Sunday, 30 June 2013

"Nobody has the intention of building a wall" - Walter Ulbricht, two months before the Berlin Wall went up

I can just imagine everyone at the press conference going

"But... we never mentioned building a wall... sir."

Saturday, 29 June 2013

That terrible moment where you really see things, and realise how much you've been on autopilot.

It's been seven months since I lived up here - in my head it's been one. My story has completely stagnated - I've been floating in this blissful, materialistic bubble of absolute apathy, barely connecting with anyone or anything. I haven't been depressed, exactly - but perhaps that's the worrying thing... I haven't really been anything. Sure, Donna's been cool to have around but still, myself, my head, hasn't really been here. The old hunger has vanished: the old desires have faded into the corners of my mind's room. What do I want? What don't I want? What do I want to do? What don't I want to do? Who do I hate? What causes me stress? I can't, or perhaps refuse to, connect with negativity again, because I'm afraid of feeling anything and spiralling into a mindset of something close to the craziness I was going through in December. But that, sadly, was the last time I really felt like I existed, the last time I believed in my own personal metanarrative. Now, what do I think will happen? That Donna and I will move in together? Get real. Neither of you is able to see beyond tomorrow. She's trapped by herself, you're trapped by yourself, and together you shelter in a cave. But a cave is what it is, nonetheless. You've always done this, always gone for the codependent escape route from reality because you're so afraid.

Narcissism is perhaps the trait that embodies my default mode. The escape into fantasy. The reluctance to go further than short-term gratification. No need for realistic dreams because if they were ever actually achieved you'd still not be satisfied. The least you can do is be honest about it. Sure, you've discussed this stuff with the therapist you had, but he was like a child to you - unwilling to go beyond offering anything but the light-hearted but naive compassion of assuring you of your normality. But there's something there, isn't there? Something rotten inside you just waiting for its day to show itself. You sometimes dream about it, dream of what would happen if you were a murderer, that finally you'd achieve the fame you'd sought. Finally, you would have a readership, drawn morbidly to your writings, searching and combing each and every word for a hint of what was to come. No author in current circulation would generate as much interest. To see your words quoted in newspapers, even if in derision, would provide that gratification you had sought for. And, for the rest of your life, you would return to the safety of the knowledge that no matter how dark your heart had become, no matter how empty your existence, there was somebody out there reading your words, swallowing you up, spreading your genius around like seeds, or some other unimaginative simile.

And then you come back - back to the knowledge that really, you are basically normal, only that you've read about Ian Brady recently and it's got you dwelling on narcissistic personality disorder and whether it applies to you. And the fact that you had to use the spellcheck to correct your spelling of narcissism. Ironically enough, the word 'spellcheck' is underlined red.

Where was I? Oh yes - you are evil, a corrupt form of life, whose only purpose is to make others as miserable as you, etc...

Penny Machine Guy

So there were a million aspects going wrong with the society in which people lived. And there stood Damien Penchant, whose habits included: busking, eating Rusks, whisking, eating biscuits, taking risks, and losing. A born loser if ever there was one: a dab hand at nothingness; a childhood that had been spent trying to win those two pence slot machines had eventually ended in a defeat over the course of a month that they called his GCSEs.

But he never forgot those two pence machines. There was something  there, he thought, that enticed the divine. That created chaos within a tidy system (a paradox, surely). Damien’s life had mostly been spent attempting to find meaning in newspaper articles but discovering that the letters’ numerical correspondence usually formed no pattern at all, and - perhaps most depressingly - the articles that appeared to adhere to some kind of mathematical order did not feature anything of interest when their eventual patterns were converted into some sort of message. Damien had read about an advert for an MI6 intelligence officer that had been disguised inside a newspaper article when he was about seven or so, and from that moment on he had dedicated himself to being one of those lucky talented folk who discovered and were discovered. But no.

The two pence machines were chaos in its purest form, and it was getting annoying. Each time he attempted to apply some kind of consistent system of prediction to the game it would do something different (and not even the exact opposite, something which would at least have produced its own pattern). Even an argumentative system was better than no system at all.

