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Ed Barnard, a.k.a. ' the Turnip', holds a B.A. in B.S. form NCSU. and is miraculously concluding his fifty-forth year, an age he never accepted would come to pass. I say this not so much because of his determination to find the mythical fountain of youth, but because, to his way of thinking, getting older was something that only happened to other people; subsequently, the year 1972 will remain forever a future date in his mind. As illogically as it turned out, he anticipated treading upon this earth all the days of his life with the vibrant footsteps of a twenty-something youth, strictly from the standpoint that such was the best way for things to be.
Reading classical and historical literature is one of the Turnip's simple pleasures and he often entertains the playful urge to write parody; however, putting pen to paper has never come easily to him and is indicative of a greater personal truth which has held equally true for most of his life's endeavors. From an early age, he found boredom to be something that happened mostly while sitting in front of a television and so he preoccupied his idle times with other and sundry endeavors, witnessing time after time extraordinary sights, be they real or dreamlike or that astonishing combination of both. To this day he remains utterly befuddled, when relating these wonderful visions to friends, how their reactions range from surprised disinterest - often bordering bewilderment, to sincere concern.
Their rationale merely hardened the Turnip's resolve to interact with the world on his own recondite terms and the life he has lived may best be surmised as somewhat skewed from the accepted social norm. With his childhood a testament to what lay ahead, he conjured games in which, at various moments, he assumed the role of every active participant and, oftentimes, every participant's role simultaneously, creating a spectacular sight of multi-tasking that assuredly stunned curious onlookers. Fortunately for the Turnip, a solitary focus on the fantasy of the action, coupled with an inherently keen absorption in imagined intrigues, protected him from extreme embarrassment on those occasions when the sanctity of his undertakings was no longer inviolate, thereby not exacerbating an already too pronounced self-conscious tendency. Being a 'weirdo' is not something which the afflicted experiences relief from having pointed out.
Going it alone tested and steeled the Turnip in this all too changing world of chance where one only has oneself to rely upon. Needless to say, the swift passing of time has heralded the greatest impediment to his overall happiness, for as he longingly gazed out windows that shrouded ever changing landscaped vistas and endured the various failures and shortcomings life dishes out, the sands of time stealthily slipped past. So many gardens to tend, flowers to nurture, birds to observe, yet so precious few moments left not preoccupied with the daily complexities and machinations of man's sordid affairs.
Oh but the fruits of our forefathers have done little but to grow the size of the proverbial manure pile, for our universal bent is forever and always to wallow in our own undoing. Hail mighty Atlantis! may you one day rise again and shine anew, so that we may rediscover the path that leads us homeward, for the living God is exposed and has shown himself to be the prince of darkness!

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