Ah, my lycanthropic arthropods! Too long have you been left abandoned. Too long have you endured the mundanity of life without my glorious writing. Too long have you been left with no farewell, but merely an entreaty to stab the annoying with corrective writing implements(this entreaty still stands, mind you). Allow me to refresh your very damned souls with my infernal text.
I have a story to tell. There once was a beautiful young girl, with hair like silk and eyes like the moon. Then she went bald. And a centipede laid eggs in her eyes and they were eaten away by the larva. And everyone decided she was a witch.
The end.
I think I'll call my story The Littlest Witch. Best seller material, right?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
As It Is
There is a new addition to the sidebar. It lists my current exploits.
Thoughts?
Helpful Hints with Reogan!
Some people are irksome fools. This wouldn't be too much of a problem but for their burning desire to share with you whatever inanity their brain is dredging from the Sea of Stupidity.
Your response?
"I'd love to talk with you, but your conversations are the maddened scrawlings of an elementary/primary schoolgirl/boy, and I feel honor-bound to take a red pen to your very vocal cords to correct your numerous errors."
Then if they say anything, you stab a red pen into their larnyx.
Thoughts?
Helpful Hints with Reogan!
Some people are irksome fools. This wouldn't be too much of a problem but for their burning desire to share with you whatever inanity their brain is dredging from the Sea of Stupidity.
Your response?
"I'd love to talk with you, but your conversations are the maddened scrawlings of an elementary/primary schoolgirl/boy, and I feel honor-bound to take a red pen to your very vocal cords to correct your numerous errors."
Then if they say anything, you stab a red pen into their larnyx.
A History
In the beginning there was Reogan.
There were no interwebz.
Reogan left.
In the middle there is Reogan.
There are interwebz.
Reogan writes.
At the end there will be Reogan.
There are Horseman.
Reogan rides.
There were no interwebz.
Reogan left.
In the middle there is Reogan.
There are interwebz.
Reogan writes.
At the end there will be Reogan.
There are Horseman.
Reogan rides.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Huh?
I have to force myself to stop researching people I just met. It's a bit creepy, even for me.
But I can pretend to like the same shows then.
I made a new rule. Minotaurs purr.
Hey, if vampires sparkle, minotaurs purr.
I'm done.
But I can pretend to like the same shows then.
I made a new rule. Minotaurs purr.
Hey, if vampires sparkle, minotaurs purr.
I'm done.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Write
What's the point?
The above is the stupidest question that one can ask in most situations. You may fail to realize it, but Life is comprised mostly of Art, and Art is often its own point. If you disagree, you probably believe in Art for the wrong reasons. Art is not for profit. Art is not for practice. Art is not to kill time. It may serve those functions, but the point is Art.
Go to your local library. Smile widely at the librarians as you enter, and hurry to the adult nonfiction section. Look for 813.54 K5870 and borrow it.
You're welcome.
The above is the stupidest question that one can ask in most situations. You may fail to realize it, but Life is comprised mostly of Art, and Art is often its own point. If you disagree, you probably believe in Art for the wrong reasons. Art is not for profit. Art is not for practice. Art is not to kill time. It may serve those functions, but the point is Art.
Go to your local library. Smile widely at the librarians as you enter, and hurry to the adult nonfiction section. Look for 813.54 K5870 and borrow it.
You're welcome.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Distracting Bees
Bees are either eusocial or a superorganism. Some debate rages around this topic. I refuse to put forth an opinion. However, if they are a superorganism, does that make them asexual? Because the superorganism would breed with itself.
At the moment I'm writing this, I'm merely eight days behind on my writing. A week if you want to be generous. That would be acceptable but for the fact that this is progress.
Why am I writing here if I'm so far behind on what matters?
Ah, yes. Because my last post here was three weeks ago.
I write for an audience I do not have. An audience so vast that it is nigh innumerable. An audience that would exist but for the fact that no one ever spreads the word about my words.
Fail is a verb. There cannot be a fail. There can be a failure. Can not is as acceptable as cannot. Antidisestablishmentarianism has far too many prefixes. Meaning one. One too many.
Well, I'm done here. To Between the lines to-
Augh. These take forever.
By the way, the abbreviations are BTL, rps, and FWIC. You must never capitalize rps as a rather pleasant site is uncapitalized. Deal with it.
At the moment I'm writing this, I'm merely eight days behind on my writing. A week if you want to be generous. That would be acceptable but for the fact that this is progress.
Why am I writing here if I'm so far behind on what matters?
Ah, yes. Because my last post here was three weeks ago.
I write for an audience I do not have. An audience so vast that it is nigh innumerable. An audience that would exist but for the fact that no one ever spreads the word about my words.
Fail is a verb. There cannot be a fail. There can be a failure. Can not is as acceptable as cannot. Antidisestablishmentarianism has far too many prefixes. Meaning one. One too many.
