NaNoWriMo idea, Haiku'd.

The man that can't die-
Forgets his humanity-
And destroys the world.

Maybe.

I am bad as bad at this thing as I am with other things.

Hello!

I've been away for a while.

Well, not really away, It's not like I've gone anywhere that didn't have an internet connection, or anywhere interesting that I normally don't go to. Let's start again.

Hello!

I haven't been arbitrarily updating this blog in a while. I apologise to all three of you that feel robbed of my witty banter and depressing rants. Maybe I'll post something now.

Yeah that sounds like a good idea.

Well, goodbye!

I think too much.

I've rewritten this post in my head over and over again for the past couple of days, each time depressing me even further. Because of the depressing nature of this post I'm going to put it all after the jump.

I suppose there are benefits to having a sort-of private blog - the people that actually read what I say are the ones actually taking the time to pay any attention to what I do, coupled with the fact that they have to click again to read past the first couple of paragraphs means they're spending at least five minutes doing this.

On the other side of the coin, this blog is my place to be selfish and get whatever's on my mind out on to the internet, where I'm another anonymous person adding to a stream of rambling thoughts strong enough to be an ocean. The kind of depersonalisation that reading words on a screen brings is comforting, in the sense that even if someone does read this the facts are made less serious by me talking about my dick for upwards of ten paragraphs (ladies ;D) which offsets bad news and terrible thoughts written down.

Now about that ten page god-infuriating cockument to my own ego.

The start of a fantasy thing.

The boy held his breath. Not because he needed to, but because that is just what he does when he performs. The crowd seemed to feed off this intense concentration and elaborate lack of motion and it helped him get into the mood and make this work quite smoothly. He closed his eyes and shut everything out. Everything except for the pen in his had and the book in his lap. When he opened his eyes again, it was if they were the only things that existed - just him and his tools.

He liked it this way.

He put his pen to the paper and started to write, making sure that every stroke of the pen was gentle enough to handle a newborn baby but firm enough to shake the hand of his father if he ever met him again. The ink flowed from his pen so well that were it not for the faint noise of the metal lightly brushing against the page you would think that the pen were merely a guide for the creature of ink to follow with it's tendrils. The resulting letters on the page shone with his brilliance.

-birds-

Both the boy and the crowd waited anxiously for something to happen. He had put his heart into the lines, and he expected them to repay him with the same effort he gave them. The crowd still waited, there had been talk of his talents even among the most cynical. Tales of a boy that had such a mastery of the written word that the tales he wove could tell themselves, however - by the time the stories had disappeared, so too had the boy.

Unblargh.

Hey guys! Look at Jamie doing that thing!

You know!  

That thing where he doesn't keep his promises and never finishes what he sets out to do.

Fuck you Ralph! I'll blog as infrequently as I want! I'll also only ever write the first couple of pages to a story! I'll flirt with girls and then ruin my chances at anything solid after the first week due to my own self-loathing! That's how I do things and I like it that way.

 Since the last update, I've been pretty busy - I've taken up terrible habits, rekindled old flames and then snuffed them out again, worked on a cosplay and then gave up at the last possible second to do a much easier one that looks better and is more appropriate for this abysmal weather. I've also been seeing a psychiatrist through all of this, and I've learned the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist (as well as the difference between a psycho and a psychic).

Most importantly, I haven't died!

On that front, I've been seeing a psychiatrist since the last time I died, and since I've used up all my free passes it's out of my own pocket. In these sessions I've been getting advice on how to continue to not die for the rest of the year and beat death, and the answer is pretty gosh darn simple. You see, the stress of having to figure out what to do when you know you're going to die at the end of the year is apparently pretty stressful and can actually lead to depression which kills your immune system making it easier for you to die in the year you're actually worried about dying in (instead of the far off year of 2013, where dying is an acceptable form of saying "thank you")

So what have you been working on with the psychiatrist? 

That's a very good question!

Adventures of Pegasus: Private Eye, or "I am bad at stories"

I'll be brief on this - one of my fingers looks like it's been bitten by a very tiny, very confused vampire and it hurts to type (It's more painful than it looks but you still shouldn't click it because it's a finger and honestly not a very nice looking one at that).