At points in which he reflected, a point on a graph of 0,0 if you will, where ideas came to die and all became a terrible blank nothingness, Damien wondered whether perhaps everything he had ever been interested in or believed meant absolutely nothing at all. Then he got to studying what made ‘zero’ and wondered whether it was perhaps an underestimated figure. If God was zero - which he had read somewhere - perhaps it was divine to attain and long for nothingness. Zen. Zeno. Zero. All linked in linguistic terms, but then again so were Steve and Sleeve.

Brazenly, Damien went about luckily winning something on the two pence machines at the exact moment which he decided to give up. Intervention from an outside force perhaps... and so, even though he knew he was addicted beyond rationality and sanity, he could not stop playing.

... I only seem to produce rather dense and rather short written pieces these days

Sunday, 23 June 2013

Why I Can't Write Right Now

An author needs to be an authority. An author needs to be in control of their characters, to define and shape them in accordance to their will. Right now, I have no authority. I am myself being controlled - living at home is inherently imprisoning, especially with a father like mine who is a repressive personality although he does not realise it (perhaps because he does not realise it).

I am not free, so I cannot exit this humdrum brain and drift into the ethereal. I am not allowed. I must stay in the real world because if I don't then I will not get a job. Which will give me the money to move out. Even though I've had a job for the last few months and have still not moved out, because I am afraid.

I have not earned the right to live in this luxury penthouse thing in which I currently dwell - and in a way it's because of that I feel the need to thank my parents for setting it up for me by never leaving it. I am not a burden, but I am always going to be a burden for them because I am here. Out of sight, out of mind. It is better to hear nothing about the events of an outside existence even if there is a probable chance that the activities undertaken during said vacancy are unsavoury and perhaps dangerous in nature.

The only times in which I've lived outside of home for the past year have resulted in a drifting away into the arena of the unclean. And by that I mean re-entering that acid mind that I haven't truly conversed with since the 2009 era. Since then I've grown used to tidiness, to order, to fighting off weight by eating well, just like a proper citizen ought to do. In short, I am a model citizen: however, living with my parents means I don't really exist. So I'm a simulacrum of all that is normality.

This simulated nature lends credence to the possibility that I'm not ever going to be sane and normal and that I ought to leap away from this fakery and just become weird like I used to be. I was listened to Peter Cook Rip Off the other night and realised it was deranged but actually quite brilliant. I recall the night I wrote it: I had returned home for a weekend was lying in my old bedroom but it was on the verge of being converted into what is now my mother's kitchen... (a sentence that is ironically the maddest thing here)... the wind was blowing through the gap in the wall whose vent had not been filled in yet; the walls were stripped bare; there was only a bed and nothing else save the wind blowing through the gap; I lay on the makeshift bed my mother had provided and wrote it.

It was an expression of a mind that was close to realising that his parents were more insane that he ever would be. It was a cry of rage against politics, but also people. It was the scream of an emaciated man-corpse who was angry at the conditions he had been forced into, angry at his own desperation, angry at his own future, angry at his present, angry at his past. But the voice of a man who was enjoying being free.

I miss Devonshire, but I don't miss Tredegar. I miss Devonshire, but I do not miss Fernhurst Road. I miss Germany, but I do not miss the loneliness. I miss being thin, but I do not miss feeling alone. Fat is a state of mind, however; and fat is what my mind has become. The lone voice crying out in the night who wrote many a Weird Tale has been lost; wrapped in the comforts of food, and fat, and warmth, and suffocation, and protection, and repression. A child whose life is a set of loops going over and over.

Were my father dead perhaps my mind would be free. Were my mother dead my mind may be freer still. I take that back. Whilst I do not need their presence, I need to know they'll be there if I need them.

I don't know what I am. What I was. I had a voice, but did not speak. I had words, but did not write. I had wisdom, but gibbered. I had laughter, but it was hysterical. Ay, to go back, to write, to fantasise, that is tempting, but it would mean staring back into the abyss: the abyss that ended with me inside a torpid room wrapping a dressing gown belt around my neck... even my depression was stupidly comical and unreal. A jelly-man, a wispy and waspish bitch who hated everyone but himself most of all; who shirked those without education but despised those with it; who craved power but dared not reach for it; who was so trapped inside his head that he felt like he was an alien most nights; who would not have known that all his woes could have been taken away by the joy of a simple caress.

