January 22, 2006
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Censorship and English

I'm under attack! I've received a stern talking-to from my parents in lieu of quote-unquote indecent material. But I find nothing here licentious; I see nothing that requires my Aunt and Uncle to tell their children:

Michael and Julia, do not go to this website.

I've yet to really post a picture of my naked body, as I often tease. I've yet to make actual racist jokes, as maybe I'm entertained by. And I've yet to release the awful secret about my brother's sexual preference, which makes me giggle.

I'm not supposed to say, cunt, nigger, fuck, etc. to remain decent. You'd frown upon a potty mouth too. And I'm not supposed to post pictures of breasts. There's nothing inherently wrong with a naked figure, but you'd think less of me if I were to display pornography on your screen. This examination of decency brings with it much of the insight that I see in English; so little as the authorship of newsworthy events brings with it much squinting.

Imagine this, you just saw a picture of sexual intercourse and I used the word, cock, and you're a little disappointed in me.

Now imagine this, an expansive Brazilian village sits in a green field with natives tending to their simple happenings. It's a nice day with the sun shining bright. Now imagine this, wartime guerillas in battle fatigues storm through the village like brutes, tossing grenades through certain windows and firing many shots with automatic weapons. A mother screams in horror; her baby is in the hut that just exploded! She dashes to save the young child with her bare feet picking up road dirt through her cuticles, and she hears many shots fired nearby. Brrrattt-brrrattt-brrrattt. And she reaches the hut, now on fire, where she comes to the entrance. Her baby!

She sees her daughter, Charulata Trivedi, laying there with her eyes open. She looks scared. And our mother only wants the best for her baby. So what does she do; she finds both of her daughter's legs and tries to reattach them to her baby. Something is wrong. This isn’t right. She’s trying to fix it. It isn’t working. It isn’t working. . .

Okay. I didn't use any bad words. I didn't talk about sex. But you see the potential danger. There's a lot to be said about the power of language. It's a means of expressing anything. Emotion, even.

I once received this message:

[edit]: i love you
[edit]: please talk to me i jst want to say goodnight bc u hung up on me
[edit]: jeff?
[edit]: please i need to say something
[edit]: look i trust u because i would never love you without trusting you and i am sorry that i am upset bc u told me that u were comingt o see me and knowing that u might not see me tommrow tears me up and that u are the best thing that has happend to me in a long time and that all i wanted to do tommrow is see you and that u will not call me and talk to me or even online is hurting me because all i want to do is hug you and kiss you and be around you and please understand that i was excited to see u tommrow and i will even drive down there if that is what it take but i love you what else do u want me to say!! please call me
[edit]: or talk to me
[edit]: online
[edit]: please just say goodnight so i know that u go this

It says, "I'm sad. I'm mad. Talk to me." But it says a lot more than that—while only saying that. They say language is male-biased, and I know exactly what they mean when I read the above text.

I've used my snappy line, "it is, but it isn't" many times thus far, and it's exactly what I mean when I tell you, a lot is said without actually being said for any interaction in life. You know when I'm having a good day; you know when I'm having a bad day. My friend, Dana, told me that English is more so about life, which I then didn't see then, but I now fully understand what he meant.

English : the study of life!

January 20, 2006
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There is no doubt in my mind that I will become a bodybuilder.

I fully understand that I will bring my physique to epic levels and while relieving an inner stress for having thrown my entire life out of whack. Fitness is a perfect means of taking out aggression and pulling the joyous neurotransmitter, dopamine, out of its hiding. And it’s expected of men my age. I expect to squeeze much jealously from peers when I’m shirtless in summer months. Ladies. I rank in at the upper echelons of physical knowledge through my nutrition awareness and much time spent at the health club.

I’m well aware that I’ll get some lip about “having a small dick” and “having small nuts” too, but, I assure you, there is no compensation for my sexual anatomy (reads: my cock is huge) in this fitness standard. I’m looking forward to quote-unquote washboard abs once my dieting-cardio phase begins (March?), and I’ve been doing a good job with maintaining my diet, albeit while growing myself.

I’m only in the first year of my quest to step upon others at the health club, and I think I’ve done pretty well. I’m bigger than most of you—while I was on a stomach tube not too long ago. Think about it; I don’t drink or watch any television; it’s no wonder why I’m looking to embark this mighty path. I will be rid of the devil glasses soon and also the teenage braces. I shall make bitches swoon with many ohhh’s and ahhh’s.