Well, I'm done here. To Between the lines to-
Augh. These take forever.
By the way, the abbreviations are BTL, rps, and FWIC. You must never capitalize rps as a rather pleasant site is uncapitalized. Deal with it.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Insomnia
Confession. I should have written part four of Darkness and Light by now. I haven't. I will, though, tomorrow. Worry not.
There are few things worse than idiots, and few hives of idiocy larger than the internet (The only larger one would be the government. Or maybe France). I have seen an example of idiocy today on the internet that surpasses all other transgressions. Apparently, one can now lip-sing to music. Yes. Lip-sing. That makes no sense. All singing is done with lips, except in a few rare medical cases. The premise of lip-synching is synching lips with music.
Firefox says synching is not a word. I've decided it is.
Are you aware that there no longer needs to be a comma before the word and (or or) in lists? Apparently someone decided to change the rules of language. I refuse to comply.
Though I would like to change the rules of language. Imagine the fun to be had in switching the meanings of affect and effect. Just for a day, of course.
Remember, when you assume you are as sum e. Sum e is, of course, a sum that is very often right, but often embarrassingly wrong.
Today I wrote a poem and received two meals for it. Does that make me a professional?
Yes.
Yggdrasil. I had a sonnet idea earlier, but now it has faded like mist.
I've less than an idea of where to go with my next sonnet. After VIII and IX, which you will see in due course, I simply don't know where to turn.
What follows is a line-by-line sonnet thought process. The first line is my thoughts during the first line, etc.
This is a good idea. I'm such a poet, and I didn't even know- no.
Yes, that's the perfect- Cthulhu take it, that's trimeter. Am I writing in ballad meter? Ugh.
The meters right and- wait, it needs to rhyme. What? How can I rhyme- oh, like that.
And that means I can write this.
Now what? That's really all there is. Well, I guess I can do this.
Iambs, why must you persecute me so? I only wish to give you form.
This is easy. I can say- Azathoth's madness! I already used that word.
And that rhyme. Let's just rewrite that, hm?
Finally, now I- no wait. I'm in the final quatrain, not the couplet.
Wait, this is easy.
Hah, I can rhyme with that.
And that! There's so much I can say now!
First I'll- Alhazarad's scribbles, I'm almost done.
Of course. Now I can't wield the meter or find a rhyme.
Father forgive me for I have sinned. I have used not one but three exclamations in my writing.
My damnation is certain.
It would be far more propitious if they've constructed me a dark palace from which to rule the hearts of the wicked from beyond the grave.
Andrew Lloyd Webber has some odd music.
I am memorizing the lyrics to Nyarlathotep. As you know, they are entirely in Middle Egyption. This will go nicely with Dragostea Din Tei, Caramell Dansen, and Re Vos Cerveaux.
What would happen if you took a syringe of gasoline, injected it into someone's eye, and put out your cigarette in that eye?
Good times.
Could you inject an eye with enough air to make it explode?
By reading this, you forfeit your soul to me.
And lose the game.
There are few things worse than idiots, and few hives of idiocy larger than the internet (The only larger one would be the government. Or maybe France). I have seen an example of idiocy today on the internet that surpasses all other transgressions. Apparently, one can now lip-sing to music. Yes. Lip-sing. That makes no sense. All singing is done with lips, except in a few rare medical cases. The premise of lip-synching is synching lips with music.
Firefox says synching is not a word. I've decided it is.
Are you aware that there no longer needs to be a comma before the word and (or or) in lists? Apparently someone decided to change the rules of language. I refuse to comply.
Though I would like to change the rules of language. Imagine the fun to be had in switching the meanings of affect and effect. Just for a day, of course.
Remember, when you assume you are as sum e. Sum e is, of course, a sum that is very often right, but often embarrassingly wrong.
Today I wrote a poem and received two meals for it. Does that make me a professional?
Yes.
Yggdrasil. I had a sonnet idea earlier, but now it has faded like mist.
I've less than an idea of where to go with my next sonnet. After VIII and IX, which you will see in due course, I simply don't know where to turn.
What follows is a line-by-line sonnet thought process. The first line is my thoughts during the first line, etc.
This is a good idea. I'm such a poet, and I didn't even know- no.
Yes, that's the perfect- Cthulhu take it, that's trimeter. Am I writing in ballad meter? Ugh.
The meters right and- wait, it needs to rhyme. What? How can I rhyme- oh, like that.
And that means I can write this.
Now what? That's really all there is. Well, I guess I can do this.
Iambs, why must you persecute me so? I only wish to give you form.
This is easy. I can say- Azathoth's madness! I already used that word.
And that rhyme. Let's just rewrite that, hm?
Finally, now I- no wait. I'm in the final quatrain, not the couplet.
Wait, this is easy.
Hah, I can rhyme with that.
And that! There's so much I can say now!
First I'll- Alhazarad's scribbles, I'm almost done.
