An example of bad writing.

nothing.jpgThe computer system over here in the Communication department seems to be having issues.  Since I can’t continue using university programs with any amount of security or savability, I have spent a couple of minutes writing something that isn’t really any good.  I didn’t know what it would be like when I started and when I found an exit, I took it.  Maybe it was wrong of me.  Maybe I should have played it out to the bitter end.   Maybe there’s more to the story of Stanley.  Maybe you know it.   I don’t know.   All I know is that my eyes are having that buzzy feeling that I get at the end of 6 hours in front of a computer screen.

Stanley, Agent of Fate.

           
Stanley was born in the early 80s.  He wasn’t initially an agent of fate, but kinda grew into it.  I suppose a person could say “Yeah, the 80s will do that to you,” but people who say that would be wrong.  Because it didn’t happen to you.  It happened to
Stanley.

            He was a boy of questionable aptitude.  Through his public education years he did well in grades and poorly in socializing.  He did manage to make one or two close friends who tended to stick with him despite his tendencies towards questionableness.

           
Stanley sat in an oversized grey chair.  When he had sat down on it he had flopped.  But when he got up from it, it would be a simple “getting up.  Fate was upon him and when he left his chair it would be an “Arising.”  It had been a long day already, but he knew that Fate was not done with him yet. 

            He Arose from his chair.

            He switched his jeans and t-shirt for black slacks, grey sweater, and a long black coat.  He left his apartment for the cold of the night and the swirling snow, and as he did so he was somewhat grateful that Fate allowed him some amount of cool.

           
Stanley went to the bar.  He had himself a couple of shots of tequila, paid for them, and stole one of the glasses as he departed again into the swirling night.

            By this time the snow had begun to cling to the ground and sidewalks.  There was about 1 inch worth. 
Stanley walked from place to place, not looking, but with a strange sort of confidence that something was to be done at a certain place.

In a park, the snow coated the stone steps of a garden named after some Greek goddess. 
Stanley lay the shot glass into the snow above the steps, then walked away.  His mission was accomplished.

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