Blade
04-08-2005, 09:11 PM
Or at least, 6/10's of it. Or something like that. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I have of my biography so far.
It's so full of emo and self-absorbed stuff, that you're bound to die. Sorry.
The Intro of it All
It is in the darkness that one loses one’s self. A shadow ceases to be, a reflection cannot be born, a person cannot be seen. Sadly, this has nothing to do with my story. Or it might. I dunno. Subconscious thing, you know?
My name is Corey Shane Dommisse. Right now, I’m sixteen years old. My story is, sadly, completely and totally, utterly and overwhelmingly, absolutely as follows: pointless. You could call me a Nihilist, if you like. One who believes human existence has no point; that it all ends in nothingness, despite your greatest efforts.
Eh. Too bad nobody gives a fuck what I think. Anyway. I suppose I’ll go back a few years. Well, okay, not just yet. A little about myself, right now, first. I’m a teenager with raging hormones; I see a girl, I don’t usually think, “Hey, that’s a girl.”; rather, I think, “Hey. Sex.”. It’s sad, but true. Not especially proud of that fact, but a fact’s a fact, I suppose.
I’m modest about this, or at least I try to be. I’m smart. Like, genius-level, Harvard material. Sad thing is, I’m an uninspired lazy bum, despite the fact I’m writing about it all. I suppose you’d call what I’m doing venting. But I digress. More useless facts about me in the moment.
Religion’s something all people have, regardless of what they say. Even Atheists are religious, since, you know, Atheism is a religion. So, I have my own as well. I’m an Agnostic. Sometimes, I stay up at night, ‘cause I scare the Hell out of myself questioning my existence and what-not, wondering what exactly will happen to me when I die. I’d rather go to Hell than to just cease existing; trust me, you ever properly conceive the notion of nonexistence, you’ll agree.
But anyway. I’m about five foot nine, vary from 140-150 pounds, and tend to cut my hair really short, let it grow out to shag-length, then shear it again. I’ve got hair all over my chest, and it’s extremely unattractive. My eyes, however, are an attractive shade of grey, blue, green, or brown, or combinations of all that, depending on the lighting. I play cymbals for my high school’s marching band, thought I believe I’m gonna quit this year. There’s not much reason for me to participate, anyway. More on that shiznit later.
I’m madly in love with this girl. Well, not madly, really. But I’m somewhat determined to get with her, it’s just that, sadly, I’m not exactly able to woo her. Even more sadly, I am able to woo a number of other girls who are, shall we say, no one’s type. Some girls say I’m really sweet, and some of them’re attracted to that, because, let’s face it, no one’s treated them with a shred of dignity ever before. All the others just usually call me a faggot and leave me be to wallow in self-pity, or in the pity of the aforementioned ill-fated women.
In terms of personality, I try to be a Comedian. After reading the story of my life, you may determine this to be simply a self-defense mechanism developed throughout my childhood. Maybe it is. Or maybe I’m naturally trying to be like Adam Sandler and Tom Green’s genetically enhance tube baby. Who knows.
I have a following of people. These people find me charming, sweet, hilarious, and so on. The males of this following often make loud noises, calling me “Coricus”, which is my ‘black’ name. The females vary a bit more, going everywhere from being sexual towards me, to trying to help me attain my goal on love, to simply being an acquaintance.
There are also the haters. They hate me. Simple as that. I’m not really sure why, but there are these people; I am a simple person, following philosophies of live and let live, peace, pacifism, et cetera, yet these people continue to act as antagonists towards me.
Very frustrating when people hate on you when you just preach peace and love. Very frustrating. Oh well.
Chapter 1: The Beginning of Baby Blue, The End of Childlike Innocence
Some time prior to the year 1988, my mother and father met. They had known each other through past friends, namely my uncle on my father’s side. At any rate, they felt they like each other enough to fornificate. The condom, however, did what it does 0.001% of the time; it broke. The birth control pills? At times, antibiotics interfere with how a birth control pill works, and this was one of those times, luckily. For me, anyway. A few months later, I was born in Whispering Pines Apartments, LaGrange Georgia. We never made it to the hospital, so I was born there. Immediately after coming into true existence, I had an asthma attack and an allergic reaction to, ironically, pine trees.