I was at a party the other night and a Ralph told me about this game they have with their friends whenever they're bored. They pick three random things and try to come up with a story involving all three completely random things that ties together and keeps the listener entertained.

"Well alright" I said, flexing my creativity muscles (read: asscheeks) "Give me three things". Ralph turned to me and stated as if it were the most normal collection of words in the entire universe "Flying horse, Electric Zebra and Fairy floss".

All at once several ideas began to race through my head. Within seconds I had created an entire world specifically for these two entities to fight it out over their delicious sugary prize. Cocksure, I turned back to Ralph and said "Easy! A flying horse has an epic battle with an electric zebra over fairy floss".

As soon as these words left my mouth I realised just how stupid they sounded out there all by themselves. I had thrown my entire story out in the wilderness with just a few words and no actual details to defend itself with. It was at this point I remembered that I'm terrible at articulating what I'm actually trying to say in conversation with another person in front of me.

This is something that I struggle with pretty much all the time, talking to girls I like, talking to people I don't know, talking in front of a large audience - when it comes to these things I get extremely quiet and start playing out hundreds of different conversations in my head, all at the same time, like some sort of fucking socially awkward chess master (although terrible at chess) and when I do say something I'm pretty sure I become five years old and lose my entire vocabulary. This is probably normal for everyone and I'm probably overplaying it to stretch out a point but moving towards being able to talk openly about things would make me feel a lot better about myself. It might also give me a bigger ego.

Moving on!

On Happy Endings.

Most happy endings,
Are just stories that finish,
Pre-complication.

A Children's Story of Questionable Appropriateness.

A long time ago, when the world was a simpler place, there lived a lumberjack.

A lot of lumberjacks, really, but one in particular.

He was born to a family of lumberjacks. Even his mother and 4 sisters had thick, bushy beards, as all lumberjacks did in those days.

He had a problem, you see. He couldn't grow hair on his chin. No matter how he tried, all he could muster up were a pair of solid, furry muttonchops, which were exceptional in their own way, but earned him scorn from the other lumberjacks, who saw no value in a beard with no chin, and gave him the cruel nickname Chops to remind of of his deficiency.

He heard of a princess one day, though. Had a magic banjo, they said. A magic banjo that granted beards. That's what the legends told of, anyway.

It turns out that as ridiculous as that was, there was indeed a princess who possessed a magic banjo, but her story was not such a rosy one as the stories had made it out to be.

You see, there was a curse. A curse put on her by her evil ex-mother-in-law. The spell kept her imprisoned in her castle, and only a kiss could release her. Which would be no biggie, except that the curse also forced her to play the magical banjo for anyone who came to her, and that playing of the magical banjo produced such a beard as to make a kiss simply impossible.

To the 'jack, however, who didn't know, she was just a means to an end, despite being eternally cute as all get out, another condition of the curse thrown in there just to make things that much more frustrating for her.

So he made his way to her castle, through swamps and deserts, and trees.  Right through the middle of trees.  He hadn't considered going around trees because he wasn't too bright, and hey, he had this fucking axe so why not, is what he figured.

And so it came to pass that he came to her door, covered in cuts and scrapes and woodchips and whatnot.

Wearily, she picked up the banjo as he entered, wanting to get it over with so she could get back to knitting nets for catching hippies and dolphins.

He smelled of hickory smoke and fighting. As he limped in wearily and smokily, he looked up at the banjoist, and saw something magical.

Not the banjo, either. Well, yes, the banjo was magical, but not metaphorically, which is where we're at here, narrative-wise.

Looking at the girl, you see, was the magical thing. He'd seen women in his life, no doubt about that, but this one was different.

She had an intangible quality to her that affected him deeply, a presence, and also a profound lack of facial hair, which was novel and kind of sexy.

He wanted to go chop down every tree in every forest to produce lumber for her, if that's what she wanted. He found himself producing a certain amount of lumber just standing there, if you know what I mean.

As he gaped, he could feel the follicles in his face come alive and start to grow. He brought his hands up to his face, and his delight turned to dismay, as he realized his chops were growing like wildfire but his chin remained shamefully bare.

