Right out of the gate, I want to say, "No."
No, I am not AGAINST THE CONCEPT of altering my brain chemistry.
I dunno how you could be, to be honest. Seems fuckin' stupid. I could understand not wanting to alter your own brain chemistry, fine. You don't wanna, that's fine. Really. But if I want to do it, and I'm not going to fuck with you, where's the problem? In fact, you can even leave.
Jul 24, 2007
Jul 20, 2007
This girl I fancy...
So there's this girl I fancy. I blame her for the poetry nobody wanted to see. Nobody saw it, but I digress.
They try to make me go to rehab, and I won't go, no, no.
I went to a show with her last night. Caroline Smith was the performer. Caroline Smith is not the girl I fancy. Caroline Smith has a myspace, and her music is pretty fucking good. I may just want to like it because this girl I fancy likes it. I'll probably never know. I'd have to read the lyrics.
Enough of this. Let's just say, there's this girl I fancy, and leave it at that. I went bowling with her tonight. I understand, I said I was going to leave it, and I am.
---
Matthew Culler had always been a mama's boy. From a very young age, he was sensitive and kind. Empathetic would be the word. A better, two-word phrase would be: Reluctantly Empathetic. To be truthful, he hated his disposition. Always knowing how the other guy feels isn't a great way to think about things.
Until the world beat it out of him, he was a crybaby. His mother told him it was "okay to cry." And it was, if you were a woman. In Nevar, reasons to cry were plentiful, even if you weren't accustomed to feeling everyone else's pain.
His mother died when he was thirteen. Crying was no longer an option. He had to make his own way.
In Nevar, young travelers were unheard of for two main reasons. Purebred human children themselves were rare. Four of every Five newborns was born with extra legs , giant heads, or the like. Muties, they called them. Mutie babies almost always kill the mother during birth.
The other reason amounted to one word with a complicated explanation: Beastmen.
Even when humans bred true, without mutie offspring killing the species over millennia, Beastmen were a constant threat. Beastmen just were. They live in the wilderness, and they hate humans. Beastmen raids were constant, and traveling between towns was dangerous.
Somehow, the young Matt survived for five years on the road. Drifting from town to town. He would hold up somewhere until the novelty of his story would wear thin on a town's patience. Then be gone before sunup. Nobody ever traveled at night, they didn't even think of it. Most Beastmen see best at night.
Matt learned to use a pistol at 14, from a man named Eddie, the self-appointed sheriff of a flyspeck town. Matt watched Eddie die less than a year after meeting him. Eddie once told Matt that anyone who wouldn't die screaming doesn't deserve to live. Eddie deserved to live, but he died screaming.
Most Beastmen aren't above eating humans. Howlers prefer human flesh to other food. Howler Beastmen look like an obscene mix of human and wild dog. Many look like humans covered in fur, with doglike heads. The breed of dog can differ, with Hyenas, Wolves, Coyotes, and Dingos being most common. Eddie was eaten alive. Alive and conscious.
When the Howlers ambushed them, Eddie handed Matt his pistols.
Eddie said, "Run."
Matt ran, and never forgave himself for it. How he survived, he didn't know for a long time.
He'd never know how he came to find himself, just six years later, the ad-hoc sheriff of a flyspeck town. Caring for a sprig of twelve-year-old boy. This was just before he realized that his "empathy" was merely undeveloped telepathy. His untrained ability to touch minds had caused him so much grief. But that's another story entirely.
They try to make me go to rehab, and I won't go, no, no.
I went to a show with her last night. Caroline Smith was the performer. Caroline Smith is not the girl I fancy. Caroline Smith has a myspace, and her music is pretty fucking good. I may just want to like it because this girl I fancy likes it. I'll probably never know. I'd have to read the lyrics.
Enough of this. Let's just say, there's this girl I fancy, and leave it at that. I went bowling with her tonight. I understand, I said I was going to leave it, and I am.
---
Matthew Culler had always been a mama's boy. From a very young age, he was sensitive and kind. Empathetic would be the word. A better, two-word phrase would be: Reluctantly Empathetic. To be truthful, he hated his disposition. Always knowing how the other guy feels isn't a great way to think about things.
Until the world beat it out of him, he was a crybaby. His mother told him it was "okay to cry." And it was, if you were a woman. In Nevar, reasons to cry were plentiful, even if you weren't accustomed to feeling everyone else's pain.
His mother died when he was thirteen. Crying was no longer an option. He had to make his own way.