I revert back to him sometimes. I revert back to childhood too, sometimes. Often I become more peaceful than those around me, like one who has seen enough trauma and is incapable of re-enacting it ever again. Times like that I wonder if I'm an uber-human, one who has evolved beyond catty emotion. Then I realise myself later and then it hits. Delayed reaction, as though one involved in war.

Because it is a war, the fight between I and I - and those who try to help me win it end up being rejected. Then I crave help, and wonder where it has gone. I'm not sure what I'm talking about but it sounds kind of poetic so I'll leave it.

Thursday, 20 June 2013

"this was 3 am Sunday"

So they tell a story about a man called the Mothman.
Oh aye.
He's got red eyes, they say.
Flies around suburbia at night.
Stays there all night, flying around the street lights.
Kill anyone?
No. Just loves those street lights.
When happens when they go out?
No one knows.
Because they're dead?
No, because he goes home.

got bored writing this so began googling the mothman, and found this article that's funnier than anything i could write

in Jurassic Park when they're getting on the helicopter to fly to Isla Nublar, Grant goes to buckle his seatbelt and realizes he has two 'female' ends instead of a 'male' and 'female', so he improvises and ties the two ends together to strap himself in. One of the major plot points in the film is that we eventually learn that the all-female dinosaurs are able to change their sex and reproduce. 

Tuesday, 18 June 2013

In Science the kid I'm trying to help was telling me that time travel was possible. Bored, I decided to try and recreate the conversation between Donnie Darko and his science teacher.
"Okay," I began. "Time travel is theoretically possible, if you can fold spacetime like this," at which point I folded his exercise book, "And can then create a wormhole like this," followed by me vaguely trying to poke a hole through his book with a pen.
"Or you could build a Tardis!"

Sunday, 16 June 2013

Mein Kampf

>be hitler
>fight in wwi
>kill loads, get medals and shit
>we are kicking ass against a whole continent
>surrender anyway
>well fuck
>decide to set up own party
>nationalism and socialism rolled into one
>doesn't catch on
>go to jail
>fucking jews
>wall street crash happens
>suddenly people like me
>the rest is a blur
>i'm in a bunker
>it's 1945
>have no memory of the last 12 years
>realise my head has been hijacked by some external force
>bunch of people are dead
>i was only joking about the jews
>people took me seriously
>and by me i mean the phage-based virus-insanity-droid that hijacked my brain
>realise that shooting myself is only way to kill him, even if it means killing myself
>i've done enough damage
>the droid has an emergency facility that will summon a spaceship if it feels threatened
>the spaceship will drop a million atomic bombs on earth if i just say the password
>i fight within myself for control
>"king canu - " my mouth begins
>i struggle one last time, regain one more second of control
>momentary doubt
>tun es, schwuler
>pull the trigger
>kill self and droid
>save the planet
>go to heaven
>no one on earth realises what i did
>the droid killed millions
>i saved billions
>in heaven it's pretty cool
>god and I play bingo every night and he lets me win
>even now i'm not sure how someone lets someone win bingo
>don't even care tbh
>god makes his son read out the numbers every night
>two fat ladies he says
>i win, i say
>6 million dead jews he says
>go to your room says god
>decide to get drunk
>get pissed with god
>outdrink him

Saturday, 15 June 2013

look at the time it was autosaved...

sweet story from reddit

Before my oldest child could stand or really speak (thought he could understand quite a bit), his first word was "nuu", which was his word for music. I played Scheherezade for him one morning when he was still in his crib. He stood up, holding the rail of the crib and listened while I described to him Sinbad's ship sailing over the stormy ocean. I described Sheherezade locked in her tower and I told my son you can hear her in the tower I knew the moment when the music cuts to that painfully beautiful melody -a single violin- of Scheherezade. When he heard that my son closed his eyes and swayed back and forth, saying "nuu..."

