Hidden within the darkness of my own perverted mind...

are the irrational and often times erratic moments of nostalgia. It is rare to find myself lurking in the recesses of my troubled head. I heartily admit my disconnections with people; However, I will not volunteer to give an explanation.

I don't fancy myself much of a writer, yet the drafts of "would be" novellas have been changed time and time again from when I started to pen my scribbles at 15.

And what would a 15 year old write about?

The following passage is taken from one of my own written stories. This is still untitled, and under much re-work. It's no where near completion, so I beg pardon. Much of my work, if not all, is done on paper. I have attempted the conversion of my words onto a file on the computer, but felt as if I was betraying the genuine nature of my stories. It goes; Thought to pen, pen to paper. No more, no less. I'll often jot down a thought, a paragraph, a phrase, only to dissect and use it a much later time. I try to avoid very little change in my writings, if at all possible. I had to search through some old personal papers, and recover this short story. Though there is much more to this piece, I'll save you the trouble by only offering the part that reminds me of my younger brother, Kevin.

This is a Leezuhhl Blog first, and a personal one at that.
To my brother, Kevin: I'm glad you're ok. You little shit.

He stood no more than three feet tall, yet his overbearing demeanor made him appear much larger than life. He screeched like a baby taradactyl, and in a way resembled one. His face was always decorated, scarred really, from some freakish fall or bump. He was a tough kid, with beady brown eyes, and a hair style that is better known as the rice bowl cut. Heck, I donned that look until the tender age of twelve.
Curious as he was, he never asked for assistance. Grabbing his own toys with his chubby fat fingers, as if he wasn't a toddler, but a grown boy. But I controlled him. I told him where to sit, where to go, and when to nap. Afterall, isn't that what older sisters do to their miscreant younger siblings?
It was a lazy afternoon, and we were told twice to put the Power Wheels car away in the shed. Derek loved that four wheeled kiddie vehicle. Batteries were not included of course, but was definitely a cool toy at the time. Father bought us the K.I.T. car, child version, from that hit show at the time. The car didn't have the voice of actor William Daniels, but it did have the signature red light that would strobe horizontally across the front bumper. It was the first one seen in our neighborhood; it made us the most popular kids on our block. Knight Rider was a popular show when we were growing up. That was simply because David Hasselhoff's career wasn't tainted then. He was cool, in a late 80's James Dean kind of way.
Dad decided it was a good idea to take us to Toys R Us every weekend. Given, our grades were kept, and our chores done. My brother and I never missed our assignments, or any kiddie do lists. Mother disliked this Pavlovian mind game. In her eyes, good grades equaled new bike and missed chores equaled less play time. She thought it would be best if we learned to do what we were told because it was good to do so; and not so much on the fact that we'd get a new toy at the end of the week. Father had other ideas.
Derek was a stubborn boy. "Derek... DEREK. DEREK!" mom had often said, "Don't do that!" I remember a time he stole dad's favorite tweezers, which he often used to pluck his whiskers, and hid it from him. Knowing dad treasured this cosmetic tool, Derek couldn't help but to play with it. Derek had stuck these tweezers in the electrical outlet. Not once, but a couple of times. Once after being told not to, and again after he got electrocuted. I can still remember the smell of his burnt hair.
"Why didn't you watch him carefully?"
"I don't know mom," shrugging, "it's not my fault he always gets into trouble."