You’d think that I’m looking toward steroids or some sketchy chemicals, but no, I’ll play fair. I take a multivitamin, whey protein, creatine, and Red Bull—that’s it. My parents threw out a disgusting amount of pills while I was in the hospital, probably a good thing, and I’ll steer clear of anabolics. My GNC boss used to run along with some natural—meaning, tested for steroids—bodybuilding shows, and I’d like to think that I’ll, one day, have a comparable physique.

You could say that I’m overcompensating, but, mechanically, it’s no easier for me. I have enough time on my hands and plenty of knowledge inside, so why shouldn’t I make the effort. That, and as always, I’m looking to impress the ladies. *grrr*

January 16, 2006
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and the whoring begins. . .

January 15, 2006
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A trend of individualization.

I was at the gym earlier and I saw two kids my age, obviously friends, palling around on the weight machines. They had iPod’s signature white earbuds in, and I watched this duo from afar, talking to eachother, obviously turning down the volume low enough so that they could hear each other. And then it struck me; I was doing the same exact thing; I had my own iPod playing music. I worked up a sweat on an eliptical machine with FOUR television screens in front of me, with my own music playing loud enough to drown out the club’s music, and with a sudden realization that humanity looks to get away from each other.

Look at me right now, I’m listening to recorded music and typing with a machine. No one else is involved in this business. Yet. And I justify it through that. The isolation I’m speaking of is the reason why I’ve developed some radical thinking with the entertainment industry. I enjoy directly affecting others. Perhaps you think I’ve gone off the deep end with my finger pointing at you, the sitcom viewer, but television isn’t all that I see in this individual trend.

I’ve seen these new PSP’s; the handheld videogames; they’re a part of something bigger.

Granted I spend a sick amount of time in front of this screen, but it’s part of a process where I’m really speaking to people—in their underwear. I have a metric fuckton of people reading my thoughts, whenever they care to. Look around you right now, you’re in a house with some people. You’re ignoring them. Since time began, all life has felt a need to be with others. For example, look at how the Jews swarmed into a mass of togetherness upon death, in the gas chamber. That means something.

Here’s where I lose you. Here’s where you’ll think that I’m preaching.

We drink to get away from others, while bonding—getting closer—with others. We drink at parties to get the words flowing, but the alcohol gives us the distance we need to feel safe. Getting closer while putting a buffer between us. Is that right? There’s something very artificial about a chemical bringing out such personality. But it does help us converse. And it allows us to feel as though we’re the center of attention. I remember a friend, let’s call him S.; he would routinely start singing like a pretty bitch when significantly drunk; he’d do silly shit and dance but excuse it because he was simply drunk. He’d act like a performer. What I’m saying is this : we do less that involves the people we’re actually with.

I see a trend of individualization. Just saying.

January 12, 2006
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Britney Spears, I once loved ye.

Do you remember the days when Britney Spears wore a schoolgirl uniform? Her pigtails cried, “Use me as handlebars!” and her skirt added “Yes, please have your way with me!” Of course you remember that naughty craving. But our madame has endured a slippery slope since then.

=(

This Britney has gotten fat. She smokes. And she may have been knocked up by her scumbag boyfriend or whoever that guy is. She doesn't look good. The most recent times where she’s hit me have been precisely lackluster, and I only expect her to fade into obscurity with a mention of “how happy she is with her hubby” in tabloids every now and then.

I remember Notre Dame, the private school, allowed girls to wear certain outfits—mostly anything from home. Something about periods. During my schooldays, the resemblance of this miniskirt Britney was nowhere to be found, and I began looking to the public schools where girls, both, known as sluts and reputable for their tricks, knew that they stood on a lower pedestal than Xaverian boys and paid close attention to the fat ass variable in hopes of riches. That was then, but currently our fat smoker Spears bears much similarity to the Notre Dame lumberjacks.

Britney, I loved ye much.

January 7, 2006
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Elegance

I began writing this story in November—it's eight pages—with the intent of reflecting the awfulness in cosmetic beauty. I studied "deconstruction" with two elements going against each other's grain; in this, cosmetic prettiness and the filth of maintenance hygiene. I'm not sure what you'll think of it. I'm not sure if you'll find great interest. There's no real plot; it's more of a process. It certainly isn't a nail-biter. But I found enough content to write about. I'm certainly not trying to tell you something. This is only practice. And I hope you enjoy my Elegance.

January 3, 2006
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Sexual Genius Reveals. . .

I'm fresh at the keyboard after trudging on a step machine for nearly an hour. I don't usually endure my exercise at night, but I had an idea; an idea that should be of use to the many fat men out there. Hold that thought.

