90 Days Without Rain (Pilot)
MUSIC UP: PARANOIATTACK – THE FAINT
INT. HOUSE – EVENING
A large single-family home in Irvine, California is the setting for a high school party. Not in full swing yet, it’s mostly drinking, smoking or playing video games.
Two actor-types, drab in black, NATALI NIKDAL (17) and ALEXA RAYNE (18) sit together at a couch.
ALEXA
You don’t mind if I light up here, do you? I don’t care much for the rain.
NATALI
Why would I mind, Alexa?
Alexa takes out a pack of Camel Filters.
NATALI
Can I bum one?
Alexa picks out two cigarettes and offers one to Natali.
ALEXA
You don’t have your own?
Natali takes the cigarette.
NATALI
I’m trying to quit. Light?
Alexa takes out a light and flicks it open.
ALEXA
Are you still dating Princeton Bound?
NATALI
Brian’s not Princeton bound anymore. He is going to USC so he can stay close to me.
ALEXA
You really got him hooked.
NATALI
I’m dumping him as soon as he turns down Princeton. He was only appealing as far as going to an Ivy League school.
Two all-American high school football players, BRENT SPOOL and CHESTER DOUGLAS (both 18), grin as they eye Natali. Natali raises her eyebrow suggestively.
ALEXA
Using that Old Persian charm of yours, huh?
NATALI
I’ll be damned if I don’t have the best time of my life now. And I have the power to make that happen.
Alexa grimaces. Natali considers this.
NATALI
They’re only appetizers.
ALEXA
Well don’t let me get in your way.
NATALI
They deserve what they have coming for them.
ALEXA
All of them do.
FADE TO BLACK.
CREDIT SEQUENCE:
90 DAYS WITHOUT RAIN
INT. ’08 NISSAN – EVENING
MUSIC UP: THINK I’M IN LOVE – BECK
Two young guys sit in front, looking at ease with the world, if only momentarily. They are AIDEN SCARLETT (17) and ISAAC ABRAMSON (18). Aiden drives. A girl and another guy sit in back, looking as if they don’t usually get out of the house at all. They are THIAN ULRICH and TAMORA MOONSTEIN (18).
AIDEN
So tell me, you did get high when you were in Amsterdam, right, Thian?
THIAN
Actually there’s a story that goes with the first time I had a spliff in a hash bar.
AIDEN
Go on.
THIAN
Let’s just say I didn’t expect to get to the venue – the Heineken Music Hall – to see Radiohead at all. It’s a wonder that I made it.
TAMORA
Well, it must’ve been different hearing Radiohead stoned.
THIAN
I love how into it stoners get with concerts. But acid trippers are the worst, along with drunks.
ISAAC
You should turn here.
Thian puts an arm around Tamora.
THIAN
I really appreciate you sending me those Neil Gaiman books while I was away, Tamora. I would’ve died of boredom. I still couldn’t read Dutch to save my life.
TAMORA
You were only there for a year.
ISAAC
You were an American in Amsterdam and I still find it hard to believe that you didn’t get any action there. I mean they must’ve found you so interesting.
THIAN
I had – some action.
Tamora gives him a dirty look.
THIAN
I’m still a virgin, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have something happen a few times in the hostel with various girls, some of them at the same time.
ISAAC
Excellent! This shall be noted! We shall have to make an inappropriately grand exaggeration of these events when we chronicle your grand expedition in the north of Europe.
THIAN
We’ll do that later, Isaac. Have you told Coryn that I’m back, Aiden?
AIDEN
Tamora and I thought we’d keep you our little surprise. Don’t you love surprises, Thian?
THIAN
Are you high?
AIDEN
Like Thom Yorke’s singing voice.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Tamora's Telepathy
Tamora had been in the Starbucks for nearly 2 hours, but, as is natural when distraction is provided in just the right abundance, she hadn’t felt the time pass as, say, the Barista awaiting the end of her shift. Boredom wasn’t in the cards for Tamora today. If she hadn’t had her headphones on, she would have heard a mediocre cover of Feeling Good, a song made famous by Nina Simone and Matt Bellamy. As it was, her ears tended towards the louder (but not loud) music of Imogen Heap.
