This blog has only been initiated a little over a week ago, but passersby may already be able to point out a general trend between the types of posts and the people posting them:
- Josh: Short stories or poems with elaborate metaphors that no one can really decipher, yet still marvel at, because it sounds oh, so Pulitzer Prize-worthy.
- Trent: Slumdog Millionaire.
- Me (Chang): Random blurbs, all with different tones and voices (AHHH IDENTITY CRISIS FJWAIOFKLDSNOX).
So, since I'm the dude with the random musings, I'll present another before I peace out for the night:
Pretend that you're married to the love of your life, and you are the proud parent of two beautiful children: a 3-year-old girl, and an 8-month-old boy. Unfortunately, things look bleak beyond that. You are living in the middle of World War III, and troops of the opposing forces are guarding the premises near your house. Their orders have been to mercilessly shoot anyone in sight, whether it be civilian or soldier. As you hide in your panic room with your spouse and two children, you can hear the gentle thumps of the troops' boots outside. Your children have been sleeping, but the little one is beginning to stir. As a parent, you know that whenever he awakens, he cries his lungs out. You are also aware that anything louder than the crack of a knuckle would probably gather attention from the patrolling troops. You know right then and there that you have a split-second decision to make: Do you smother your son to save the rest of the family?
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