Friday, 14 June 2013

True Horror

True horror is having a film of pus over your eye that forms when you close it

then when you open it, the jelly-like film of pus gives way

for a horrible second you actually see an O shape within your fucking eye

.... I haven't described it very well, but that was one of the most disgusting body-horror experiences I've ever had

Thursday, 13 June 2013

Wild Ass

And it came to be that, after this Gentleman had died, he who had narrated so many wildlife documentaries, all the documentaries were gathered together, and through the power of Technology, his entire verbal output was rendered onto a computer and made digital, and infinite. Thus, through the power of computers, David Attenborough narrated nature documentaries forever.

this article pretty much validates everything i wrote in the last post :P

Monday, 10 June 2013

What Was Missing Was Felt Irretrievable

Well, there went the trailer for the new Xbox One game 'Ryse'.It was just about what I expected, though perhaps not what I hoped for. What had I hoped for?

What can one hope for, when the new consoles have technology that is double that of the previous consoles; power which in itself approached photo-realism? Where do we go from there?

The gameplay and the cut scenes were basically the same in terms of graphics. It was quite pretty, but there's a problem: the uncanny valley. And not the weird-Japanese-robot-singing-a-song kind. The humans-are-perfectionists kind.

My first thought? "The face isn't that realistic." Never mind the fact that this screenshot alone wouldn't have been able to run on any console twenty years ago.

The closer we get to absolute reality, the more alienated and detached we feel. Graphics comparisons on games that are achieving levels of representation unthinkable twenty years ago.

I mean, you know, fuck. Just look at the shit graphics on the... PS3? PS3, right?

The closer we come to perfection, the more likely it is that any flaws, no matter how small, will be dissected and moaned about. In the end, it's not about the graphics. It's about the power that is perceived in the console, and about whether yours is better than your mate's. It's not a console. It's a cock. And sooner or later the games industry will realise that and perhaps grow up and tell its clientele to grow up too.

Fuck graphics. Or, if you're not going to fuck graphics, then don't just sell your product based upon that. I guess it's a cliched moan, but I'm going to do it anyway.

See, I thought in this new paradigm there was a change. I figured that because the games industry is so big now, there would be a new age of enlightenment, where computer games could rival books and films, and music, and outlcass them all, blending it all together in a package of perfection that encapsulates this thing they call art, giving rise to a new generation of people who have experienced the world through a digital lens and have come out the better, albeit slightly constipated.

And the best games did change the worlds of those who played them. Half-Life 2 woke those who played it to a sense of dystopian horror. Bioshock introduced the masses to objectivism. Majora's Mask gave kids the chance to live outside of time itself. These are important, profound, deep lessons that are taught: lesson taught not through passive digestion of media, but through interaction. Choices, presented. Illusory choices, perhaps: but just clever enough to divert away from the illusion, like the world's greatest magic trick. A great game is not just a great film. A great game is not just a great story. A great game is not just a great soundtrack, or great artwork. A great game is a unique experience where you are both being and doing. The word 'interactivity' is bandied about but only someone playing an amazing game really knows what it means. An experience where you shift ontologically in ways absolutely inaccessible to any other form of media. Think about that. When film first came along, critics rightly hailed its importance. But games? They're just games. There are no games critics; at least, not intellectual ones. No Saussure, no Lacan, no Bazin. Dominik Diamond doesn't count. A great game experience is something that deserves to be praised on the highest of artistic levels: you never, ever forget a great moment in your life defined by a game. A moment that I fear is being lost.

The closer we come to the goal of creating absolute representation, and the closer we merge to the representation, the farther away we go from the starting point, and the farther away we go from the journey. Computer games were always about a striving: a quest for that moment, where technology and the imagination could fuse together and blow each other's minds - where music, storytelling, skill, and intelligence combined and gave rise to the some of the greatest, albeit most surreal, moments in all art.

What saddened me upon viewing the trailer for Ryse was how transparently shallow the gameplay was. Yes, the graphics were photo-realistic. Yes, the voice acting was pretty good. And yes, perhaps CGI has advanced so far that maybe, just maybe, the dead-eyes thing of CGI characters has almost been erradicated. But the gameplay? Well, fuck.

You see that X thing there? That comes up really quickly during a slow-motion Zac Snyder-style 'fight' sequence where you watch your character stick daggers in people's necks. You have to press X quickly, so that you can do the kill properly.

In short, it's a test of reactions.