She stared passively into the screen of her iBook G4, typing. For the time being, the subject was to be of European History, in the form of a five-point essay; rather she wrote whatever drabble came into her head. This mainly involved the topic of how bored she was.
She checked her instant messenger, but even Thian wasn’t online, which need not be said was a crime against predictability, and would probably incur a fine in the city of Irvine. So she went back to Microsoft Word, her heart heavier still.
With renewed purpose, however, she began to type fervently.
She said something about a jewellery store – I don’t know about any jewellery stores in Irvine – she said there was – how does she expect us to rob – how do you think – persuasion of an aggressive variety, then – I’m up for that.
Tamora stared at the words she had typed, but was not at all responsible for. “When?” she asked. She typed again.
Tonight – at the corner of Princeton and Culver – be there or it won’t work – how will it work – the usual – then watch me – we meet at midnight.
Tamora looked at her hands. How had she gotten into this state of mind? What had she written? Was she going mad? She had heard voices, voices in her head, but they’d seemed so real, as if they had been next to her, or talking on the telephone with her. Voices in her head, though – third sign of madness in a week.
“You’re not mad,” she told herself. “There’s some completely rational explanation. Or I’m reading someone’s mind.”
She looked at the college student (stud, more like, she thought) with the Dell laptop next to her, who was staring back at her.
“No, you really are mad,” he said.
“That might be so,” Tamora admitted. She stood up, closed her iBook, put away her headphones and the iBook in her bag and cleared out of Starbucks.
She stared passively into the screen of her iBook G4, typing. For the time being, the subject was to be of European History, in the form of a five-point essay; rather she wrote whatever drabble came into her head. This mainly involved the topic of how bored she was.
She checked her instant messenger, but even Thian wasn’t online, which need not be said was a crime against predictability, and would probably incur a fine in the city of Irvine. So she went back to Microsoft Word, her heart heavier still.
With renewed purpose, however, she began to type fervently.
She said something about a jewellery store – I don’t know about any jewellery stores in Irvine – she said there was – how does she expect us to rob – how do you think – persuasion of an aggressive variety, then – I’m up for that.
Tamora stared at the words she had typed, but was not at all responsible for. “When?” she asked. She typed again.
Tonight – at the corner of Princeton and Culver – be there or it won’t work – how will it work – the usual – then watch me – we meet at midnight.
Tamora looked at her hands. How had she gotten into this state of mind? What had she written? Was she going mad? She had heard voices, voices in her head, but they’d seemed so real, as if they had been next to her, or talking on the telephone with her. Voices in her head, though – third sign of madness in a week.
“You’re not mad,” she told herself. “There’s some completely rational explanation. Or I’m reading someone’s mind.”
She looked at the college student (stud, more like, she thought) with the Dell laptop next to her, who was staring back at her.
“No, you really are mad,” he said.
“That might be so,” Tamora admitted. She stood up, closed her iBook, put away her headphones and the iBook in her bag and cleared out of Starbucks.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
another stab at it
Chapter 1
In-N-Out Burger was full of energetic (read: noisy) teens when I came in with my entourage, and asserted ourselves in the line, all tired from school and needing a pick-me-up for the evening, when we planned on making ourselves useful and sociable. As soon as we were all out of the line, we made our way to a booth, Aiden Blake sitting with Corinne Spenser, and Tamora Moon and I, Thian Ulrich, sitting across from them. Tamora became antisocial immediately, burrowing her head into a book—something about dragons, I presumed it to be, dragons from outer space.
“You would never guess who I found kissing another guy in the restroom,” said Aiden, loud and flamboyant and oblivious to the fact that there were at least two prominent Avocado Hills same-sex couples in our vicinity, “but Drake Long and Jonny Quentin.”
“Do the gay guys at our school ask you to be near them in order to expose them?” Tamora asked, always the one to question any far-out story.