I've received an Apple iPod as gift for Christmas, courtesy of my mom and dad, and I was intrigued with how these li'l suckers now offer full screen video. It didn't take long; I knew I must cram pornographic film onto my new pet. Days later I arranged the step machine, I prepared the iPod, and I was soon audience to a sexy porn star taking it hard and deep.

I am a man and testosterone plays with my senses. I remember watching Entourage where a character exercised in front of a screen displaying moist orifices, but I never got around to testing the equation myself. Now I have, thanks to iPod, and I shall flaunt beautiful abdominals by spring. The past few days I've paid extra attention to my No pasta at night! rule, drinking mostly carbohydrate-free, blah-tasting, GNC-discounted protein shakes after dinner. Note: Chocolate is good. But now, with this visual secret on my side, I will craft a mesmerizing body with minimal effort.

Anyways I just wanted to pass this tidbit onto my friends—who drink too much—shame, shame, shame. I don't expect any females to become intrigued with the idea of pornography; my discovery is aided through testosterone, and only testosterone. Female hearts don't flutter at the sight of a phallus, and chicks' metabolism is separate from masturbation. For you, bitches, my findings are of no use; my observation will only serve to make you look fat; maybe you should relieve your fat ass with a healthier diet.

I clock in at a respectable 176lbs, flaunting a fair share of beautiful muscle. I know I look good. I hope to promote my physique to such heights I had merely dreamed of, and to such beauty females had only envisioned in fantasies. And I plan to get there through simply watching much pounding, and pounding, and more pounding.

And while I could make a joke about the protein following a workout, I refrain.

January 1, 2006
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Where did everything go?

Alas, I begin my dot-com from scratch now that 2006 arrives. Everything from the two years prior has vanished, The Great Purge. And while I rebirth Just Chillen, I'm aided through Justin's artistic abilities; its graphical goodness is unparalleled. You bet your ass there are a respectable amount of short stories on their way, an obscene amount of pictures starring my cock in transit, and many text-based smooches destined to soon land upon your cheeks—not the lips.

For anyone new to my scene, let me explain, my dot-com had become far too personal; I began my writing career with some autobiographic stuff, I posted far too much personal information in the form of fun little blurbs, and I couldn't have the awful source of truth following me around. I've abandoned two years of content while picking up a new layout designed by my brother. I plan to purge this that you're reading now once 2007 arrives. I do this website in my free time.

And to explain "JMRQ," I picked up a simple acronym as identity for myself—actually a fake business—during my digital escapades of hacking and credit card fraud in previous years. It's an acronym for my digital self, and you can reach me at AIM: JMRQinc every now and then. Thankfully I've held onto some cyberpunk living; I had this webpage so far back that I only used it to host image macros on bulletin boards. I was a loser, BUT this website shall see greatness through the web-based publication of Jeffrey Marquis' amateur text. Look up top; that writing link is your pathway to Enlightenment through previous creations. Also I've held onto one month of the previous Just Chillen Empire and some other content, which can be found in The Archive.

I'm just a girl from your English class. Who are you?

I'm white. I'm male. I'm American.
I'm training to be a writer.
I'm circumcised.
I don't watch television.
I enjoy fitness training.
I don't drink alcohol.
I like technology; I spend a ridiculous amount of time at the keyboard.

And I've crashed my car—throwing my life off COMPLETELY on November 2nd, 2004, when I was halfway through college. During that time I struggled as a Computer Science student, but I've taken an interest in writing and this webpage will showcase my current life and its creations. That's enough. Oh, I'm currently the ripe and virile age of twenty-three, I live in the fine town of Charlton with my parents—but they don't come in at night, I promise—and I'd like to think that I'm stunningly handsome with my perfect teeth, a quote-unquote hot physique, and a personality so smooth you'll quiver with passion.

I use this fine webpage as means to showcase literary creations, reflections upon life, and anything flaunting my many achievements—content that the people I know would enjoy. If you ask, I may inform you as to my daily happenings or the many pornographic films I host.

What do I hope you come away from this with?

Firstly I've owned this website for two years prior, so I've got a little history of bringing entertainment to the web. Very recently I've dabbled in writing, which has developed into a powerful interest. I use this website as a source of entertainment for the people I know and as a personal journal of sorts. I've yet to craft this dot-com as a means to find willing and able girls of age in the Charlton, MA area.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please savor my flavor with all that I offer.

and here can be found the final, barebones, December content from '05.