today I'm yet afloat at sea, unsure of the things around me. The water is clearly harmless, I can slap sharks or just ignore them. The only thing that's putting me in danger is my inability to do anything in the open sea.
Maybe I should drown and join the ocean below, it looks so animated and lively down there. But it's not for me, I know I'm no amphibian, fish, or water creature. But still, it tempts me
the cookie continues to crumble. at the same time, I'm having a hard time figuring out what I should listen to
It's February 15th 2038. Changing the array size from 4 to 6 leads to a faulty memory size of 4.5 GB (averages around ~134 MB on launch)
Trigonometry sucks. Triangles and circles are both horrible shapes
I've finally jumped out the thorn bush. I've been laying there, silently, saving every other breath so that another thorn doesn't dig itself into my side.
Now that I'm out of the thorn bush, the chaos finally reveals itself to me and the thorns that have come with me start invoking utter pain
Honesty isn't the bane of all evil
I lose hope. No, it's more that the fruit of disappointment bears itself further every time I visit in an infestation, every time the grublings below my feet squirm in ecstasy at the contact of warm, clean flesh.
So it's very important for me to remind myself that I'm visiting an infestation, and not whatever it was meant to be before its taintedness.
...but does the same apply for other things? Can one hold another dear and close, even after it withers, fades, festers? I'm not sure. And I'm afraid the rot will consume me, if it hasn't already.
I think fans of our caliber should not exist. Maybe it wasn't all meant to be, maybe it was all just a mistake.
Fans should only exist under the insane, but if the subject is completely normal, then we are subjecting that person to torture.
Morality aside, though, it's not my fault to begin with
Today, I went to Yoshinoya...
This is the third or fourth time I unravel this silly ball of pink yarn for the past 2 years. I believe I will be satisfied with how it looks one of these days
The light isn't real
My hard drive dying on me is probably a sign of something, but I don't know what.
...Another light silently dies away and the rifts continue to grow.
Artificial happiness can be as good as natural, as long as there is a constant flow of it and it doesn't kill you.
Perhaps that means I will be unable to experience natural happiness but that's ok. What does natural happiness mean in the long run anyways?
I told him to get lost, but he instead shot himself in the foot on the spot and started howling bloody murder. What did he mean by this
So much tech has advanced, yet still there is no random bird sound generator, or a way to match bird sounds to bird faces instantly. Sad!
Man I'm tired of it but I'm coming back. I get to swim for a while and hope my skin curdles and waterlogs until it turns into wood. I have like 20 keyboards and no friends. Joy Division is pretty good. My experiences are hard like a rock and my faith is not always there.
I have lost my faith in humanity
I'm in a personality theory class and all of my peers there are about ten years younger than me. The teacher is a retired clinical psychologist who worked as director for a center for recalcitrant children during his career and there's this dark-side Ramona Flowers who I was nosy with since she sits right behind me. She failed an open note computer based exam. It might be funny to see her uh uhm i uh when she doesn't the answer but I have this suspicion she wants to involve me. She's always there recently when I go out to go to the bathroom. Pretty sure she wants to pick on me and try to throw the class because she thinks she doesn't deserve to fail despite possibly not being in a good position. People pay for college and sometimes people don't know how to handle it when their gpa is threatened.
I'm on such a quirky high horse, I have to be unique, all my thoughts must be unique, but the moment I find an opening where one of someone else's characteristics snugly fit in with mine, I rejoice and get excited. I want to be friends with them, I want to give them a bit of my personal belongings, thoughts, and finances.
I'm trying to build a train heading to Sweden, Novosibirsk and back, as you may know, but it's stupidly hard to come back down to earth as soon as I'm distracted, and all thoughts suddenly vaporize.
It's what the old folk would call "fruity", "feminine", "gay", "tasteless", "alien", "unorthodox eroticism" (despite no exchange of emotions or sexual fluids), "unpatriotic" (despite the fact they have been willingly harboring the Northern Mexican empire as part of the union for several decades as a drug source, and been willingly watching and glorifying "baseball")...