I would not have found it hard to believe if one day Aiden found himself kissing another closet gay and told the whole school about it, just for drama’s sake.
Corinne got up, taking the receipt for the purchase, and walked to the front of house to procure our food.
“So how do you find them?” continued Tamora in the same vein. “Is there a certain restroom they go to?”
I saw Aiden’s eyes wander around his head all dazed-like and he seemed to be emitting a nervous drone-type groan, moaning as his big balloon-like ego was deflated. It was comic to watch, and painful at the same time.
I was more interested anyway in getting past my Geometry homework, so I asked Tamora to help me with that. Aiden appreciated being let off the hook, I think, because he did not continue to make himself look like a pretentious ass.
“I’m going to enjoy my animal-style burger and animal-style fries,” said Tamora as she got her burger. I hurried off to fill some ketchup cups for my friends then came back to see them immersed deeply in a conversation on The Clash, of all things.
I sipped at my Dr. Pepper to avoid having to say something—I had one album of The Clash, and therefore my opinion could not be counted.
“Did they not do Rock the Kasbah?” asked Tamora.
And certainly, Tamora was even less knowledgeable.
“I love the bass in Guns of Brixton,” I said, remembering the refrain from the song. Corinne looked at me appreciatively, like a music whiz that could now believe that there was still some hope left, as far as the end of a culture of the tastefully inclined was concerned.
“What about Fall Out Boy?” asked Aiden, thinking hard about something that was only vaguely related to The Clash, in the same way that Maroon 5 could relate to The Beatles.
Corinne looked at Aiden with this simpering glare, and she said, “Oh, I shall corrupt you real horrorshow, yes, all of you, my brothers. You shan’t slooshy the gloopy music.”
There was a momentary pause as I tried to wrap my head around what she had said, and Tamora then said, “What?”
“You need to read A Clockwork Orange,” said Aiden.
So Aiden was trying to act all knowledgeable now, and earn points with Corinne. Already he had claimed his spot with her and now I could see him at work. Of course, he had always sucked up to her, but I could now see it all beginning. I would not have this.
“What did you say?” repeated Tamora slowly in a tone that required Corinne to reiterate her sentence.
“You know,” continued Corinne, “the Clockwork Orange word for Jew is Yahoody.”
“That sounds kind of like the Farsi word for Jew,” said Aiden, eager to demonstrate his so-called cultural knowledge.
“You would know,” said Tamora.
“Well, I don’t know Farsi,” said Aiden, “I’m only half and I was born in the States.”
“Well, at least I like Radiohead and Sigur Ros,” I said, eager to get back in the good books, the one with all the good things you say and do. I was pretty sure my chapter in the bad book outweighed my chapter in the good book. “I’d never listen to a band like Fall Out Boy or My Chemical Romance.”
“What’s wrong with My Chemical Romance?” asked Tamora.
I sighed with great weight. Did she really think that was music? I could’ve given her so many reasons why I hated My Chemical Romance, but instead I asked, “Do you like any good music?”
Tamora gave me a petty look and started, “Weird Al, Imogen Heap, Evanescense, Muse…”
“Only because I got you into Muse,” I said.
“A Perfect Circle,” she added. Wow, she likes a metal band.
“Ooh, that was a surprise,” I said.
“I’m full of surprises,” she said, smirking.
“I don’t doubt it,” I said slyly. My god, was I flirting?
As soon as we had wolfed down the rest of our food and finished discussing the merits of reeducation in British rock music from about 1960 to 2000, we were on our way to Corinne’s car. I was about to go to the front seat when Aiden yelled,
“Shotgun!”
He had been close enough to me that my ears were still ringing by the time we got into the Mustang, and I had taken my place next to Tamora. Corinne and Aiden were conversing animatedly on their favorite Nadsat words from A Clockwork Orange. I tried to talk to Tamora, but she seemed much more interested in her dragons book. I resigned in my attempts to appear sociable and was continuing on my Geometry work when I noticed that Tamora, bored now with her book, had taken to considering my profile.