Of course. Now I can't wield the meter or find a rhyme.
Father forgive me for I have sinned. I have used not one but three exclamations in my writing.
My damnation is certain.
It would be far more propitious if they've constructed me a dark palace from which to rule the hearts of the wicked from beyond the grave.
Andrew Lloyd Webber has some odd music.
I am memorizing the lyrics to Nyarlathotep. As you know, they are entirely in Middle Egyption. This will go nicely with Dragostea Din Tei, Caramell Dansen, and Re Vos Cerveaux.
What would happen if you took a syringe of gasoline, injected it into someone's eye, and put out your cigarette in that eye?
Good times.
Could you inject an eye with enough air to make it explode?
By reading this, you forfeit your soul to me.
And lose the game.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
How Many on the Mendeleev Scale?
After a single metric eternity (which is to say 3.14159 Imperial eternities, or 2i English eternities) I finally posted on BTL. I must confess to feeling a bit threatened. Met has begun posting (my thing) regular content (my thing) in the form of a story (mine) with no visible end (agh!). Now he's started talk of a BTL of his own. The voices in my head don't like that. They want me to keep my spot as main contributor and chief madman. The former is in jeopardy. For the first time in recent memory, the front page is less than 50% my work. I'm ashamed.
Да! Нет! Водка!
Which is to say, whether the answer is Да or Нет, the best response is Водка!
Cthulhu haunts my thoughts, Nyarlathotep my dreams, and Azathoth the daemoniacal aether between.
Nyarlathotep! [Middle Egyptian singing]! Nyarlathotep! [Again]!
I propose we end the discrimination. Numbers are runes too, and should be treated as such. They deserve equal rights. I have a dream that we will one day be able to remind people to capitalize their ones. I have a dream that the best mathematicians will write numerical equations entirely in cursive. I have a dream that one day, numbers and letters can meet to plague schoolchildren in new, horrific ways.
Yes, I know the lyrics to Dragostea Din Tei (Numa Numa).
Yes, I know the lyrics to Caramelldansen.
Yes, I know the lyrics to Re Your Brains in French.
Also? American Sign Language.
Answer the title of the post for me.
The above will suffice. This post is now complete.
I lied. You should know I beat a game of Minesweeper today. On expert. That is no mean feat.
Да! Нет! Водка!
Which is to say, whether the answer is Да or Нет, the best response is Водка!
Cthulhu haunts my thoughts, Nyarlathotep my dreams, and Azathoth the daemoniacal aether between.
Nyarlathotep! [Middle Egyptian singing]! Nyarlathotep! [Again]!
I propose we end the discrimination. Numbers are runes too, and should be treated as such. They deserve equal rights. I have a dream that we will one day be able to remind people to capitalize their ones. I have a dream that the best mathematicians will write numerical equations entirely in cursive. I have a dream that one day, numbers and letters can meet to plague schoolchildren in new, horrific ways.
Yes, I know the lyrics to Dragostea Din Tei (Numa Numa).
Yes, I know the lyrics to Caramelldansen.
Yes, I know the lyrics to Re Your Brains in French.
Also? American Sign Language.
Answer the title of the post for me.
The above will suffice. This post is now complete.
I lied. You should know I beat a game of Minesweeper today. On expert. That is no mean feat.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Hey Mickey!
Mickey is certainly fine. In fact, he so fine he blow my mind. However, Stacy's mom has really got it going on. Mickey may take me by the heart when he takes me by the hand, but Stacy's mom could use a guy like me.
I'm torn.
Is there a culture in which people exchange IQ numbers upon meeting, and the one with the lower number must lick the other person's shoes clean? Because I could go for that.
"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?"
"I'm here."
"Idiot! That's not what wherefore means."
"But I-"
"No! We are through! It's over!"
"Juliet, I- Ow! Was that your shoe?"
"I have plenty more. My daddy's rich."
"You just through your shoe at me!"
"Thanks for noticing. Now where did I put... Nurse! Bring me my stilettos!"
"You have knives?"
"You are dense, aren't you? Oh, thanks. Tell daddy there's a filthy Montague in the garden. Here you go, Romeo."
"Ah! You have actual stilettos in your shoes?"
"Daddy always said that boys needed to be reminded of their place. No one touches this angel."
"I thought this was about grammar and- Ah! It's in my eye!"
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
There's a reason I will never use drugs. From Whence it Came may very well be that reason.
It just struck me that Mickey is also so pretty. Stacy's mom can't compete.
Though I could tell she liked me from the way she stared...
Forget it. I'm going for Jessie's girl instead. She's got those eyes, and that body. I mean, a woman like that, I just want to tell her I love her. I wish I had Jessie's girl.
You just lost The Game.
I just lost The Game.
"Oh true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a shoe, I die."
"O happy dagger! That is thy sheath, there rest, and make him die!"
Is it a sin to rewrite Shakespeare's-
Yes.