In Nevar, young travelers were unheard of for two main reasons. Purebred human children themselves were rare. Four of every Five newborns was born with extra legs , giant heads, or the like. Muties, they called them. Mutie babies almost always kill the mother during birth.
The other reason amounted to one word with a complicated explanation: Beastmen.
Even when humans bred true, without mutie offspring killing the species over millennia, Beastmen were a constant threat. Beastmen just were. They live in the wilderness, and they hate humans. Beastmen raids were constant, and traveling between towns was dangerous.
Somehow, the young Matt survived for five years on the road. Drifting from town to town. He would hold up somewhere until the novelty of his story would wear thin on a town's patience. Then be gone before sunup. Nobody ever traveled at night, they didn't even think of it. Most Beastmen see best at night.
Matt learned to use a pistol at 14, from a man named Eddie, the self-appointed sheriff of a flyspeck town. Matt watched Eddie die less than a year after meeting him. Eddie once told Matt that anyone who wouldn't die screaming doesn't deserve to live. Eddie deserved to live, but he died screaming.
Most Beastmen aren't above eating humans. Howlers prefer human flesh to other food. Howler Beastmen look like an obscene mix of human and wild dog. Many look like humans covered in fur, with doglike heads. The breed of dog can differ, with Hyenas, Wolves, Coyotes, and Dingos being most common. Eddie was eaten alive. Alive and conscious.
When the Howlers ambushed them, Eddie handed Matt his pistols.
Eddie said, "Run."
Matt ran, and never forgave himself for it. How he survived, he didn't know for a long time.
He'd never know how he came to find himself, just six years later, the ad-hoc sheriff of a flyspeck town. Caring for a sprig of twelve-year-old boy. This was just before he realized that his "empathy" was merely undeveloped telepathy. His untrained ability to touch minds had caused him so much grief. But that's another story entirely.
Jul 13, 2007
Jun 17, 2007
More Poetic Drivel
When your lips reach skyward
Stretching to touch each brow
My whole brain twitches
Like snakes of trains starting to Krakow
When the smile actually connects
Your whole visage flares
Like a fire of hair and skin
With the rendered fat, they'll make wares
Soap and candles
From my blubbery calorie stores
And all because you smiled
My Gypsy ash, from Auschwitz pours
Stretching to touch each brow
My whole brain twitches
Like snakes of trains starting to Krakow
When the smile actually connects
Your whole visage flares
Like a fire of hair and skin
With the rendered fat, they'll make wares
Soap and candles
From my blubbery calorie stores
And all because you smiled
My Gypsy ash, from Auschwitz pours
Jun 12, 2007
A Deca-Dense of Dittering Drivel
1.
The Memory of your scent,
Is a stolen gem,
Glittering, though rent
As it was not given.
The slightest touch,
Also stolen
Takes me to an undiscovered glen,
Where the blossoms I never wanted lie
Save to be picked for someone,
Before I die.
And the apple trees
Litter the ground
With the gifts
I would wish away
Just to know you've been found,
And saw me through the fray.
2.
The girl inside my head
I try to judge her and flee
She lies asleep in bed
I’m stuck, smoking, unfed
Wishing I had the proficiency
With lyrics or words to articulate
Or the will to slam that gate
Any semblance of stability or dignity,
Has been washed away, gone forever.
With a simple, innocent glance or gesture
All oaths, I am willing to sever
Of course, I never asked,
For all my hopes to be dashed
For this illogical infatuation,
With the things she’s said
I didn’t want,
Never asked for,
And can’t be rid of,
This girl inside my head.
3.
‘Tis scary, true
To be adored in full view
The mad and smitten
See only their desire
All else is a midden
Which am I then?
To be charred by this fire
A flame of thought, and a pen
Won’t close this abyssal fissure
Both sides must ignite
To make this cursed inferno a treasure
Oh, you wicked, ignorant sprite
Thief of my dreams and demeanor
Return them, and abandon your magical candor
Or while our candles are still lit
Touch the sparks
Form a blaze against the dismal pit
If only for several silent seconds
The gleam of our union,
With the void, reckons.
4.
If a look could sell anthrax
To a paranoid cokehead
It would take your eyes
To get his nostrils fed.
They’ve always claimed,
“Eyes are windows to the soul.”
But they’re fucking morons
Spewing the same old droll
There’s a soul back there
But it hides behind the radiance
Of a forty megaton blast
Where corpses of human ash perform a motionless dance
Windows aren’t blinding
Or impossible to ignore
Though you liquefy my mortal coil
(Vaporizing my blood in the soil)
Don’t avert your eyes, I must implore
5.