“You know, I only saw Aiden’s A Clockwork Orange book at his house after Corinne had started on her obsession with that book a month ago,” said Tamora.
“I did not know that,” I said.
“Well, you’ve only known Aiden for about a week, so I don’t blame you,” she said. Aiden and Corinne seemed oblivious to our conversation, now that they were on the topic of who else had been doing whom in Avocado Hills Academy’s B-list, which included some top-ranking corporate executive’s cousin. We were all outcasts in this world. Tamora and I had both been awarded scholarships to the Academy, while Aiden was the son of some UC professor of some math or physics or a combination thereof, and Corinne was a published author already, plus she had done an expose of her previous high school, which had led to her being kicked out and Avocado Hills taking her in. As long as she didn’t do an expose, she had a world-class education.
Tamora, Corinne and I were the more creative ones; Aiden seemed to have just stuck along for the ride and had ‘become’ like us in order to stay. I always felt I had been living some lie when I was with Corinne, but I sensed Aiden was being dishonest with everyone. But I didn’t want to be the cause of another Aiden-level headache like the one he had been involved in our last sophomore year. I hadn’t known him, but I’d always been aware of his reputation.
We were getting out of the commercial district and into the single-family homes and the very expensive apartments of our sweet little piece of paradise called Bubbleville. We were all supposed to be extremely fortunate in this piece of the world, even though there was little to nothing to do in this example of suburbia.
“So this is the Theater People party,” said Corinne as we stopped on a street that seemed to have more cars than most. The driveway to the house that we walked up to was empty, save for one nice car, however.
“Omigod, before we go in, I just have to say this about the Drama Club president, Val Reed,” said Aiden, “but she got totally trashed at the homecoming party at Shelly’s house in September and ended up shitting all over her boyfriend when he was giving her anal!”
We all stared at him, and Tamora shrieked in an unnaturally high and exasperated pitch, “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard from you!”
“Well, it’s true, I saw Cameron Short when he came out of the bathroom,” said Aiden. “Suffice it to say she is not going to have alcohol lest she wreak more trouble in our drama-verse.”
“I’m not very good at parties,” I said to Corinne. “I either am a wallflower or I get so shit-faced that I’m lying all over Aiden like he’s a bed.”
“You sure you’re not gay?” asked Tamora.
“Yeah, I’m really sure,” I said. “Especially in regards to Aiden.”
“Good,” said Tamora, and I expected that she meant more than just good, because she had taken a deep breath of air and taken my hand as we went into the party, myself with an image of the aforementioned Drama Club president with shit staining her trademark black dress.
“I mean, you’ve seen Aiden’s back hair, I presume,” I said in a hushed whisper as he continued on the topic of Val Reed even as we passed her, a handle of Jagermeister to herself. “I couldn’t fathom facial hair, and back hair is just going way too far.”
“Too bad for him,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
She shrugged and led me by the waist to the living room where some of the nerdy Theater kids were gathered, playing some fantasy game on the PS3. Tamora looked at home with this type, but she was content to watch and remained really close to me for the time.
In-N-Out Burger was full of energetic (read: noisy) teens when I came in with my entourage, and asserted ourselves in the line, all tired from school and needing a pick-me-up for the evening, when we planned on making ourselves useful and sociable. As soon as we were all out of the line, we made our way to a booth, Aiden Blake sitting with Corinne Spenser, and Tamora Moon and I, Thian Ulrich, sitting across from them. Tamora became antisocial immediately, burrowing her head into a book—something about dragons, I presumed it to be, dragons from outer space.
“You would never guess who I found kissing another guy in the restroom,” said Aiden, loud and flamboyant and oblivious to the fact that there were at least two prominent Avocado Hills same-sex couples in our vicinity, “but Drake Long and Jonny Quentin.”
“Do the gay guys at our school ask you to be near them in order to expose them?” Tamora asked, always the one to question any far-out story.
I would not have found it hard to believe if one day Aiden found himself kissing another closet gay and told the whole school about it, just for drama’s sake.