I'm torn.
Is there a culture in which people exchange IQ numbers upon meeting, and the one with the lower number must lick the other person's shoes clean? Because I could go for that.
"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?"
"I'm here."
"Idiot! That's not what wherefore means."
"But I-"
"No! We are through! It's over!"
"Juliet, I- Ow! Was that your shoe?"
"I have plenty more. My daddy's rich."
"You just through your shoe at me!"
"Thanks for noticing. Now where did I put... Nurse! Bring me my stilettos!"
"You have knives?"
"You are dense, aren't you? Oh, thanks. Tell daddy there's a filthy Montague in the garden. Here you go, Romeo."
"Ah! You have actual stilettos in your shoes?"
"Daddy always said that boys needed to be reminded of their place. No one touches this angel."
"I thought this was about grammar and- Ah! It's in my eye!"
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
There's a reason I will never use drugs. From Whence it Came may very well be that reason.
It just struck me that Mickey is also so pretty. Stacy's mom can't compete.
Though I could tell she liked me from the way she stared...
Forget it. I'm going for Jessie's girl instead. She's got those eyes, and that body. I mean, a woman like that, I just want to tell her I love her. I wish I had Jessie's girl.
You just lost The Game.
I just lost The Game.
"Oh true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a shoe, I die."
"O happy dagger! That is thy sheath, there rest, and make him die!"
Is it a sin to rewrite Shakespeare's-
Yes.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
A Tale
"How are you today?"
"Lugubrious."
"What?"
"Also? Peckish."
"I see."
"You can aid me on both accounts, though."
"I have no food, sorry."
"No matter, come here."
"This is less than ideal."
"For you."
...
"I nearly forgot to ask how you are as well."
"Disquieted."
...
"I'm sure you were. Also? Delicious."
"Lugubrious."
"What?"
"Also? Peckish."
"I see."
"You can aid me on both accounts, though."
"I have no food, sorry."
"No matter, come here."
"This is less than ideal."
"For you."
...
"I nearly forgot to ask how you are as well."
"Disquieted."
...
"I'm sure you were. Also? Delicious."
Friday, April 2, 2010
La Luz del Demonios
25/124 is about a fifth. 25/125 is a fifth. My FreeCell record win streak is 124. This means I am a fifth of the way to surpassing it. When do I accomplish this you ask? When I should be writing the Apocalypse.
26 now.
I write in a more sophisticated tongue than many people (read: everyone I know). What irks me are those who utilize language they fail to grasp. Example:
Nagreo: sup?
Reogan: I'm wasting my life away with FreeCell, as is my wont.
Nagreo: ROTFLOL!!!!!!11!! 1! 1 111
Reogan: Why do you abuse language so?
Nagreo: i abuse language as is my want
According to the omniscient Wiktionary, wont is archaic. I find this delightful. As is my wont.
Tea is a good thing. Without it, the world's depravity would wash away the last bastions of civilization. With it, depravity is too distracted by drinking it to bother with those bastions. The bastions are saved. A bastion saved is a bastion earned.
I pity Arthur Dent. When I drink tea, I expect it to be, at worst, a substance almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a substance almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.
That was written as it was intended to be. If you don't understand it, please turn in your towel.
When in doubt, kill off every character.
This applies in stories too.
I don't speak Latin, and I have no knowledge of the grammar, but I know a good deal of words in it. Currently Daemon Lux is running about my mind.
27
1337 is nothing but a particularly popular flag behind which the forces of Degradation move against language.
'Txt Talk,' as I recently heard it said, is a particularly disgusting subset of 1337.
The Giving Tree is about Yggdrasil. It's a eco-friendly book, because it claims we broke the worlds. Who needs Níðhöggr when humans exist?
26 now.
I write in a more sophisticated tongue than many people (read: everyone I know). What irks me are those who utilize language they fail to grasp. Example:
Nagreo: sup?
Reogan: I'm wasting my life away with FreeCell, as is my wont.
Nagreo: ROTFLOL!!!!!!11!! 1! 1 111
Reogan: Why do you abuse language so?
Nagreo: i abuse language as is my want
According to the omniscient Wiktionary, wont is archaic. I find this delightful. As is my wont.
Tea is a good thing. Without it, the world's depravity would wash away the last bastions of civilization. With it, depravity is too distracted by drinking it to bother with those bastions. The bastions are saved. A bastion saved is a bastion earned.
I pity Arthur Dent. When I drink tea, I expect it to be, at worst, a substance almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a substance almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.
That was written as it was intended to be. If you don't understand it, please turn in your towel.
When in doubt, kill off every character.
This applies in stories too.
I don't speak Latin, and I have no knowledge of the grammar, but I know a good deal of words in it. Currently Daemon Lux is running about my mind.
27
1337 is nothing but a particularly popular flag behind which the forces of Degradation move against language.