At his groan of despair, she looked up from her depressed banjoing and stared at the gloriously bare chin and accessible mouth, a sight she'd not seen in a truly long time.

She got up and approached him, still banjoing that magic banjo, eyes locked on his lower face. He turned away. "No! Look not upon my hairless shame!", he whispered hopelessly, wanting to chop down a tree and use it to hide himself from this magical creature.

Being a good deal quicker than he, mentally speaking, she pointed vaguely and shouted, "oh no, a tree!", and at that, he looked around wildly to see what kind of tree could have sneaked into the room so quickly, and what the best angle for axing it would be. While he was distracted, the still- playing princess lunged in and laid a smooch on him that had been waiting to go and getting seriously frustrated for nearly twenty years now. Seriously. She probably tasted a little bit of lung; that's the sort of thing I'm talking about here.

There was a sound of fireworks. It was actually the evil ex mother in law's spell backfiring explosively and blowing her all the way to florida, but as far as the couple we're paying attention to were concerned, it was pretty much irrelevant, much like their clothes, which were mostly draped over furniture in shreds, at this point.  They were probably boning, but I'm not gonna say for sure in case your kids are still reading this.

And that was pretty much that.

On Insomnia (Hallucinations)

Warning:I go way off topic and talk in non-formatted blocks of text about one of my hallucinations.

So it's currently 4 in the morning and I'm on a no-med day. This calls for a blog!

*cue cheesy 80's blog intro - imagine me running alongside a dolphin as pop music plays. Ralphs are swinging on swings, The title is in some wacky font that makes typographists cry.*

I got a message from a Ralph the other night who was new to my whole situation that read "How does insomnia begin?" I could answer this with a terrible joke about how it begins with an "I" but I've already hit my quota for bad jokes today.

Instead I'll try to tell you how it started for me, and how I kept falling back into it. I may also go all self-analytical again and make baseless claims on why I have this problem because that's fun!

Bitches, amiright?

I originally started writing this two weeks ago, since then there's been more stuff happening. Instead of writing up a new post I'm just going to edit it a little. You'll notice the edits.

The majority of this post will be after the jump, because I'll be updating you on what I last posted about first, and what I last spoke of after that!

This time I won't try to dwell on it as much, because I'm going to start serialising a story that technically doesn't have an end yet. My end goal is to get that out mostly unedited online by the end of the year, alternating posts between writing and general life-stuff. NEVERMIND, I AM SILLY. SOMEONE REMIND ME TO BRING THE BOOKS I WRITE IN WHEN I DO BLAGS.



Warning - there is rambling ahead.

Closure.

Certain things have happened in the past week that have forced me to look at my place in the universe a little closer - what I do, what I've done, what I'm capable of. I've come to terms with a lot of it and I've come to terms with the fact I'll never be able to understand the rest of it as well. This was a hard thing for me to actually do.

You see Ralph, I'm an analyst - and I'm rather clever at it. I can read people like open books if you give me five minutes with them, either alone or in a whole bunch of people. I know I seem arrogant right now but it's an entire truth. I've never been surprised by someone's answer to a question, and I can tell what people are feeling just by sitting with them in an awkward silence.

This is where I say "As easy as other people are to read, I'm more of an enigma". This is complete and utter bullshit, if someone ever tells you this feel free to slap them in their liar face for me. Everyone can be read, as long as you're willing to pay attention. Everyone has certain things they do when they're feeling different emotions.

Foregoing these habits that I've already performed (The deletion of facebook to warrant people asking if I'm okay, and the standard reply of "Yeah I'm good" that nobody ever believes) I've decided to just up and tell you my problems, on one condition.

You must never tell anyone or discuss it with them.

This rule may be a little hard to follow, but please use your best judgement.

If we're cool now, I'll tell you about my week.

Sit down Ralph, shit is going to get heavy, because I am depressed and I write a fuckload when I'm depressed.

My Penis.

I'd like to take a moment of your time to tell you about my penis, I've also decided to name the entire post after my penis. This is because it takes a full blog post to talk about my penis and really take it all in. It's the kind of thing you do when you're boasting - you'll sit the person down and be all "Look I hope you didn't have anything planned this evening because my penis needs like 6 hours of straight up attention for you to really bask in it's majesty".