Corinne got up, taking the receipt for the purchase, and walked to the front of house to procure our food.
“So how do you find them?” continued Tamora in the same vein. “Is there a certain restroom they go to?”
I saw Aiden’s eyes wander around his head all dazed-like and he seemed to be emitting a nervous drone-type groan, moaning as his big balloon-like ego was deflated. It was comic to watch, and painful at the same time.
I was more interested anyway in getting past my Geometry homework, so I asked Tamora to help me with that. Aiden appreciated being let off the hook, I think, because he did not continue to make himself look like a pretentious ass.
“I’m going to enjoy my animal-style burger and animal-style fries,” said Tamora as she got her burger. I hurried off to fill some ketchup cups for my friends then came back to see them immersed deeply in a conversation on The Clash, of all things.
I sipped at my Dr. Pepper to avoid having to say something—I had one album of The Clash, and therefore my opinion could not be counted.
“Did they not do Rock the Kasbah?” asked Tamora.
And certainly, Tamora was even less knowledgeable.
“I love the bass in Guns of Brixton,” I said, remembering the refrain from the song. Corinne looked at me appreciatively, like a music whiz that could now believe that there was still some hope left, as far as the end of a culture of the tastefully inclined was concerned.
“What about Fall Out Boy?” asked Aiden, thinking hard about something that was only vaguely related to The Clash, in the same way that Maroon 5 could relate to The Beatles.
Corinne looked at Aiden with this simpering glare, and she said, “Oh, I shall corrupt you real horrorshow, yes, all of you, my brothers. You shan’t slooshy the gloopy music.”
There was a momentary pause as I tried to wrap my head around what she had said, and Tamora then said, “What?”
“You need to read A Clockwork Orange,” said Aiden.
So Aiden was trying to act all knowledgeable now, and earn points with Corinne. Already he had claimed his spot with her and now I could see him at work. Of course, he had always sucked up to her, but I could now see it all beginning. I would not have this.
“What did you say?” repeated Tamora slowly in a tone that required Corinne to reiterate her sentence.
“You know,” continued Corinne, “the Clockwork Orange word for Jew is Yahoody.”
“That sounds kind of like the Farsi word for Jew,” said Aiden, eager to demonstrate his so-called cultural knowledge.
“You would know,” said Tamora.
“Well, I don’t know Farsi,” said Aiden, “I’m only half and I was born in the States.”
“Well, at least I like Radiohead and Sigur Ros,” I said, eager to get back in the good books, the one with all the good things you say and do. I was pretty sure my chapter in the bad book outweighed my chapter in the good book. “I’d never listen to a band like Fall Out Boy or My Chemical Romance.”
“What’s wrong with My Chemical Romance?” asked Tamora.
I sighed with great weight. Did she really think that was music? I could’ve given her so many reasons why I hated My Chemical Romance, but instead I asked, “Do you like any good music?”
Tamora gave me a petty look and started, “Weird Al, Imogen Heap, Evanescense, Muse…”
“Only because I got you into Muse,” I said.
“A Perfect Circle,” she added. Wow, she likes a metal band.
“Ooh, that was a surprise,” I said.
“I’m full of surprises,” she said, smirking.
“I don’t doubt it,” I said slyly. My god, was I flirting?
As soon as we had wolfed down the rest of our food and finished discussing the merits of reeducation in British rock music from about 1960 to 2000, we were on our way to Corinne’s car. I was about to go to the front seat when Aiden yelled,
“Shotgun!”
He had been close enough to me that my ears were still ringing by the time we got into the Mustang, and I had taken my place next to Tamora. Corinne and Aiden were conversing animatedly on their favorite Nadsat words from A Clockwork Orange. I tried to talk to Tamora, but she seemed much more interested in her dragons book. I resigned in my attempts to appear sociable and was continuing on my Geometry work when I noticed that Tamora, bored now with her book, had taken to considering my profile.