'Txt Talk,' as I recently heard it said, is a particularly disgusting subset of 1337.
The Giving Tree is about Yggdrasil. It's a eco-friendly book, because it claims we broke the worlds. Who needs Níðhöggr when humans exist?
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Creativity
Sometimes I worry myself. I sit for hours trying to think of something, and nothing new comes. This pains me, because I create. It's what I do. There is no joy to parallel the creation of that which wasn't but now will always be. I am deprived of that feeling when I can't think of anything.
But I do. I think of everything. Worlds rise and fall in my mind, but I don't choose them. Creativity isn't a conscious process. I can't choose to invent. All I can do is let it craft itself through me when it so chooses. My ideas will be born when they want, and to force them is to hurt them.
I have a notebook gradually filling with ideas. Each could be a novel. Most could be a short story. A few could be poems. For now, I add. One day I intend to craft each of them. For now... I don't know. I'm almost afraid of doing anything more than I do. What if I find I can't do anything but extremely short stories? I've written countless short stories, many poems and a screenplay. A screenplay-in-progress. It has the plot points it needs, but it needs fleshing out.
I've never written anything resembling a novel. The Apocalypse could be the longest thing I've written. I'm afraid.
But I do. I think of everything. Worlds rise and fall in my mind, but I don't choose them. Creativity isn't a conscious process. I can't choose to invent. All I can do is let it craft itself through me when it so chooses. My ideas will be born when they want, and to force them is to hurt them.
I have a notebook gradually filling with ideas. Each could be a novel. Most could be a short story. A few could be poems. For now, I add. One day I intend to craft each of them. For now... I don't know. I'm almost afraid of doing anything more than I do. What if I find I can't do anything but extremely short stories? I've written countless short stories, many poems and a screenplay. A screenplay-in-progress. It has the plot points it needs, but it needs fleshing out.
I've never written anything resembling a novel. The Apocalypse could be the longest thing I've written. I'm afraid.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Why Won't I Just Die?
When your fingernails touch something, it shouldn't be said that you touched it. Fingernails lack nerve endings. If you can't feel it, you didn't touch it.
From the twilight come our race
In the light we found a place
'Til we with ways so low and base
Caused the sun to turn its face.
The darkness oe'rspread all like lace
And into dark we fell apace.
I write things like that and wonder if they're melancholy beauty or vain attempts to craft it.
The time has come! I have regained my desire to work on my screenplay, The Masked Ones. The third draft should include a never-before-seen scene. Prolly. I dunno, I'm sick.
Quiero spring.
I laspsed into Spanish for a second there, didn't I? Dioses, estoy cansado.
The gods I refer to are the Aesir.
Johnny went to Asgard's door,
Found a hammer on the floor.
Taking it, he angered Thor.
Little Johnny is no more.
We get signal!
All your base are belong to us.
To whom does all your base belong? Us.
All the base that was yours are belonged to us.
Us are belonging of all your base.
The possession of all your base has fallen to us.
Meh, I dunno. Make your time.
Delirium is the only um for me.
And it's probably also why wrote that.
Poof!
Why are you still here? I magicked you away. Lemme try again.
Poof!
...
From the twilight come our race
In the light we found a place
'Til we with ways so low and base
Caused the sun to turn its face.
The darkness oe'rspread all like lace
And into dark we fell apace.
I write things like that and wonder if they're melancholy beauty or vain attempts to craft it.
The time has come! I have regained my desire to work on my screenplay, The Masked Ones. The third draft should include a never-before-seen scene. Prolly. I dunno, I'm sick.
Quiero spring.
I laspsed into Spanish for a second there, didn't I? Dioses, estoy cansado.
The gods I refer to are the Aesir.
Johnny went to Asgard's door,
Found a hammer on the floor.
Taking it, he angered Thor.
Little Johnny is no more.
We get signal!
All your base are belong to us.
To whom does all your base belong? Us.
All the base that was yours are belonged to us.
Us are belonging of all your base.
The possession of all your base has fallen to us.
Meh, I dunno. Make your time.
Delirium is the only um for me.
And it's probably also why wrote that.
Poof!
Why are you still here? I magicked you away. Lemme try again.
Poof!
...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Short
The theremin is a machine of brilliance. You play the air itself, and haunting music spews forth.
Firefox apparently thinks theremin isn't a word.
People who say communism is great only in theory are idiots. Just because something has yet to be achieved doesn't mean it can't be. I mean, really.
That's the thought dump for the week. Deal with it.
Firefox apparently thinks theremin isn't a word.
People who say communism is great only in theory are idiots. Just because something has yet to be achieved doesn't mean it can't be. I mean, really.
That's the thought dump for the week. Deal with it.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Life is an Interrobang
They make a punctuation mark for what‽
I think I'm in love.