This is also going to help up my viewership because the amount of people that search for penis on the internet is an astoundingly high number.

Back to my penis - here is a picture.

A deep analysis of the insomniac brain.

Sit by me Ralph, but not in the little chair because you've grown a little since last time we met. You'll need to sit on the floor now because you've outgrown the only chair I had for you and now I just don't know what to do. You see, since you've become larger I've become a little... hesitant to give you anything interesting for the simple fact that, and this is in the nicest way possible, I'm afraid you'll run away and eat it, but you're not terribly clever so it'll get lodged in your throat and then you'll need to go to hospital and then the doctors will see the interesting thing on their charts and X-rays and they'll tell the nurses and other patients about it. Leaving us with this special bond between writer and reader completely shattered, as well as me havingto deal with people coming up to me and talking to me about these interesting things, and why I talk to personified audiences as if they were small children. Then the courts will get involved and I'll have to meet all of my neighbours and tell them I'm a terrible person and to keep their children away from me because I'll make them eat interesting things.

I give you these stories in the hopes that you won't try and eat them and if you do want to eat them and get bigger you'll have the common decency to ask me first so I can tell you the correct way to eat the interesting things. Now that we're clear on that Ralph, we can begin.

I am not feeling too good right now.

About Me.

You see that little widget over to the right there Ralph? The one that says "About Me" then has a picture of a half-blind cat? Apparently it has a character limit. I had something nice up there originally with everything you needed to know about me, along with some things you probably didn't need to know, a few things you probably shouldn't need to know and quite a few things you probably didn't want to know but because you're polite you read anyway. There were so many words there and they all helped to weave a magical tale of exactly how I came to be.

Can you guess how I figured out that there was a character limit on that About Me section?

If you answered "There should be a notice somewhere that shows you before you end up writing what equates to being the Homer's Odyssey of About Me's" then Google believes you're as functionally retarded and textually-verbose as I am. You are also wrong.

If you answered "You probably got an error message saying there was too many characters, to hit back and try again", you either work for Google or should work for Google, because you're a thinking man's Ralph and that's who they hire.

If you then guessed that I did hit back, only to find my browser crash and reopen to an empty page with no backup copy of my self-describing avalanche of words - you are either psychic or or have already read this entry (I'm glad that you wanted to read this again instead of doing something important).

Seeing as how I'm pretty sure actual blog posts hold no limit, or none that I've reached in my years of endlessly rambling on about what kind of pie I like (pumpkin), coupled with the fact I am now saving this after every sentence both online and on a notepad file - here is my 'About Me' (abridged version).

2009.

I've got a confession to make, Ralph. Come and sit in the chair whilst I gently give you the bad news.

You know how I told you I was going to tell you all about the year 2009?

I lied.

Well this is odd.

I'm not normally like this, with the whole posting something every night - I'll post something up occasionally but it's very rare for me to post two days in a row, I don't know why I chose to write another thing. What I do know is that I'm incredibly bored right now and have no one to hang out with I just went and picked up Adam from his girlfriend's house. We watched MIB and he fell asleep and then I watched MIB2 (Or MIIB if you want to go off what the DVD says). I did the hospitable thing and put a blanket over him and returned back here about 4 hours after I wrote the line about not having anyone to hang out with. I wonder if I have some sort of wish-granting blog, that would be pretty cool.

GEE IT SURE DOES LOOK LIKE I HAVE NO MONEY, NOR DO I HAVE ANY SORT OF RELATIONSHIP WITH A FEMALE.

And nothing - looks like I'll just need to talk to the internet some more until either of those things fall into my lap at any point during my words.

Hi The Internet! I'm sure we will be good friends this year! Hell, maybe even next year too!


Oh dear - I can't go around just talking to "The Internet", that sounds retarded. The internet needs a proper name. One that I know all of the people reading this collectively will not have, one that I can pretend is a young go-getter to whose shoulder I can put my hand upon and regale the vastness of the universe to (I've seen bigger). One that will look up at me wide-eyed with excitement whenever I look down at him disappointedly, and one that will make me laugh when I'm feeling down.