My Mom affectionately called me Baby Blue, as a result of my eyes, which were a sort of electric blue. Of course, most babies have blue eyes, so this was nothing remarkable, really. My name was Corey Shane Dommisse, meant to mimic a cousin of mine’s name, Courtney Lane Abernathy. This was also unremarkable in the end, as it is little more than a fun fact.
The next few years were somewhat uneventful. My father left me to become, essentially, a drunk. My mother went to Alabama, where she married a man named Pearson, the man I would naturally assume as my father figure. He too was a drunk, and due to this, had massive problems with his liver and the like. He was prescribed marijuana as a way to ease the pain, and soon became an addict. I, however was blissfully unaware of these things, in a sense. I was ignorant, and grew up around it all, so I never assumed much of it. I had a half brother, named Shawn. At this point, he was what one might call a punk, a wannabe, whatever. He also dabbled in drugs and what-not, though he resorted to other petty crimes such as thievery and the like. Though it was never proven, a bunny-shaped bank of mine went missing, he being the prime suspect.
I grew up in a small town called Mount Olive. The surrounding area of our house was very large, with several acres to explore. I would take my stepfather’s shovel up in my hands, go out to the woods beyond our house, and I would dig for treasure I believed to be out there. On an ironic side-note, my stepfather’s father suffered from Alzheimer’s, and buried a good deal of money in his senile state. When I was not treasure hunting, I was inside doing the one thing I do with a passion.
Video Games. The second the old NES controller fell into my hands, and I made Mario jump on a Goomba, I knew I had found my true calling. Of course, at the time, I merely thought to myself, “This is fun.” But anyway. I played games a lot and hunted for treasure. I went to a private school of sorts, Mt. Olive Elementary. No uniforms or anything, but they had an excellent system of teachers, where I gained years beyond my own years of knowledge. My social life, however, wasn’t too good, because as I got older, a terrible tragedy happened.
When I was seven, my stepfather, whom I had childishly always assumed to be my real father, died eventually of Sclerosis, and death was not a concept I knew of. Religion was a thing I’d never even known about. To me, it was a channel on T.V. that I flipped quickly past, because it frightened me for some obscene reason. Of course, at this time, I had to cope. And I did, somewhat.
I didn’t understand for about two months what events had transcended. I didn’t realize Pearson had died; I just assumed that he was sleeping, much like he had done in the hospital so many times before. Of course, death set in eventually, and I began to realize what exactly had happened. Another thing, however, also happened. I lost my emotions. Before, I had been an energetic child, making jokes often, telling stories of all the things I knew and had made up. Now, my feet dragged as I walked, I no longer smiled, I no longer frowned. My tone of voice became monotonous, and I no longer cared. I sat in my room, and played Video Games all night. Then, with terrible bad luck, several other close family friends died.
This was of course a lot for me to swallow as an unreligious child. Shortly thereafter, my real dad moved in with us temporarily. Then, just as quickly, we moved back to LaGrange, Georgia. With new family, I restarted my life. Per se, anyway. The next few years were the same; I learned and matured as a person, and eventually came to be in possession of what might be the equivalent of a forty-something year old man who had served in a war in which he was terribly scarred forever. Then, at the age of nine, I came to conceive my thoughts of life and death, finally.
For me, death is a terrible thing. Life is full of trillions of choices, possibilities, and other lives. At night, I would often be in complete darkness, and think about dying. When you die, you no longer see. No longer can you hear. You can’t think, “Hey, the inside of this coffin is stuffy.” Because you can’t think. You can’t even realize you can’t think, because you can’t, because you are no longer anything. This, to me, was the most horrible fate known to be, worse than any torture possible. Before I was even a decade old, I came up with what I knew to be my worst fear, the thing that could make me thrash in thralls of anguish.
The really sad thing was, while some people are afraid of the dark, you can turn on the light. The thing I was afraid of, death, was going to happen no matter what. I could do nothing to stop it. Ten years from then, twenty years, fifty, it didn’t matter. No matter what, I would have to live with the fear until it consumed me, driving me insane, into either a suicidal or homicidal rage.
So the comedian was born.