The interrobang is a combination of an exclamation point and a question mark that is used in situations where both would apply. The dull-witted fools of you who read this are no doubt wondering why we need a punctuation mark for that when one can use both the pretty stick point and the curvy huh point right after each other. Only idiots do that. It's poor form.
How can it be so beautiful‽
Oh. Like that.
In other news, Qupar has admitted to reading some of an Obi/Luke slash fic. Yes, slash.
What more? I write these things without any particular direction in mind.
Though a native English speaker, and a worshiper of that faith, I ask all my basic interrogatives in Spanish. For example, if you were to tell me that the French were likable people, I would reply with an incredulous "Que‽" (Hah! Interrobang!) Periodically when I speak, I transition into the language. Why? I'll never know. It's neither as flawless as English (Heh. I made a funny.) nor as beautiful as Portuguese. It's not even arrogant like French.
Meh.
I realize there's no inverted interrobang in my cross-language question. I couldn't find one. Deal with it.
Was it rude to call French arrogant? I'd like to apologize to all the French people in the audience. Just because you hate the world and live in a country that smells of urine does not in any way mean you're arrogant. You may merely be delusional, or suffering from a rare form of extraordinarily severe chronic stupidity.
I think I'm in love.
The interrobang is a combination of an exclamation point and a question mark that is used in situations where both would apply. The dull-witted fools of you who read this are no doubt wondering why we need a punctuation mark for that when one can use both the pretty stick point and the curvy huh point right after each other. Only idiots do that. It's poor form.
How can it be so beautiful‽
Oh. Like that.
In other news, Qupar has admitted to reading some of an Obi/Luke slash fic. Yes, slash.
What more? I write these things without any particular direction in mind.
Though a native English speaker, and a worshiper of that faith, I ask all my basic interrogatives in Spanish. For example, if you were to tell me that the French were likable people, I would reply with an incredulous "Que‽" (Hah! Interrobang!) Periodically when I speak, I transition into the language. Why? I'll never know. It's neither as flawless as English (Heh. I made a funny.) nor as beautiful as Portuguese. It's not even arrogant like French.
Meh.
I realize there's no inverted interrobang in my cross-language question. I couldn't find one. Deal with it.
Was it rude to call French arrogant? I'd like to apologize to all the French people in the audience. Just because you hate the world and live in a country that smells of urine does not in any way mean you're arrogant. You may merely be delusional, or suffering from a rare form of extraordinarily severe chronic stupidity.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
La Muerta de la Alma
Death is a funny thing. Funny-haha and funny-strange.
I have always seen the humor nherent in death. I believe the logic goes like this:
Life is funny.
Death is a part of life.
Death is funny.
It's such a beautifully dark concept that most only know secondhand (except my unliving readers, of course), making it impersonal enough to be safe.
Yes, I have had loved ones die. It isn't happy. Their deaths aren't funny. Death is funny, loss isn't.
We all die. It's universal. Most don't come back. The inevitable truth can be either sorrowful, or utterly hilarious. I choose the second.
I wrote Void and laughed at the conclusion. And cried. Mostly I laughed.
I read A Softer World. The one's that deal with death are the best. To quote:
Nobody wants to die;
I have always seen the humor nherent in death. I believe the logic goes like this:
Life is funny.
Death is a part of life.
Death is funny.
It's such a beautifully dark concept that most only know secondhand (except my unliving readers, of course), making it impersonal enough to be safe.
Yes, I have had loved ones die. It isn't happy. Their deaths aren't funny. Death is funny, loss isn't.
We all die. It's universal. Most don't come back. The inevitable truth can be either sorrowful, or utterly hilarious. I choose the second.
I wrote Void and laughed at the conclusion. And cried. Mostly I laughed.
I read A Softer World. The one's that deal with death are the best. To quote:
Nobody wants to die;
"I miss my little girl,
I never got to say goodbye."
Oh, suck it up.
She won't live forever either.
I never got to say goodbye."
Oh, suck it up.
She won't live forever either.
This is both entertaining and funny. Death possesses an enticing finality.
One Bloody Thing After Another was a hilariously dark horror story.
I read Stephen King novels. They give me a warm fuzzy feeling. Cthulhu is my Elder God of choice.
My attitude towards death might be just odd. However, my love of satire and sarcasm makes me a bad person. What also may make me a bad person is my adoration of Tycho Brahe (Jerry Holkins). I idolize his writing ability. I enjoy his works, despite his penchant for profanity and comments that, to some, may be considered vulgar. But the way he commands English is beautiful.
These days, swapping a disc twice in twenty to forty hours of gameplay is apparently on par with having to perform your own tonsilectomy, using only the tiny scissors which come folded into a Swiss Army knife and a swig of bottom shelf vodka.
Is this not art?
Also, for my readers who have recently had a lobotomy, he is not the man who draws the comic. That distinction goes to Gabe. Like Tycho, Gabe is a pseudonym.