If my brain had a liver,
That worked much the same,
Maybe that sponge could deliver
What willpower can only feign.
This fictional organ ought,
If I imagine it right,
Filter you from thought,
And return my sight.
I’m blind, you see,
Thought my eyes still function,
There’s nothing there but you, for me.
6.
Nerves use pain
To tell my monkey brain
When something will break
Like a baby given a good shake
But when my monkey brain
Wants to talk back
Oh, it sounds much the same,
But the only outlet is a sack.
A crate of undelivered mail
That grows unabated,
Like a tumor in a pail
7.
I want to stick a pole
In your pretty head
It would have to be hollow
For me to get properly fed.
I’d suck your brilliance
And claim it was my own
Then I’d have more than the pittance
Making my words a meaningless foam
8.
Somewhere deep down,
In the marrow,
There’s a tiny crown.
Worn by a fucking peasant
Who pushes a barrow
Dirty and awkward
He avoids his fellows
Who pump relentlessly,
The bellows.
That cough crimson Cheerios
They flow like liquid smoke
Carrying Oh-Too payloads
If they clot, we choke
All the while his fellows
Pump the bellows
Nobody in their town
Ever notices the tiny crown
Because it resides on the head
Of a fucking peasant,
Who might as well be dead.
9.
You’d never know
You’re breathing
Until acrid smoke
Hits your lungs, teething
Like a fucking monster
Got into your pants
Every picnic basket,
Swarms with deadly ants.
The great delusion
Of my generation
Is the same as the last,
A tragedy that defies imagination
Culled by the same,
Malignant forces
All the while believing
There are any real choices.
10.
This ignorant society
Is like a cropped tree
That grows, futile
On the billionth mile
Of median strip
Between bustles of boulevards
Those concrete shards
Where monkey men go,
Frantically, to and fro
But, between the lanes
Mostly when it rains
Roots strive for more
Unless blighted to the core.
In our concrete cage
Necessary roots bend and break
Though it fills me with rage
I cant even comprehend
What, exactly, is at stake.
This message I have sent
To the hairless monkey men
Breeding like rats in a pen:
“On your deaths, you are bent.”
The Memory of your scent,
Is a stolen gem,
Glittering, though rent
As it was not given.
The slightest touch,
Also stolen
Takes me to an undiscovered glen,
Where the blossoms I never wanted lie
Save to be picked for someone,
Before I die.
And the apple trees
Litter the ground
With the gifts
I would wish away
Just to know you've been found,
And saw me through the fray.
2.
The girl inside my head
I try to judge her and flee
She lies asleep in bed
I’m stuck, smoking, unfed
Wishing I had the proficiency
With lyrics or words to articulate
Or the will to slam that gate
Any semblance of stability or dignity,
Has been washed away, gone forever.
With a simple, innocent glance or gesture
All oaths, I am willing to sever
Of course, I never asked,
For all my hopes to be dashed
For this illogical infatuation,
With the things she’s said
I didn’t want,
Never asked for,
And can’t be rid of,
This girl inside my head.
3.
‘Tis scary, true
To be adored in full view
The mad and smitten
See only their desire
All else is a midden
Which am I then?
To be charred by this fire
A flame of thought, and a pen
Won’t close this abyssal fissure
Both sides must ignite
To make this cursed inferno a treasure
Oh, you wicked, ignorant sprite
Thief of my dreams and demeanor
Return them, and abandon your magical candor
Or while our candles are still lit
Touch the sparks
Form a blaze against the dismal pit
If only for several silent seconds
The gleam of our union,
With the void, reckons.
4.
If a look could sell anthrax
To a paranoid cokehead
It would take your eyes
To get his nostrils fed.
They’ve always claimed,
“Eyes are windows to the soul.”
But they’re fucking morons
Spewing the same old droll
There’s a soul back there
But it hides behind the radiance
Of a forty megaton blast
Where corpses of human ash perform a motionless dance
Windows aren’t blinding
Or impossible to ignore
Though you liquefy my mortal coil
(Vaporizing my blood in the soil)
Don’t avert your eyes, I must implore
5.
If my brain had a liver,
That worked much the same,
Maybe that sponge could deliver
What willpower can only feign.
This fictional organ ought,
If I imagine it right,
Filter you from thought,
And return my sight.
I’m blind, you see,
Thought my eyes still function,
There’s nothing there but you, for me.
6.