Chapter 2: He Laughed When He Was Sad; Then A Girl Laughed Along
It's so full of emo and self-absorbed stuff, that you're bound to die. Sorry.
The Intro of it All
It is in the darkness that one loses one’s self. A shadow ceases to be, a reflection cannot be born, a person cannot be seen. Sadly, this has nothing to do with my story. Or it might. I dunno. Subconscious thing, you know?
My name is Corey Shane Dommisse. Right now, I’m sixteen years old. My story is, sadly, completely and totally, utterly and overwhelmingly, absolutely as follows: pointless. You could call me a Nihilist, if you like. One who believes human existence has no point; that it all ends in nothingness, despite your greatest efforts.
Eh. Too bad nobody gives a fuck what I think. Anyway. I suppose I’ll go back a few years. Well, okay, not just yet. A little about myself, right now, first. I’m a teenager with raging hormones; I see a girl, I don’t usually think, “Hey, that’s a girl.”; rather, I think, “Hey. Sex.”. It’s sad, but true. Not especially proud of that fact, but a fact’s a fact, I suppose.
I’m modest about this, or at least I try to be. I’m smart. Like, genius-level, Harvard material. Sad thing is, I’m an uninspired lazy bum, despite the fact I’m writing about it all. I suppose you’d call what I’m doing venting. But I digress. More useless facts about me in the moment.
Religion’s something all people have, regardless of what they say. Even Atheists are religious, since, you know, Atheism is a religion. So, I have my own as well. I’m an Agnostic. Sometimes, I stay up at night, ‘cause I scare the Hell out of myself questioning my existence and what-not, wondering what exactly will happen to me when I die. I’d rather go to Hell than to just cease existing; trust me, you ever properly conceive the notion of nonexistence, you’ll agree.
But anyway. I’m about five foot nine, vary from 140-150 pounds, and tend to cut my hair really short, let it grow out to shag-length, then shear it again. I’ve got hair all over my chest, and it’s extremely unattractive. My eyes, however, are an attractive shade of grey, blue, green, or brown, or combinations of all that, depending on the lighting. I play cymbals for my high school’s marching band, thought I believe I’m gonna quit this year. There’s not much reason for me to participate, anyway. More on that shiznit later.
I’m madly in love with this girl. Well, not madly, really. But I’m somewhat determined to get with her, it’s just that, sadly, I’m not exactly able to woo her. Even more sadly, I am able to woo a number of other girls who are, shall we say, no one’s type. Some girls say I’m really sweet, and some of them’re attracted to that, because, let’s face it, no one’s treated them with a shred of dignity ever before. All the others just usually call me a faggot and leave me be to wallow in self-pity, or in the pity of the aforementioned ill-fated women.
In terms of personality, I try to be a Comedian. After reading the story of my life, you may determine this to be simply a self-defense mechanism developed throughout my childhood. Maybe it is. Or maybe I’m naturally trying to be like Adam Sandler and Tom Green’s genetically enhance tube baby. Who knows.
I have a following of people. These people find me charming, sweet, hilarious, and so on. The males of this following often make loud noises, calling me “Coricus”, which is my ‘black’ name. The females vary a bit more, going everywhere from being sexual towards me, to trying to help me attain my goal on love, to simply being an acquaintance.
There are also the haters. They hate me. Simple as that. I’m not really sure why, but there are these people; I am a simple person, following philosophies of live and let live, peace, pacifism, et cetera, yet these people continue to act as antagonists towards me.
Very frustrating when people hate on you when you just preach peace and love. Very frustrating. Oh well.
Chapter 1: The Beginning of Baby Blue, The End of Childlike Innocence
Some time prior to the year 1988, my mother and father met. They had known each other through past friends, namely my uncle on my father’s side. At any rate, they felt they like each other enough to fornificate. The condom, however, did what it does 0.001% of the time; it broke. The birth control pills? At times, antibiotics interfere with how a birth control pill works, and this was one of those times, luckily. For me, anyway. A few months later, I was born in Whispering Pines Apartments, LaGrange Georgia. We never made it to the hospital, so I was born there. Immediately after coming into true existence, I had an asthma attack and an allergic reaction to, ironically, pine trees.