This is the launch title, essentially. A test of reactions. A reaction-based game with lots of bling.

I mean... is this really what we hoped computer games would become, back when we were twelve and thirteen years old? Is this what all this rivalry and trolling is for? The difference between watching your character kill a guy with slightly better rendering than the other console?


I'm not sure if it's me being pretentious or not, but, at this moment, with all the power and technology available to us, why are computer games choosing now to stall? Because that is what's happening. Even Nintendo, the ones who at least have the guts to try and change things a little, have given up. They've... well, I would say played it safe with the Wii U, except they've basically just completely ruined themselves. Sony and Microsoft just seem like they're churning the same old shit out, only they're giving it a few extra pixels.

I don't think it's a good sign that both consoles are selling themselves not on the games, but on the other capabilities of the console.

Games can be played for 24 hours on the primary console, or for one hour on a separate console, before they must be reconnected to the internet; this includes single-player, offline games.


Xbox SmartGlass allows mobile phones or tablets to be used as a second screen that interacts with the Xbox One to allow navigation and access to additional features related to TV, Movies, Music and Games.


Similarly to Windows 8, the Xbox One will be able to snap applications (such as music, video, Skype, and Internet Explorer) to the side of the screen as a form of multitasking.


What the fuck happened, games?

The last console to shrug off the gimmicks and focus on the games was the GameCube. And, problematically, it didn't receive enough third-party support. A console that wanted to focus on good games, didn't get enough third-party support and therefore not enough games and therefore didn't sell enough to be considered a success. What a weird paradox. In all this marketing, in all this noise and clamour and hype, somewhere down the line we seem to have forgotten what we actually mean by a good game. And it isn't the abbreviation.

The bubble is bursting, because the bubble was created in the first place. Games were always a niche market, but were sustainable because the technology itself allowed risks. Now, with greater technological requirements come greater budgets, and the need for blockbusters; and, like Hollywood, gaming now relies on safe sellers and sequels. Did it have to happen that quickly? Did games have to become a Hollywood thing because they gained mainstream appeal? You'd think that having this loyalty (albeit one based on the console-cock paradigm) would allow the big three companies to take more risks. But therein lies the problem.

It might not be doom and gloom. This is most likely just me being in a bad mood and ranting. This is the positive way of looking at it.

We never used to have a big three. We had a mish-mash of various fuck-ups, with the companies' hot air balloons producing the odd diamond on their way down but mostly it was a load of shit. People were ripped off all the time, but the people who were ripped off were so busy being bullied by the kids at school they didn't get too angry at the manufacturers. Nintendo produced and allowed wave after wave of shite games to pass through its system because it practically held a monopoly until Sega came along. The emergence of Mario and Zelda were lucky; but they were likely, because there was such a vast amount of maneuvering room. The market was a core one, which was not going to go away any time soon because, you know, geeks.

I recall around 1994 there was a similar lull in gaming. As a kid I pretended not to notice it, but it was there. Sega was on the way out. I was a loyalist, but I knew the empire was crumbling. Bloat set in. And this bloat led to a customer backlash. Nobody bought the 32x. Nobody bought the Saturn. Without the games, the consoles did not sell. No matter how big the hype, no matter how expensive the marketing campaign, if the games aren't good enough, people won't buy them.* The Philips CDi came along and tried its best. This was the bad time. And yet, it was the good time. It forced the industry to look at itself. "Jesus Christ," they said. "Philips CDi released this shit and were allowed to do that? They were allowed to have a game where Link spoke out loud? What the fuck?" As a result, Sony's entrance was welcome and, for about four years, the nature of gaming evolved. Between 1994 and 2002, technology in games developed explosively. Storytelling in games improved; the audience grew to expect sophistication - someone who'd left gaming in 1993 and returned in 1999 would have been blown away.

Not sure where I'm going with this. The point was made, and better, by David Wong on Cracked somewhere.

The tragic thing I see with the WiiU is how similar it is to the Dreamcast. The problem now is the pressure. Back in the 90s, Nintendo could fuck up and it didn't matter so much (the Virtual Boy). Now, they're being judged not on their history, but on the expectations of consoles, and on their relationship to their rivals. Microsoft/Sony's success is seen as Nintendo's failure. Back in 1995, Nintendo's failure was just that. Nothing else. Now it's like being cock-blocked by your mate to try and fuck the girl (the people who buy games consoles).