Oddly enough, I do know this feeling will not last more than a week, and I will be back on the railways before I know it. In fact, I think the next rail bit is from Kazan to Volgograd; I have the partial blueprints somewhere but am lazy to pull it up just for this diary log. However, the week of desiring something beyond the box of my own is disturbing and selfless - the exact two traits of humanity I could care less about.
I still miss the thousands of images that I lost on my hard drive, but can hardly recall any of them. They were apparently important, but I don't remember why.
I fumbled it again. I bombed the interview because she threw an easy curveball in the second half. One gone of three rounds, one of which is a soft people's round.
It's bleak out there and I only made it bleaker for myself. I'm going to sleep
Poor fella was built like a cartoon character caricature. If he was balding, it would have been catastrophic.
I had to have my camera off for the whole interview, thank God I was only shadowing
===================================
Predictably Asked Questions (PAQ):
===================================
Q: Are you hallucinating these events?
A: No.
Q: Is she real?
A: Yes.
Q: How much this is real?
A: I think I'm true to my feelings. Hardly anything has been a lie, why else would I speak on the internet.
Q: Do you have a job? Did you have a job?
A: Yes.
Q: So you come from the great land of America?
A: Yes.
Q: Is that a religious name or just an English name?
A: Just English.
Q: What is your mother's maiden name?
A: Yamamoto, if we never went back. But it's something else.
Q: How did you get into the building?
A: Got past security. They did not seem to mind.
Q: What is the name of your favorite pet?
A: Never had any.
Q: Why did you do what you did at the hospital, then?
A: I thought I knew you. Or maybe you forgot about me, and we have in fact met before.
Q: What was the name of your elementary school?
A: Cordell Hull.
Q: You are an adult, yes?
A: Yes.
Q: What was the make of your first car?
A: Don't have them any more. No idea where they are.
Q: What was your favorite food as a child?
A: Mac and cheese. Don't like it as much now, especially Velveeta.
Q: Where did you meet your spouse?
A: She is real.
Q: What’s the name of your childhood best friend?
A: Eli.
Q: What is your favorite movie/book/TV show?
A: I don't have a favorite, but I've been watching Lovely Complex. Turns out I like romcoms.
Q: What is your favorite vacation spot?
A: I'm thinking Ravenna, but I haven't been there yet.
A: I had apparently been wearing a red and blue striped knit over a green t-shirt and beige corduroy pants.
Deeper and deeper in the cave I went, the sound of a man grew louder. There were stalagmites settled around as haphazardly as nature desired. At the end of the cave was an old man groaning in a frail wispy voice, as if in some pain. The dim blue moonlight revealed his long gypsum-like hair and crooked nose. One would almost mistake him for a floating head in the dark of the cave--which is, in fact, what I thought it was at first, until he revealed a lit lightbulb in his face, fully extricating his entire figure from the gloom. A long black robe covered every inch of his body, except his neck and head.
Other than the oddity that the lightbulb was lit by none other than his 2 knobbly fingers, his hair was tied to a stalactite--the only one in the room--and it appeared to be pulling at the old man's hair every minute or so, eliciting a sound of pain or surprise from the old man.
"We have a visi--oh!--a visitor? I knew we would have a visitor today, you see. 47 hairs, eh, fell from my head today."
47 hairs seems like a lot, though I don't think I've counted my hairs before.
"You count the hairs that fall out of your head?" That was a question directed at me, a question which I should have asked him. Before I could even shake my head, he let out a yelp and continued on rapidly before the stalactite could yank on his head again.
"On good days, 5 to 10 hairs fall out of my head. Usually 30 to 40 on every other day. Would you happen to know I had 1,121,179 hairs--Ah--! hairs on my head at birth? Now, I got less than a fourth of that amount. Count! Count, I say!" He shakily pointed to a nest, which was, on closer inspection, a nest of hairs--black ones at the bottom, building to gray and white hairs on the top.
I didn't want to count.
A low, hollow thunk came from the direction of the old man, as well as a tortuous scream from the old man himself. "Ahh! 'Nother hair has fallen out. Out. Today is indeed the worst d-day. My heart is sinking, my stomach in butterflies, my joints--ah!--it would be best if I were to be trampled by a large horse today. Today."
There were no horses in the cave.