My Mom affectionately called me Baby Blue, as a result of my eyes, which were a sort of electric blue. Of course, most babies have blue eyes, so this was nothing remarkable, really. My name was Corey Shane Dommisse, meant to mimic a cousin of mine’s name, Courtney Lane Abernathy. This was also unremarkable in the end, as it is little more than a fun fact.
The next few years were somewhat uneventful. My father left me to become, essentially, a drunk. My mother went to Alabama, where she married a man named Pearson, the man I would naturally assume as my father figure. He too was a drunk, and due to this, had massive problems with his liver and the like. He was prescribed marijuana as a way to ease the pain, and soon became an addict. I, however was blissfully unaware of these things, in a sense. I was ignorant, and grew up around it all, so I never assumed much of it. I had a half brother, named Shawn. At this point, he was what one might call a punk, a wannabe, whatever. He also dabbled in drugs and what-not, though he resorted to other petty crimes such as thievery and the like. Though it was never proven, a bunny-shaped bank of mine went missing, he being the prime suspect.
I grew up in a small town called Mount Olive. The surrounding area of our house was very large, with several acres to explore. I would take my stepfather’s shovel up in my hands, go out to the woods beyond our house, and I would dig for treasure I believed to be out there. On an ironic side-note, my stepfather’s father suffered from Alzheimer’s, and buried a good deal of money in his senile state. When I was not treasure hunting, I was inside doing the one thing I do with a passion.
Video Games. The second the old NES controller fell into my hands, and I made Mario jump on a Goomba, I knew I had found my true calling. Of course, at the time, I merely thought to myself, “This is fun.” But anyway. I played games a lot and hunted for treasure. I went to a private school of sorts, Mt. Olive Elementary. No uniforms or anything, but they had an excellent system of teachers, where I gained years beyond my own years of knowledge. My social life, however, wasn’t too good, because as I got older, a terrible tragedy happened.
When I was seven, my stepfather, whom I had childishly always assumed to be my real father, died eventually of Sclerosis, and death was not a concept I knew of. Religion was a thing I’d never even known about. To me, it was a channel on T.V. that I flipped quickly past, because it frightened me for some obscene reason. Of course, at this time, I had to cope. And I did, somewhat.
I didn’t understand for about two months what events had transcended. I didn’t realize Pearson had died; I just assumed that he was sleeping, much like he had done in the hospital so many times before. Of course, death set in eventually, and I began to realize what exactly had happened. Another thing, however, also happened. I lost my emotions. Before, I had been an energetic child, making jokes often, telling stories of all the things I knew and had made up. Now, my feet dragged as I walked, I no longer smiled, I no longer frowned. My tone of voice became monotonous, and I no longer cared. I sat in my room, and played Video Games all night. Then, with terrible bad luck, several other close family friends died.
This was of course a lot for me to swallow as an unreligious child. Shortly thereafter, my real dad moved in with us temporarily. Then, just as quickly, we moved back to LaGrange, Georgia. With new family, I restarted my life. Per se, anyway. The next few years were the same; I learned and matured as a person, and eventually came to be in possession of what might be the equivalent of a forty-something year old man who had served in a war in which he was terribly scarred forever. Then, at the age of nine, I came to conceive my thoughts of life and death, finally.
For me, death is a terrible thing. Life is full of trillions of choices, possibilities, and other lives. At night, I would often be in complete darkness, and think about dying. When you die, you no longer see. No longer can you hear. You can’t think, “Hey, the inside of this coffin is stuffy.” Because you can’t think. You can’t even realize you can’t think, because you can’t, because you are no longer anything. This, to me, was the most horrible fate known to be, worse than any torture possible. Before I was even a decade old, I came up with what I knew to be my worst fear, the thing that could make me thrash in thralls of anguish.
The really sad thing was, while some people are afraid of the dark, you can turn on the light. The thing I was afraid of, death, was going to happen no matter what. I could do nothing to stop it. Ten years from then, twenty years, fifty, it didn’t matter. No matter what, I would have to live with the fear until it consumed me, driving me insane, into either a suicidal or homicidal rage.
So the comedian was born.
Chapter 2: He Laughed When He Was Sad; Then A Girl Laughed Along