Posted in journal, life, stories

A Story All too Often Told


Even the wisest of men don’t see when they’re about to be blindsided, for if they could then how could it be labeled such? No sense of togetherness, completeness, or awareness is completely fool proof; one cannot possibly look at every minute angle at once. But far less plausible is the idea that they can not only look in every direction simultaneously, but process and understand the information they receive in doing so and use it to completely and accurately predict future events. No, a wise man can still be made a fool, so much so that he questions the reality of his supposed wisdom, and wonders if it existed in the first place.
I think of it this way: wisdom envies the need to love, be loved, and to belong. The aforementioned _need_ wields such awesome powers of persuasion that they can be likened, perhaps, to the hammer of Thor. What is wisdom though apart from words and ideas implanted into the mind as part of growing up? How is it more than a quiet voice, or a book that’s so easily ignored? It’s nothing, literally nothing more. It speaks, but even the loudest voice can’t be heard over the strike of an almighty hammer and a crack of thunder. It’s a book those of us who care to read often flip open for guidance, filling in the blanks as we go – maybe it starts out, when we’re 3, telling us that maybe we ought not touch that stove – it’ll hurt, very bad, but expands as we grow so that by the time we reach adulthood, we know who to trust and who to be careful with, among other things. It can’t remind us of all of its words if it’s closed though, or if its voice is muted – I’ve learned that way too many times and I think you have as well, at some point.
Even to the wisest of men, beauty speaks louder than wisdom, and being blindsided by so much of it strips the wise man of all his inhibitions except those of greatest importance. Wisdom is cast aside like yesterday’s leftovers, then the need to love and be loved and belong takes over, and brings with it some of its best friends – compassion, empathy, fondness, desire, love, and blissful blindness. And together, those little guys, so small and cute and dressed like angels, softly caress with gentle hands the wise man’s misgivings into loving, trusting submission, whispering softly to them that everything is going to be okay; “Let down your guard, this will make you happy. Let the heart guide the way.”

It’s all foolish fantasy though, and any truly wise man should, and would, know that. The heart casts aside everything that is logical, everything that is, in favor of “hope hope, hope hope, hope hope, hope hope, hope hope,” ringing the word with every beat. It tells you it’s okay to feel the way you do, that everything will work out like you wanted it to in the end; ‘Don’t worry! We got this!’
And the book of wisdom, that living, talking, apparently not so all knowing source of guidance, sits patiently in the background – and it waits, waits for the man to realize that his heart is wrong and it was right all along. And on that day when he inevitably falls on his face, abandoned by his broken heart and rolling on to his side, wiping the blood from his chin and staring despairingly into its helpless eyes, wisdom comes back and extends a hand to help the man up. And it speaks, in its ever quiet voice, “See what I was saying, you foolish little child? I still have much to teach you. Now we aren’t going to let this happen again, are we?”
And all the wise man can do is hang his head in humility, and lie to wisdom itself once more: “No. I’ve finally learned my lesson.”
Do you hear me? Do you hear me more clearly than I hear myself? I speak these words so often in my own mind that they are a mantra, so why can’t I understand them? If you have read any of this and given it so much as a second’s thought, then yes. You hear me, and that’s enough for me. I can’t expect you to understand that which is so far-fetched that I can’t come close to grasping it myself.

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Posted in stories

why do I write this blog?


If your ever wondering, “Why do you write this blog?” well, here is the answer. In early 2011, I was thinking about starting a journal. This was early February, so I didn’t know what to do. I had been contimplating on whether to use a notebook or not, but by april, I decided not to. So around April 15, I started researching blogging platforms. I found something called “wordpress.org,” but you had to install it on a web server. so, I didn’t use it, and instead, I kept looking. Then, I came across blogger, but didn’t like it much, because it had a lot of back-links back to blogger.com. So, I still kept looking. On April 20, I found wordpress.com. I must’ve used wordpress.com before, because you will learn why later on in this post.
Well anyway, I tried to sign up, but it said that my email was already taken.
For the rest of that afternoon, I tried different credentials. Then, I found the right ones, and logged in. Then, I created a blog. All of the addresses were taken, so I just angerly typed “furiethwopat.wordpress.com” in the box and registered it.
I wasn’t happy with the address, and didn’t know how to change it, so I registered a new one at “stevendaughertysblog.wordpress.com.” If you are a new visitor, you may not know, that address was the previous address of this blog.
Months went by with this blog and that address, until I decided that it was too long. So, I changed it to “sssjournal.wordpress.com.” That is what it remains today, and that is my story on how I got this blog.