I cleared my throat. "Why don't you untie your hairs from the rock, there?"
He shifted his face away from the lightbulb to specifically show me a glint in his eyes. "HRT. Prevents hair loss. And it's given me a pair of supple br--" His robe fell, and I failed to look away in time. Fortunately, there was nothing to look at, because from the shoulders down to his feet, he was covered in limestone. A stalagmite himself amidst a room of stalagmites. "I have breast cancer."
He cackled and hacked, which turned into a wild uncontrolled laughter. The echoes in the cave reverberated around me, and then the darkness swallowed.
Ask a person a random number sequence they have in mind. Just stop them on the street and ask "Hey, come up with a random number sequence."
And if the sequence contains, "4 4 7 7 9 4 7" or "12 7 7 2", in that order, that is me.
Ever come upon those troll crosswalks where there's a crosswalk to other side across the street, but there isn't one on your side, so you have to make three walks across to get where you need to?
Nuts.
Can't believe these impractical jokes still exist today
Also eating a soggy burger and cold fries blows. Making a note to myself to eat to-go on the spot instead of walking it back to work for 15-20 minutes in the rain
I had an afterthought on the train back home, and I remember it now after waking up the next day. Nothing too impressive though: something like how the 80s were the official ending to the world, and everything after that is just a sandbox mode to a game. Or, if it's a story, the writer is just going nuts and coming up with bullshit on the spot just to keep the series going, like "What if we did this in the story, and propped up some artificial conflict to make the story still relevant".
I don't know. Again, not that impressive, considering many boomers might've had the same thought, and presenting that idea in some form is just going to have many eyes rolling.
It's certainly not helping my writer's block.
I also just remembered a dream that I had last night.
I was at a transit center. They had bank tellers instead of whatever staff is supposed to be at transit centers, and I had a check for ten thousand dollars. I asked to cash it out in 20s, but this homeless bum wanted four dollars of it, like I owed him something or he owned the place. Six foot guy, stubble all over his face. He was wearing a raincoat and a fisher's hat. In retrospect, maybe he wasn't a bum.
I don't remember if I gave it to him, but I do remember being agitated because the teller already had the stack ready before he came up to me.
I met an old high school friend on the train I haven't seen in ages. 7 or 8 years? I shut out every other being in my life, so this was quite a surprise. We didn't get to talk too much because there were only 3 stops before he had to get off.
This happened on the same day that I got a handle of spirit and leaky "tacos" (read "unwrapped burritos") for lunch during work, and I had gotten taco sauce all over my clothes. Note to self: never get pigslop from Taco del Mar again.
It really sucks because I noticed a taco truck selling genuine Mexican food on the way back to office.
The team leader was also in the mood to take me up to the train station home. Strange and awkward, but not all too bad.
Was it the best day? No, but it was certainly an eventful one.
I also now have some proper life fuel that I so dearly needed. It was a bit pricier than the usual cheap stuff I get, but the guy wandering around the liquor shop told me that the frog is a nice one to drink straight. I trust him; he seemed to know what he was talking about.
It's no wonder being obnoxious is so easily considered as comedy. Go ahead and look at what normals consider comedy - screaming and repeating the same phrase over and over, ad hominems, mocking each other etc.
It appears the 3rd war is on the cusp of happening. I cannot wait for the culling - it's either myself or them.
Update 1: I think the dreams and the voices in my head are trying to tell me something. I wish it would tell me something a bit farther than a day ahead so I can do something about it, if I can.
Update 2: The frog is smooth, but it's a bit sour. Maybe it's because I haven't had a drink in months.
Today I spent a hour or so plucking aphids off the tree. Then I thought about how pointless it was, knowing they'd return tomorrow and perhaps in even larger numbers. I also thought about how cloudy of a day it was, despite there being low cloud cover in the sky.
A cloud may be following the sun today. We'll see if it gets better tomorrow.
The frog has gifted me 2 new plot points. I'm feeling inspired.
The sun is operating as normal, today may be a day as it is named.
If you let the devil's advocate win and let yourself fall for it, often times the advertisement is all it has to offer, and sometimes you may even get regret along with the free disappointment.