I've had a little to drink, and I'm really rather tired. I can't seem to get my point across properly which is irritating me. I know I must be wrong on this for the following reasons:

a) it's a cliche to say that games are boring now and that they're not as good as they used to be
b) the gaming industry is making lots of money
c) I'm getting old
d) I don't play enough games so what do I know?

e) I played Goldeneye four-player split screen and I played some shite COD game on someone's Xbox once using the same four-way split screen system and I felt a wave of unreality hit me: 


It was the same game, except it was worse: there was nothing interesting or exciting about it. Some cunt in a war. 

OK... final idea: the paradigm shifts in gaming roughly go as follows:

1. Early 80's - first 2D platformer
2. Late 80's - first open-end RPG
3. Early 90's - first person shooter
4. Mid 90's - first stealth game
5. Early 00's - first online gameplay

The paradigm shifts in film, on the other hand:

1. Late 1900's - silent shots of people walking fast in hats and shit
2. 1927 - first talkie
3. 1940 - deep focus
4. 1960 - jump cut
5. Late 70s - special effects
6. Early 00s - 3D films

The difference?

No matter what year a film was made, no matter waht the technology was, we still respect and give time to old films. We accept that yes, people like to go see sequels with explosions. But we acknowledge that a film costing hundreds of millions is not automatically a better film than something shot for £30,000 in a forest.

Games are eating themselves, and regurgitating themselves, and no progress is really being made. Zelda is an example. But - crucially - the thing I realise makes a great Zelda game different from an OK Zelda game is not the graphics: it's the things I've already mentioned earlier. The human element. The music. The characters. The storytelling. A game can be more immersive operating on an 8-bit system than it can operating using motion control. When the spell being cast on you is broken by the technology itself, that can ruin everything. Skyward Sword is an example.

"Swing your sword a certain way and you will kill me. Swing it wrong and I will punish you. I will stand here and you will swing your stick around and try to follow the sequence I have laid out for you. This is fun. This is immerse. This is exactly what a real-life sword fight is like."

Compare that to the genuinely surprisingly moment in Ocarina of Time where you realise the guy you think you've killed rises from the dead, shows you this:

and turns into fucking this:

before revealing that he has just turned into this:

I mean, sure, the actual fight itself isn't the greatest boss battle ever, but fuuuuck. Dat final form. The music, the storytelling method, the artwork (as opposed to 'graphics'), combine to produce a moment. A moment that Umberto Eco would probably call a visual peak and I would just call awesome because I'm not a computer game critic, I'm just someone who really needs to go to bed.

* OK, that's actually bollocks. People will buy a game because it's a sequel to a game they liked/were good at. That's basically guaranteed.

Thursday, 6 June 2013

Morning came. With it came a new age, a new time, a new space, a new spacetimeage. In these unhallowed days when dogs came in the form of poodles and all discourse was dominated by flan, what could men do in such unhallowed times? Wave after wave of indifference splattered itself onto the television sets of the doleful populace, and from this came the first seduction.

Then TVs got smart. Evolved. Combined their abilities with computers and were soon capable of displaying twenty videos of cats at the same time. Minds were blown. Seeds were sown. And all the while, the darkness crept back into the land, having temporarily left the land in order to go for a piss.

Sugar: the drug of choice for all. All were held in its thrall; not even the wisest philosophers could resist its pull. First it came for the proles, for they were easily seduced; second it came for the traders, because they thought they could control it for their own purposes; third, it came to the famousfolk, to supplement their energetic lifestyles; fourth, it came for the kings and queens who pulled the strings and set the scene.

But then came the Sugar War of 8, and the world began to creak. Once sturdy frames began to bend; once-hidden cogs began to turn. And sugar trickled through the cracks and fell through, never to be found again. These cracks were metaphorical: but that is not important. What's important was the Sugar War of 8, when the Blantanamo Company and the Eviron Corporation went to war over the supply of sugar from the farmers, who then themselves went on strike. But of course, the scrolls do not tell anymore of that. What happened to trigger the Sugar War of 8, nobody knows: but what has not yet been forgotten is the after-effects.