“You know, I only saw Aiden’s A Clockwork Orange book at his house after Corinne had started on her obsession with that book a month ago,” said Tamora.
“I did not know that,” I said.
“Well, you’ve only known Aiden for about a week, so I don’t blame you,” she said. Aiden and Corinne seemed oblivious to our conversation, now that they were on the topic of who else had been doing whom in Avocado Hills Academy’s B-list, which included some top-ranking corporate executive’s cousin. We were all outcasts in this world. Tamora and I had both been awarded scholarships to the Academy, while Aiden was the son of some UC professor of some math or physics or a combination thereof, and Corinne was a published author already, plus she had done an expose of her previous high school, which had led to her being kicked out and Avocado Hills taking her in. As long as she didn’t do an expose, she had a world-class education.
Tamora, Corinne and I were the more creative ones; Aiden seemed to have just stuck along for the ride and had ‘become’ like us in order to stay. I always felt I had been living some lie when I was with Corinne, but I sensed Aiden was being dishonest with everyone. But I didn’t want to be the cause of another Aiden-level headache like the one he had been involved in our last sophomore year. I hadn’t known him, but I’d always been aware of his reputation.
We were getting out of the commercial district and into the single-family homes and the very expensive apartments of our sweet little piece of paradise called Bubbleville. We were all supposed to be extremely fortunate in this piece of the world, even though there was little to nothing to do in this example of suburbia.
“So this is the Theater People party,” said Corinne as we stopped on a street that seemed to have more cars than most. The driveway to the house that we walked up to was empty, save for one nice car, however.
“Omigod, before we go in, I just have to say this about the Drama Club president, Val Reed,” said Aiden, “but she got totally trashed at the homecoming party at Shelly’s house in September and ended up shitting all over her boyfriend when he was giving her anal!”
We all stared at him, and Tamora shrieked in an unnaturally high and exasperated pitch, “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard from you!”
“Well, it’s true, I saw Cameron Short when he came out of the bathroom,” said Aiden. “Suffice it to say she is not going to have alcohol lest she wreak more trouble in our drama-verse.”
“I’m not very good at parties,” I said to Corinne. “I either am a wallflower or I get so shit-faced that I’m lying all over Aiden like he’s a bed.”
“You sure you’re not gay?” asked Tamora.
“Yeah, I’m really sure,” I said. “Especially in regards to Aiden.”
“Good,” said Tamora, and I expected that she meant more than just good, because she had taken a deep breath of air and taken my hand as we went into the party, myself with an image of the aforementioned Drama Club president with shit staining her trademark black dress.
“I mean, you’ve seen Aiden’s back hair, I presume,” I said in a hushed whisper as he continued on the topic of Val Reed even as we passed her, a handle of Jagermeister to herself. “I couldn’t fathom facial hair, and back hair is just going way too far.”
“Too bad for him,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
She shrugged and led me by the waist to the living room where some of the nerdy Theater kids were gathered, playing some fantasy game on the PS3. Tamora looked at home with this type, but she was content to watch and remained really close to me for the time.
Monday, September 24, 2007
This is 2012.
Fashion Island.
Corona Del Mar High School.
The beach.
This is the world of the 5 students at the center of this sci-fi/fantasy epic by Jean-Philippe Pulles.
Thian Ulrich hangs out in front of the Apple Store, using their wi-fi to download pirated programs and alternative albums by Radiohead and Muse onto his MacBook.
Tamora Moon is a roleplayer and con-girl (she goes to conventions like Comic Con).
Kyra Vulpes sees dark motives in everyone, including her friends, but still cares for them.
Aiden Blake is a politician in the making, learning everything about a person, especially what can get him to the inner circle.
Corinne Spenser is an encyclopedic reference on every clique and stereotype on CDMHS campus.
Then they change.
Corona Del Mar High School.
The beach.
This is the world of the 5 students at the center of this sci-fi/fantasy epic by Jean-Philippe Pulles.
Thian Ulrich hangs out in front of the Apple Store, using their wi-fi to download pirated programs and alternative albums by Radiohead and Muse onto his MacBook.