The best voices are ones verifiable and in the flesh, not ethereal nor digital.
I pray age acts as a deterrent against these digital goblins and imps.
I pray that faith somehow does play a role in protecting unwanted attention, even though it's already happened at least once before to no fault of her own.
I'm sure fans of our caliber are thinking the same thing, and I'm sure prayers don't fall on deaf ears.
I love shallow elitism, where I spout sweet nonsense and surface-level GPT-sounding shit to appear as a thinker.
Good writing looks at things under a microscope and takes inspiration, or at least twists it to be more subtle.
Lofty thinking or projecting your political fantasies belongs on plebian imageboards and other slop forms, not an art. It's simply not worth the skill or investment needed.
I am a digital goblin. I can protect no one.
Something sapped my energy so much even the sun could not help me recover from the damage.
I'm starting to think maybe the scope of my story should come down to one line and 5 years or less. I've put too much thought into this that I've come down to doubting myself, my abilities.
Either that, or I should continue writing when I retire, or when this war happens and passes over - whichever is faster.
The storyboard I worked on over the weekend comes down to 1 line yes, but spans over 16 years. I think I need to think about skimming the last 10 years to make this work
I have so quickly taken back whatever I said in >>46, and the story goes down not only 3 different paths, but 5. I think the plan was that the main route delves into complex human relationships, but it all became very drab and down to earth once it made its way into one place. I need to make up for that by introducing joke routes and very unlikeable characters that don't go through any development.
Fuck everything happening around me. I let the voices die. I am going to finish this novel in the next 2 years.
(All this being said I don't have the base of the fabric worked out. This also needs to happen. Might ideally span 7 years or less, and then the narrator dies.)
If I took to my urges and ran with the most generic "God of Time" schtick, not only would have someone have beat me to the punch on it with a shitty half-baked demo of an idea, I wouldn't have generated any new ideas to the point where I am now. There would've also been a lot more time lost than just the few months invested into that idea before I dropped it.
In fact, I'm sure every man has a "God of something" thought and either blabs on immediately about that, or turns on it and tries something else after realizing it won't be anything more than YA light novel that's already out there.
Some might say it's greed...no, it is greed.
Greed cannot stand its own skin and needs to crawl into a surrounding being every few months. If it's unable to taste warm fresh blood, it becomes agonized, starved and forces its own metamorphosis cycle. Some might call that metamorphosis a "development of character". Others call it "insanity" and lock the individual up, afraid of the glimpse of themselves-that-could-be, if they don't continue to feed.
The longest amount of doldrum greed can endure is 10 years at most, and is closer to every 4-7 years on average.
Look all around you.
Look at yourself.
Can you say you were the same man before the start of the decade?
Gears have grinded to a halt. Any written language is become more incomprehensible by the minute, and it's a wonder that I'm able to type out something meaningful. I'd hate to lose control like this, so perhaps it's a sign that I need to shut down now
Greal. Grave. Grated 7s. 4 2s and 97 of them. Six is the one. Grieving. Graving. Grueling 2nds. Grating 4s. 1 is not okay, neither is 8. The key are stiff and unwilling to the touch. It rejects me. 4 5s. 27 9s. Few haunght me, but so does everything else. The fingers buckle in pairs
Sad to think an original thought is hard to come by. It's doesn't have to be original in the sense that it's never been thought of, but just original enough that it reflects your personal nature.
When the loudest voices claim that "99.999% of media out there is all recycled ideas" and refuse to be part of the creative process, it might be over. Our previous generations have failed us, and there needs to be a cultural restart to force the creative process to happen.
Nine 7 0- Turfing was here
Densha 44 sedamate mo kurushimi
corn Bread Deathly strike
Was not nano yu2 0p9 -Turfing made it
0- The loss of the X dye X dye
All returns for 41.99 shiki sematose
scalper sting frays fried phlegm to the rising west of the rays
Y dye shrinking rage clever lion shriking ocean 0-
Monarchial rib-eye steak, pheromones of fresh blood
Crazed prizes for of 4 more 0- XXY YXX YX YY YYX XXX YYY
Proteins cannot clash, cannot fold
fangs corn teeth cholerae 12th coming