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Buddy Foote here with my second blog entry in a single day. Isn't mankind lucky at this glorious second in time? Not only am I posting a second entry after more than a week long hiatus from the blog, but the Northeastern states today got some sticky snow dumped on them. And I mean sticky as in the snow sticking to surfaces, such as roofs, pavement, etc. Not sticky as a cinnamon bun. That would be strange. You allow your child to go out to play in the snow, they're all bundled up in their snowsuit, boots, and gloves, and then fifteen minutes later you look outside to discover that your child is stuck to the snow, face first, with their muffled screams hardly recognized unless a foot away from the scene. Yes, that would stink for the child. Thankfully this snow clings to surfaces, and you do not cling to it. Well, I had to shovel this sticky snow. Thankfully my father came home from work a bit early and he was able to use the plow on the ATV to get a majority of the sidewalks and the driveway cleared, but "poor" little me had to sweep off the back porch and shovel the front porch. What a task! Well, everything was fine and dandy at first besides the fact that my allergies are acting up and my noses feels like there's a mouse stuck in there, until I was going over the front sidewalks after my father suspected the plow on the ATV broke and my right arm stopped working. Seriously, I think the nerves from my brain to my right arm temporarily disconnected. I just stopped shoveling at that point and walked back to the rear of my house with my left hand carrying the shovel and my right arm just dangling there. Thankfully, shortly after, I was able to function my arm again. I believe the problem occurred because on Saturday I was shooting my shotgun with my father. Well, I hate shotguns. To me, they kick like a mule. And I always hurt myself when operating a shotgun. Rifles, I love them. But shotguns aren't my style. And a muzzleloader, well, I'll probably never use those. For example, on Saturday on my last shot using, oh, not the Rimmington bullets but the, oh yes, Winchesters, which have less of a kick than the Rimmingtons, I banged my head off the tree I was leaning up against for support. Don't ask how. The tree was those skinny and white kinds and it already hurt my back resting up against it. Now when you fire the shotgun and receive that kick, that back-hurting surface really hurts your back now because you're being pushed backwards into it. Well, I don't know how I banged my head off of the tree. I know I had my leg that was resting the front of the gun off of the ground and my head was probably not resting on the tree, so when I shot my leg might have went up a bit and with that the rest of me, and then when I received the kick I must've then hit my head. And that all pretty much happens in a second. I was a bit shaken up after that happened with a splitting headache. My father stopped at a gas station before we took off to my great uncle's cabin near a lake up in Wayne County to get us bottles of water, so I was able to take a pain-relieving pill that he had in the truck. And that is why my shoulder was hurting. The butt of the gun is up against the shoulder, then the gun kicks, and after four shots you start to feel great pain. I just get hurt too easily.

The thing about Peeps is that I always hate them until I first eat one. My mother got me a package of Peeps for Easter and I was just feasting on them now when I realized that I like them after I bite into the first one. I used to be like this all the time. I wouldn't know that I liked something until after I tried it, even after trying it a lot in the past. I'm weird like that. I do have many weird views too. I find myself to be a philosopher, a thinker that thinks outside of the box. If I was able to import my thoughts directly from my head to some outside source, then I would probably be viewed as a genius. I, however, have a hard time expressing myself. I get too wrapped up with words to fully write my thoughts out, and hell, I can't speak. When I think and talk at the same time, I stumble over my words and I sound like a complete idiot. Which is the reason why I practice oral presentations for school a lot -- so it becomes habit to me besides me having to think and reflect while giving the presentation. The circumstances would result in a pretty bad grade, but at least I was gifted with a '99' in speech class last school year. Anyway, I like to just sit around and think sometimes. When it's just my father and I in the truck cruising around, I'm mostly silent, unless I bring up a good point to converse over. I may be physically silent, but when it comes to mental, I would be yelling aloud a thousand thoughts a second. Yes, over exaggeration there. I'm always thinking about the end of mankind, how something came to exist, how something works or is made, why something is the way it is, why people do things in such a way, and so on. Those are just some of the topics I can think of at the moment. The problem is that I have a horrible memory. When I create a good point and think out a great thought, it's mostly erased a few moments afterwards. That's why I wish I can hook up some device to my head to import the thoughts I think up from their home to some electronic device. Similar to my old 'dream machine' wants -- a machine when hooked up to your head will record your dreams while you were in a deep slumber. I want such a thing because I can never remember my dreams. The last dream that I can recall was actually from this past weekend when two friends and I were up alongside the nearby Route 6 Scranton-Carbondale Highway in Eynon with rifles hunting turkeys -- to which I shot a big one and my father was proud of me. Maybe not remembering dreams has to do with my poor memory.

Also stored in my mind are vast worlds just waiting to be explored. I have actually planned out the story lines and gameplay mechanics of ten video games (and an MMORPG), all original and created by your very own. I refuse to give out information on the ten creations as I may actually translate my proposed games into books in the future. Also, after reading some parts of Don Quixote the other day, I have started to think of logical sayings and passages in my head. This could possibly play out for an eleventh book, or better yet, a continuing story sequence for the blog. But yet again, I have a hard time capturing these thoughts. My mind is wild, and when I create an idea it goes loose and the chances of recapturing it are one to one million. Mostly the very bad ideas are caught too. The funny part is that people think my bad ideas are good, when they would be in for a surprise if my true form was revealed. I'm trying to think back now. My allergies are creating a fog to the passages locked away in the back of my mind. I remember:

I was thinking of a line such as this: "Let me ask you Dorro, what is the difference between a green bowl and a red bowl? The bowls are of equal size, created of equal materials, and both get the job done in the same manner, but why should we criticize one of the bowls because of their color? We shouldn't, but yet the masses of the public look at the green and red bowls and pick the one they favor. Favoritism, I say! It corrupts the minds of many. We should all accept both bowls and not choose favorites because of color. The same should go for humans, as the same case is seen in discrimination of colors, races, origins, and the such. We're all humans! Accept the fate of who you are! We're all made out of the same materials created by God the Almighty but yet people choose the color. Why should we choose what's on the outside when the inside is what matters? Say the red bowl is the one everybody favorites, yet it's the weakest bowl. They don't care that it's weak because it's red! Red is their preferred color, their preferred trait. They assume what they can from the cover of the book. But let me tell you: an author who puts all their time on the cover of a book has worst writing within than an author who has a blank cover on. Dorro, remember, never assume anything. You'll be corrupt like the other money-loving hogs that inhabit this planet. A color is a color, but a human is a soul!"

Think whatever you want from this. But remember, I thought of the framework of such from pure imagination. Out of thin air while walking from Point A to Point B in my house, or sitting starring out the window ahead in a car. My thoughts are unmanageable and in a way I like it like that. It forces me to think more, to create something greater than my loss. It's the foundation of a pyramid. The top, however, will be the ultimate fate.

And now I shall leave you be. Have a good one.