to visit anymore, and insisted she join them for holidays or family occasions. She needed to move to the big city, they would say, away from secluded, distant Dismal, but this was home. She knew she belonged here, and her friendship with Ms. Evelyn meant everything to her now.

Ms. Evelyn never had any children, the children of Dismal the only children she ever wanted. She prided herself on recalling the name of every student she ever taught. The greatest joy of life was in watching a child suddenly understand, the gleam in their eye or the sudden revelation; those moments made all the others well worth it.

Ms. Evelyn and Ms. Zelda were rarely late for morning prayer; if snow got to be too hard to walk through they’d have to wait for a ride from a passing snow plow or a friendly neighbor, which they all were. Arriving at the café, their booth already reserved, right in front of the window allowing them to gaze at the beauty of the sun rise as it overtook the church. In winter the sun would sparkle through icicles, adding to the majesty of the church. In the summer, the lilac bushes would complement the stained glass windows of the church. They always took notice of the dandelions that scattered the lawn of the church, God adding a touch of gold to the scene, sure other people considered them weeds, but they looked kindly on all of God’s creations.

Mary Lou, the waitress, would bring them their coffee and a small plate of eggs, bacon and a slice of orange. They would guffaw at the people who said they needed to eat healthier, at the age of 65 they were still in very good health, despite the few extra pounds. Their breakfast was always the same, and on special occasions they would have pie before heading out for the day.

The prayers were always the same; they would start out with the Lord’s Prayer, voice never wavering:

“Our Father who art heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen.”

Then they would say the morning prayer:

“I thank You, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Your dear Son, that You have kept me this night from all harm and danger; and I pray You to protect me this day also from sin and every evil, that all my doings and life may please You. For into Your hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Your holy angel be with me, that the wicked foe may have no power over me. Amen.”

They would sit, and talk about old times, family, and the goings on at the church or with any of the locals until the café started to get ready for lunch. Then they would walk the downtown area, a smile and a hello for everyone they encountered. On occasion, they would stop to chat with Mrs. Peterson or Mr. Hale inquiring to this situation or that.

Yes, life was good, and thank God for the gift that it was.

So Far Away…

I’m reading Hamlet for school, and my last English paper will be five pages long on one of the major themes of Hamlet. I HATE HAMLET. Never have I had such a hard time reading something, or finding a reason to care. Here’s a major theme of Hamlet… its long and boring with too many footnotes.

Algebra, is still my primary foe in school-exponents, radicals and radicands. “Be patient with your variables.” In Algebra, if a problem doesn’t seem to work out right: multiply it times it self to get the answer… but, I ask you, if you have 5 apples, and multiply 5 apples times 5 apples doesn’t that equal 25 apples? Math is about lying and cheating, making shit up as you go along.

Cats are here, sleeping next to me, as soon as I open my Algebra book Mouse will want to lie on top of it, she thinks it’s worthless too.

Anyway, I’m most of the way through Hamlet, then I should write more frequently.