Incomplete, so I guess he's still alive

I'm in tears. Absolute tears. (it's in the bin down the street, with banana peels and apple cores)

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Edgar was a bothered man.
His mother loved him, his sister disliked his face, his aunt cried when he was born, and his father was dead. When he was seven, his first best friend was found strangled under her front porch. Her mother was found a few days later in an old room down the street with half her face missing. Edgar had always wondered where the other half went.
A few days before going into middle school, Edgar’s Aunt set up a meeting with a therapist for him. This was when his mother had gone away to live with Uncle Arthur for a year. She never explained why, but Edgar had gotten used to it by then. His doctor’s name was Mitch, and he liked to talk about softball, and if Edgar was any good at it. He happened to be, and Mitch ended up teaching him more about techniques than helping him forget about his best friend. Edgar didn’t mind that much though, because they got to go to the park every Thursday and sometimes Mitch would bring him to his house and let him watch old movies with him. He was Edgar’s second best friend.
Becky was the name of Edgar’s first kiss. He liked her because she chewed bubble gum and wore skirts and bangles and knew how to dance. She liked him because he was pretty okay looking, and not a nerd, and she got bored a lot. When they kissed it was all right—not great, but not unpleasant either. Their relationship was an excuse to go out on Friday nights and catch the adrenaline of hiding under the bleachers with a hundred people standing above them. Just when Edgar was getting used to the wetness of her tongue, her father was transferred and she moved almost without saying goodbye. He felt surprisingly empty.
The year before graduating, Edgar discovered archery. He found that when concentrating, he could focus on a certain point and let everything else go dark. His trainer, Jack, praised him for this apparent gift he had, and rewarded him with free lessons on weekends. Sometimes Jack would have to fix Edgar’s stance or the way he was holding his bow, and when he guided his body Edgar could feel the callouses on his hands. They never said it, but he knew Jack was his third best friend.
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Poor pathetic thing

Aww.

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“God, I’m so tired.” He ran his fingers through his hair, hunching over his desk and resting his hands on the back of his head. White sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Rolex tightly fastened, he played the part of the businessman flawlessly. He even ordered cognac at the bar.
“C’mon, don’t be such an old lady. Drink up!” His ears stretched and his neck muscles tightened when he smiled like that. It was the tipsy, ‘I mostly know what’s going on but could you drive me home just in case, please?’ smile, so declining was probably the best way to go. Orange juice wasn’t so bad when the barman winked like an old friend, and Mr. Cognac wasn’t too heavy or giggling too much when being guided over to the car.
“Where’d you get such a funny hat? Can I have one, please?” Goading drunks on always ended up in mutual headaches, so he stayed safely locked under his seatbelt and sobered up by the time his front steps were in sight. Haze still clouded his pupils, but he had at least remembered what a cup of coffee was. Even if he hadn’t wanted one.
“Look, that’s… really nice of you, but… I’m, I’m really tired. Maybe another time?” Clambering for the reverse gear mixed with ‘His wife must be home…’ made for uneasy rest, but the smell of his hair gel on the headrest of the passenger seat kept the mitochondria going until Monday morning when black coffee colored the cubicles awake.
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Abortion Distortion (hey! i rhymed!)

It doesn't make sense (as per usual), but I enjoy the descriptions.
Coherence is lost around the 3rd line. Oh well, I understand it.

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Her hands, which were normally sweaty, felt disconcertingly dry.

The hairs on her arms felt like bristles, and the nurse wouldn’t stop asking her if she was sure she hasn’t had any history of cancer in the family.

Mother—Martha—sat with a comatose man in room 132, smoking and writing an essay on his arm.

The low, rolling AC suddenly dipped and halted, leaving eerie silence that made the nurses realize how loudly they had been speaking.

A janitor, his heart on his sleeve, walked by the mob of reporters crowding the lobby, and only hoped he hadn’t mopped there yet.

Feeling ignored, but only just smart enough to realize, the father twisted his fingers behind his back and wished his daughter were him.

A collage of prescriptions fluttered to the floor as the man in the white lab coat slipped on his own Viagra.

Helplessly, she wished the cold feeling on the back of her neck were his hand.

Two hallways over, a woman did, indeed, have all her affairs in order, and would they please call her brother in law so she could hold his hand?

Martha, cynical and useless, fell asleep next to the dying man, but not before putting out her cigarette on his arm.

A teenage boy six chairs away from X admired the dip of her breasts as she hunched over, and didn’t even consider the photographers were for her.

Young women, too scared to smile, waited nervously for their boyfriends outside, thinking about their fathers instead.

X breathed until the door slid open, eyeing the doctor, and knowing the answer from his swagger.

Father cringed when she asked if she could throw herself down the stairs, and Martha would have laughed.
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WILL DIES. (spoilers, btw)

My review on Pirates of the Caribbean 3:
Elisabeth's a whore.



Also:
-The centrality around Keira Knightly was disgusting and eye-twitching.
-So was how skinny she looked with that belt on.
-PotC 3 felt like a recycled version of 1. The same devices used over and over again (just in case we didn't laugh the first time).
-The continued "just in the nick of time" action sequences killed any hopes of suspense. (except for the part where will died. that was pretty rad)
-The digital animation was awesome as always.
-Sequels/Threequels have a tendency to introduce a cacophony of plot lines that either a)never meet their end or b)get lost in the swell of all the other tangents. eg. the introduction of Jack's father.
-On that note, Keith Richards, Johnny Depp, and Geoffrey Rush were the only saving graces. (considering we see Richards in about 2 scenes, that's saying a lot)
-Not to say it's a flop. There are moments of joy, sadness, anger, and even hallucinogenic references. (what movie would be complete without them?) Comparatively, it just simply doesn't cut it.
-For any cinematic series to be successful, each separate movie must be able to stand on its own. (eg. Lord of The Rings) World's End would have floundered if not for dedicated Johnny Depp (let's face it: that's what we're all there for) fans who didn't mind the boring sexual tensions and overdone fight scenes; just so they could catch a glimpse of his delightfully smudged eyeliner, and choir: "But where has the rum gone?"




ps: I realized the reason I despise Swan's character so much is because nothing she does has consequences. Not bad ones, at least. And they let her get away with being both insanely feminine (pretty/anorexic) & masculine (generally being badass) at the same time. They created a Mary-Sue out of a rich, disobedient wench.
pps: And there's no way in hell her teeth could have been that nice in THE 1600s.
ppps: Of course I'm jealous. I'm a girl.

Come to Australia!