Mass suicides.
Attempts to rectify the sudden sugar withdrawal forced the government to provide emergency sugar aid, but their hopes of a revival in productivity died when the population realised they'd been given artificial sweetener. This led to a rebellion against the government, prompted by the revelation that a prominent member of government had slept with his wife, leading to widespread outrage amongst the idiotten and thinly spread in-rage amongst the solipsists and masochists.

A population without sugar could not exist. Like a used-up old particle accelerator, it burned out, and began not to accelerate particles, but to slow them down. The slowing-down of humanity led to a spasm in the spacetime continuum, because time wasn't used to seeing space happen so slowly. This created various wormholes dotted around the place, which was inconvenient, especially when, during the year of the Secession, the Third Earl of Wanzsermere was sucked into one and as a result created even more chaos within his district so that the mayor that ended up being elected was a dog.

All bad stories begin with a stupid exposition. Of Mice and Men is my kind of storytelling: just let the dialogue do it. But then, when I do that, it comes out looking retarded. I might try and write in between the dialogue instead of just having dialogue because then it accidentally becomes a play. So.

"Been a long time," said the man, who approached the man: a man, who was a man, holding a sword in his hand, and sand in his hat, which he put on his head just as the man, was approaching, and which then went, into his face, and made him look, like an idiot,
"Too long," spat the man, who approached the other man. "Twenty long years, I'd say."
"Evermore. Time has stretched, they say."
The man stood hunkered on his honks like a hunk hankering for a spanking. "How are things, Golian?"
"Not bad, Daniel son of Arnold. How's life as a wandering wasteman?"
The sun sank. A sky was left, the colour of a bruise. A blue one. But like, bruised. This was the wilden landscape of Palathe: a once prosperous kingdom, but now, like so many things, left behind by the Sugar Wars of 8. And also the other wars that happened since, but which had not been documented in writing, for obviously like there was not much writing done anymore because there was no civilisation.

at which point this stops because i accidentally made a discovery

"Alien spoke well of you."
"Eileen you mean?"
"They're... the same name," sprang Golian to his feet. "Eileen is Alien. Alien is Eileen."
"Yes, calm down, you plonker."
"Einhorn is Finkel. Finkel is Einhorn."
"We know Eileen is an Alien because of Alien 3."
"Yeah but Alien 1. Or Alien as it's known. You think they deliberately named her Eileen in the first film knowing that she'd became an alien in a shitty fourth film made eighteen years later?"
"I don't see how they couldn't."
"I hear they're making Alien 5."
"Yeah. It's revealed that the events of the first film were different to what was thought. What they thought was a nest was actually Sigourney Weaver's vagina. John Hurt was actually invaded by an egg that was being hatched in Sigourney Weaver's vagina."
"So the events of the first film take place in Sigourney Weaver's vagina?"
"Yeah, but then they fly out."
"Right but that doesn't make sense because then how does Sigourney Weaver get outside her own vagina?"
"How does anyone?"
"What are you saying? She gave birth..."
"To herself."
"During which part of the film?"
"They cut the scene. Cut it like a placenta."
"A placenta? You mean umbilical cord."
"Yeah. I was mixing up placenta with pizza."
"Remind me never to let you order a pizza again."
"Too late. You've already eaten placenta pizza."
"Your mum's."
"Wait... so I've eaten my own afterbirth?"

I realise that I'm finally turning into a mature adult.

I now prefer reddit to 4chan.

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

i lolled

ZOMG was the ruler of the planet XYRZON until 2451 AD, when he was overthrown by KFOP after the battle of SHMUR. the battle marked the violent end to ZOMG'S noble reign as ultra-lord. KFOP soon proved to be an incapable ruler of XYRZON, and the planet collapsed into chaos in 2453. since that day, the residents of XYRZON have used ZOMG as a declaration, nay, an exclaimation of hope. hope that one day peace shall return to XYRZON, on the shoulders of a truly worthy king.

Monday, 3 June 2013

fuck, why am i more shocked by a twist in a fictional story than anything i see on the news? the news has never caused me to lose sleep - even, like... that fatfel day in september [sic]