Perhaps the greatest thing about this blog is the rambling. I needn't stay on topic. If I did this in my other work, Red would probably still be on his way to the Lab, passing Green's sisters house who has a thing for maps. Yet despite her love for them, her generosity is stronger. Everyone in town has received a map from her. Some say she creates them herself, carefully sketching Kanto's coast with the practiced hand of-
Despite the (pointless) exposition it provides, who wants thirty pages of that?
I am inspired. How would you feel about a Guide to the Apocalypse? Pointless exposition could be placed there, while point-ful exposition can continue the story. It could replace the Sorrows, as Met doesn't seem to like them. They may one day resurface on Stuff of Legend.
None of the above is a promise. I type as I think.
The schedule would then be (starting Sunday)
Apocalypse-Reogan
Guide thereof-Reogan
Tales-Reogan
SOTW-Met
Thoughts-Reogan
Feature-Elphaba
Sprite Showcase-Qupar
That reminds me. I gave Qupar my Saturday post. The blog was over saturated with my work. He starts next week, after God dreams no more.
One Bloody Thing After Another was a hilariously dark horror story.
I read Stephen King novels. They give me a warm fuzzy feeling. Cthulhu is my Elder God of choice.
My attitude towards death might be just odd. However, my love of satire and sarcasm makes me a bad person. What also may make me a bad person is my adoration of Tycho Brahe (Jerry Holkins). I idolize his writing ability. I enjoy his works, despite his penchant for profanity and comments that, to some, may be considered vulgar. But the way he commands English is beautiful.
These days, swapping a disc twice in twenty to forty hours of gameplay is apparently on par with having to perform your own tonsilectomy, using only the tiny scissors which come folded into a Swiss Army knife and a swig of bottom shelf vodka.
Is this not art?
Also, for my readers who have recently had a lobotomy, he is not the man who draws the comic. That distinction goes to Gabe. Like Tycho, Gabe is a pseudonym.
Perhaps the greatest thing about this blog is the rambling. I needn't stay on topic. If I did this in my other work, Red would probably still be on his way to the Lab, passing Green's sisters house who has a thing for maps. Yet despite her love for them, her generosity is stronger. Everyone in town has received a map from her. Some say she creates them herself, carefully sketching Kanto's coast with the practiced hand of-
Despite the (pointless) exposition it provides, who wants thirty pages of that?
I am inspired. How would you feel about a Guide to the Apocalypse? Pointless exposition could be placed there, while point-ful exposition can continue the story. It could replace the Sorrows, as Met doesn't seem to like them. They may one day resurface on Stuff of Legend.
None of the above is a promise. I type as I think.
The schedule would then be (starting Sunday)
Apocalypse-Reogan
Guide thereof-Reogan
Tales-Reogan
SOTW-Met
Thoughts-Reogan
Feature-Elphaba
Sprite Showcase-Qupar
That reminds me. I gave Qupar my Saturday post. The blog was over saturated with my work. He starts next week, after God dreams no more.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
This And That
I just beat my 123rd game of Freecell today. In a row. Without loss.
I'm thinking of a new blog. Allow me to explain it in a metaphor.
In the beginning there was a rather pleasant site and it created the foundations of the earth. For the people to know its will, it created a holy text, Between the Lines. Then the Creator of all blogs looked out and saw all he had made was pretty satisfactory. Yet he lacked a passage for his voice to reach the people through anything but his creation. So was founded From Whence it Came. Then the Creator looked down, and saw it was good. All was not good however. rps began to fill with stories. Soon it would explode. Thus the Creator saw need for a repository of old works. Thusly does Stuff of Legend come into being.
SoL does exist, but is not yet open to the public. It will open as soon as its archival purposes are needed. Nothing will be taken off rps but as tags are removed for cleanliness' sake, SoL will put up the tales, with tags, to assist finding old favorites.
Figroth makes some good sprites.
Sometimes.
I'm thinking of a new blog. Allow me to explain it in a metaphor.
In the beginning there was a rather pleasant site and it created the foundations of the earth. For the people to know its will, it created a holy text, Between the Lines. Then the Creator of all blogs looked out and saw all he had made was pretty satisfactory. Yet he lacked a passage for his voice to reach the people through anything but his creation. So was founded From Whence it Came. Then the Creator looked down, and saw it was good. All was not good however. rps began to fill with stories. Soon it would explode. Thus the Creator saw need for a repository of old works. Thusly does Stuff of Legend come into being.
SoL does exist, but is not yet open to the public. It will open as soon as its archival purposes are needed. Nothing will be taken off rps but as tags are removed for cleanliness' sake, SoL will put up the tales, with tags, to assist finding old favorites.
Figroth makes some good sprites.