Tamora Moon is a roleplayer and con-girl (she goes to conventions like Comic Con).
Kyra Vulpes sees dark motives in everyone, including her friends, but still cares for them.
Aiden Blake is a politician in the making, learning everything about a person, especially what can get him to the inner circle.
Corinne Spenser is an encyclopedic reference on every clique and stereotype on CDMHS campus.
Then they change.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Thian Ulrich
They say the actions by which we define ourselves are nothing but pretentious ploys to generate a facade which has very little to do with ourselves, and in effect, I’ve been living a lie, even when I didn’t realize it, and especially when I thought maybe I shouldn’t do that—it’s very hard to act spontaneously when your heads stuck between your legs most of the time—and in the end, it all comes down to those moments by which we must survive by our wits alone and it’s no longer this social game we play, and then I have an idea of what kind of person I really am.
I have an exceptionally good idea of what kind of a person I am, partly because I have more to do with myself than I have to do with other people, and partly because I’m constantly assessing these people that I see and it’s wholly obvious to me what sort of traits and characteristics I value, and those that I don’t—which brings up my very analytical side—I’m not saying I’m exceptionally moral, either, because my morals are particular and specific but just as screwed up as some others; I don’t live by someone else’s code, and sometimes this gets me in some deep trouble.
The burden is often mine to take, and I’ll relieve it of others if I can see that, for one, they value me more in return, and secondly, that they will not take me for granted—a sort of Catch-22, when they expect me to do something anyway; it’s a by-product of the place we live in, this wasteland lacking of generosity, and perhaps I’ve failed too in doing my part, but I’m always looking to correct this balance—a balance is a hard thing to maintain and I’m constantly making amends to my own values that I treasure because I know my friends and I know their faults, what they expect and how wrong they might be, but I value their friendship more than I care of their faults, because I have my faults and they still care for me.
I’m not always considerate—my parents never believed I was the sort of person who could survive in a low-income neighborhood at night so when it came to saving lives and fighting immorality, I couldn’t bear to tell them of this; I know I’m brave, although my parents have always been a crutch for me, but I will stand up at the most inopportune moments when it’s necessary to save those I care for; I’m not your typical hero—no one ever compared Thian Ulrich to Superman—but I need to be, if only so that the people I care for most aren’t hurt; whenever I’ve stopped listening to my friends, it was only because I thought I knew better; I just hope that I don’t end up failing them either.
I have an exceptionally good idea of what kind of a person I am, partly because I have more to do with myself than I have to do with other people, and partly because I’m constantly assessing these people that I see and it’s wholly obvious to me what sort of traits and characteristics I value, and those that I don’t—which brings up my very analytical side—I’m not saying I’m exceptionally moral, either, because my morals are particular and specific but just as screwed up as some others; I don’t live by someone else’s code, and sometimes this gets me in some deep trouble.
The burden is often mine to take, and I’ll relieve it of others if I can see that, for one, they value me more in return, and secondly, that they will not take me for granted—a sort of Catch-22, when they expect me to do something anyway; it’s a by-product of the place we live in, this wasteland lacking of generosity, and perhaps I’ve failed too in doing my part, but I’m always looking to correct this balance—a balance is a hard thing to maintain and I’m constantly making amends to my own values that I treasure because I know my friends and I know their faults, what they expect and how wrong they might be, but I value their friendship more than I care of their faults, because I have my faults and they still care for me.
I’m not always considerate—my parents never believed I was the sort of person who could survive in a low-income neighborhood at night so when it came to saving lives and fighting immorality, I couldn’t bear to tell them of this; I know I’m brave, although my parents have always been a crutch for me, but I will stand up at the most inopportune moments when it’s necessary to save those I care for; I’m not your typical hero—no one ever compared Thian Ulrich to Superman—but I need to be, if only so that the people I care for most aren’t hurt; whenever I’ve stopped listening to my friends, it was only because I thought I knew better; I just hope that I don’t end up failing them either.
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