Posted in stories

Please read


Hi, this is the beginning to a story that my sister is writing. She asked me to put it on here, so I could have your feed back.
Let us know if it is something that she should continue, or give up.
Give us a rating
1. amazing! please write more!
2. good. Keep it up.
3. It’s okay. It needs work.
4. Bad. You shouldn’t continue.
5. Horrible. Just stop!

here it is!

I was running out of energy. I couldn’t fight anymore. “Stop, I’m sorry! Stop!”
But the hand around my throat didn’t loosen, and the horrible, inevitable truth finally sank in. I was going to die. It didn’t matter that I had lived only seven years, or that if I died it wouldn’t help my mom: witch was the only reason I had come in to this room, or even the fact that I could never be able to tell my dad or brothers that I loved them one more time. None of this mattered to the unrelenting hand around my throat.
My struggles became more and more futile. I couldn’t fight this. I was just a little kid. I wanted my mom.
But of course that couldn’t happen because if that were the case she wouldn’t be lying on the floor in front of me: looking like a corpse.
Finally I stopped struggling all together and just before the blackness took me: I jerked awake.
Tears were streaming down my face, and I was gasping. My heart felt like it was gonna jump right out of my chest.
“Brookie?” I had never been so happy to hear that voice.
“Chandler!”
He sat next to me on the bed. “What’s wrong? I heard screaming. Was it another nightmare?”
“Yeah, it was.”
He took my hand. “You know they’re gone. They won’t come back. Mom was all they wanted?” His statement ended in a question. Maybe he was trying to convince himself that this was the truth.
“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s just a dream.” Somewhere inside of me though, I knew that it wasn’t true.
“Yeah,” he said, and I heard a note of skepticism creep in to his voice.
He didn’t believe it either. If only he knew what I did. If only he remembered that horrible night seven years ago. But of course he didn’t. He had only been two years old at the time.
Only I had been there to witness it. Only I had heard the words that the owner of the unrelenting hand had spoken just before I was taken by blackness: “Looks like we haven’t finished our job here.”
I still didn’t know what that meant, nor did I want to know. I was scared though. What ever the voice had meant: it wasn’t going to be good.
Was he referring to killing me, or my brothers? Was I not supposed to have come in that room, and so now they were angry? Was that even a threat? Or were they just trying to scare me?
Maybe my fear was pointless. Maybe nothing was coming for me.
“Brooke? Do you remember that night,” Chandler asked cutting in to my thoughts. I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
“Yes,” I said.
“Clearly? Like it could have happened yesterday?”
“I guess.”

Posted in funny, stories

why you should never eat a hard boiled egg in a bagle, my discusting food story


Well this morning, I got up and ate breakfast. Well, I have been trying new things with hard boiled eggs, and that is what I did today. I had crushed an egg into a tortilla to make a barrito, and you would neer believe how it taisted. I put the first bite in my mouth, and new it was a mistake. I ate most of it, but had to spit the last of it out. The thing was so nasty, I almost threw up. Even posting this post, I still can’t get it out of my head how nasty that was!

Posted in journal

how my day went, I serve the detention


Today, I got up and went to school like normal. In my detention, I had to summorise the history of chewing gum, then I wrote my story book. After the detention, school went on like normal.
I got early release at 1:30 so I could go to the dentest. After that apointment, I went out to eat with my sister and parents. Note, I sat at home for a while before.
After dinner, we came home and took our showers. Then, I came and got on the blog. That is all I did today.