Sometimes.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A Frank Discussion
There is a nothing quite like getting comments. Words cannot express how much they mean, especially since I spend countless unpaid hours writing every week. I propose an exchange. You (my readers) try to give me feedback of some sort whenever possible, and in exchange, I will post five times a week on rps without fail (six while Met continues his hiatus), and attempt to continue to update BTL and this blog frequently. You can expect upwards of seven (probably closer to ten) posts a week, 5-6 of them regularly, and all you need to do is respond. Tell me if you like a piece, or if you'd prefer I avoid the topic in the future. Make these blogs personal.
Look at it this way. I like writing, but by updating the same pieces every week makes it work. Unpaid labor. I don't mean to complain, as I do enjoy a lot of it, but I provide you with a free service. All I ask is that you take a few seconds to give your thoughts on it.
Thank you.
Look at it this way. I like writing, but by updating the same pieces every week makes it work. Unpaid labor. I don't mean to complain, as I do enjoy a lot of it, but I provide you with a free service. All I ask is that you take a few seconds to give your thoughts on it.
Thank you.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The End
I frequently disagree with people. I tell myself it's because their all idiots (true) and I'm better than them (also true). It's actually because I'm a jerk (true). Regardless, I have a question for you.
What's the best way to die?
Seriously, think it over.
Now.
Before reading any more.
Ready?
Last chance...
You're wrong. No, it doesn't matter what you said. Besides, you probably took the mindless sheeple answer and said 'Die in my sleep.' If you had an ounce of creativity, you might have picked unexpected decapitation. Quick, and pretty painless. You're still wrong though. The answer to the question is an adverb. You can stick on all the qualifiers you want, but it all will boil down to the same thing. The best way to die is: spectacularly. It has endless possibilities, but it means you leave your mark on the world. Bloodstains are hard to get out.
Task #1. Leave a comment telling everyone your original (wrong) answer.
Task #2. Decide the best spectacular way to die. If you have an idea, but it's not yet perfect, considering adding the phrase on fire or in space. But not together. It's hard to burn without air.
Also, a note. I was writing something, and it spiraled madly out of control. All I retrieved from the flaming wreckage was the following, regarding photochromatic lenses. 'One would be best advised not to wear them at midday on a cloudy January day whilst driving through a blizzard. They will betray their owner.'
What's the best way to die?
Seriously, think it over.
Now.
Before reading any more.
Ready?
Last chance...
You're wrong. No, it doesn't matter what you said. Besides, you probably took the mindless sheeple answer and said 'Die in my sleep.' If you had an ounce of creativity, you might have picked unexpected decapitation. Quick, and pretty painless. You're still wrong though. The answer to the question is an adverb. You can stick on all the qualifiers you want, but it all will boil down to the same thing. The best way to die is: spectacularly. It has endless possibilities, but it means you leave your mark on the world. Bloodstains are hard to get out.
Task #1. Leave a comment telling everyone your original (wrong) answer.
Task #2. Decide the best spectacular way to die. If you have an idea, but it's not yet perfect, considering adding the phrase on fire or in space. But not together. It's hard to burn without air.
Also, a note. I was writing something, and it spiraled madly out of control. All I retrieved from the flaming wreckage was the following, regarding photochromatic lenses. 'One would be best advised not to wear them at midday on a cloudy January day whilst driving through a blizzard. They will betray their owner.'
Monday, January 11, 2010
Lethargic Letter-Key Pressings
I ask that you ignore the self-explaining atrocity that is my title. I'm tired. Deal. I just wrote the next weeks worth of material for rps and I want nothing more than to go to sleep. Which I intend to. After typing this and watching the forty videos in my Youtube inbox.
Signs I am tired:
Signs I am tired:
- I normally take my laptop from my desk to bed with me so I can fall asleep in the comforts of the interblags. To do this, I first unplug my mouse. I did so. Then I grabbed the mouse and tried to... something. I can't remember. Anyway, the mouse didn't work and it took me a half minute to figure out why.
- I decided 'Lethargic Letter-Key Pressings' could be a good title.
- I picked up the mouse and tried to move into the main body of the post. It still failed to function.
- I pondered this, and typed the first bit you saw above, and I spent a minute trying to figure out how to spell inbox. In my defense, Firefox underlines it as a typo, so I had some right to be confused.
- I grabbed the mouse to start the bullet points. It did not work.
- After thinking about this, I proceeded to grab the mouse and try to select bullet points. It seemed to be stubbornly refusing to magically work.
- At both the second and fifth bullet points, I grabbed the mouse to fix a typo. I think the universe hates me.
- I just tried to use the mouse again. After typing about how it won't work now. Sad face :'(
- See Avatar. It's a good movie. And a gorgeous one too.
- Oh no you don't, Mister Hand! I stopped you before you got to the mouse this time.
- My hand is, as I type, hovering over the mouse. It went there to capitalize 'Mister Hand.' After five minutes thought.
- Today I learned that everyone laughs at Bush's inability to speak coherently. Even those who worship him. Like, as the Creator of All. They laugh too.
- I just offended some of you. I fail to care.
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