Nerves use pain
To tell my monkey brain
When something will break
Like a baby given a good shake
But when my monkey brain
Wants to talk back
Oh, it sounds much the same,
But the only outlet is a sack.
A crate of undelivered mail
That grows unabated,
Like a tumor in a pail
7.
I want to stick a pole
In your pretty head
It would have to be hollow
For me to get properly fed.
I’d suck your brilliance
And claim it was my own
Then I’d have more than the pittance
Making my words a meaningless foam
8.
Somewhere deep down,
In the marrow,
There’s a tiny crown.
Worn by a fucking peasant
Who pushes a barrow
Dirty and awkward
He avoids his fellows
Who pump relentlessly,
The bellows.
That cough crimson Cheerios
They flow like liquid smoke
Carrying Oh-Too payloads
If they clot, we choke
All the while his fellows
Pump the bellows
Nobody in their town
Ever notices the tiny crown
Because it resides on the head
Of a fucking peasant,
Who might as well be dead.
9.
You’d never know
You’re breathing
Until acrid smoke
Hits your lungs, teething
Like a fucking monster
Got into your pants
Every picnic basket,
Swarms with deadly ants.
The great delusion
Of my generation
Is the same as the last,
A tragedy that defies imagination
Culled by the same,
Malignant forces
All the while believing
There are any real choices.
10.
This ignorant society
Is like a cropped tree
That grows, futile
On the billionth mile
Of median strip
Between bustles of boulevards
Those concrete shards
Where monkey men go,
Frantically, to and fro
But, between the lanes
Mostly when it rains
Roots strive for more
Unless blighted to the core.
In our concrete cage
Necessary roots bend and break
Though it fills me with rage
I cant even comprehend
What, exactly, is at stake.
This message I have sent
To the hairless monkey men
Breeding like rats in a pen:
“On your deaths, you are bent.”
Oh Holy Living FUCK!
My fucking archives are gone!
OH FUCKING NOES!!
Wow that sucks. That really sucks.
OH FUCKING NOES!!
Wow that sucks. That really sucks.
I'm back, MOTHERFUCKERS!
I'm going to post a ton of shit in the next few days.
I have three days off of work, which is, how should I put it? Oh. Fucking sweet.
I'm a writer again. Hopefully, I will never again be "not a writer."
Also, not that it matters, but I've been drankin' again.
If I do it for long enough, theoretically, I *have* to get good at it. Writing, not drinking. I'm already an accomplished drinker.
I've been writing poetry lately. I hate almost all poetry. An example of one exception would be "The Emperor of Ice Cream," by Wallace Stevens. Fuck, I'll just paste it.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
That is a beautiful use of language. My poetry is not. It sucks. I write stories, and am only bothering to learn this obtuse way for telling stories (writing) to get my stories across more effectively. Poetry for me, I guess, is sort of like stretching my writing muscle. It's not very large yet, but it's voracious. What I'm saying could best be expressed in the words of a timeless song, "This dick don't hit the bottom, but I fuck the sides up." (Bloodhound Gang, Hefty Fine.
Regardless of how shitty my poetry is, I'm going to post some of it, cuz it's been written, and what the fuck else am I going to do with it? I certainly didn't write it because I enjoy reading it.
I have three days off of work, which is, how should I put it? Oh. Fucking sweet.
I'm a writer again. Hopefully, I will never again be "not a writer."
Also, not that it matters, but I've been drankin' again.
If I do it for long enough, theoretically, I *have* to get good at it. Writing, not drinking. I'm already an accomplished drinker.
I've been writing poetry lately. I hate almost all poetry. An example of one exception would be "The Emperor of Ice Cream," by Wallace Stevens. Fuck, I'll just paste it.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
That is a beautiful use of language. My poetry is not. It sucks. I write stories, and am only bothering to learn this obtuse way for telling stories (writing) to get my stories across more effectively. Poetry for me, I guess, is sort of like stretching my writing muscle. It's not very large yet, but it's voracious. What I'm saying could best be expressed in the words of a timeless song, "This dick don't hit the bottom, but I fuck the sides up." (Bloodhound Gang, Hefty Fine.
Regardless of how shitty my poetry is, I'm going to post some of it, cuz it's been written, and what the fuck else am I going to do with it? I certainly didn't write it because I enjoy reading it.
Oct 16, 2006
Fan Fiction
This is some D&D fan-fiction that I wrote today (at work, lmao). I'll probably edit it a little this week, or maybe come back to it next week. Click here if you want more info about the type of creature featured in this piece. This is still a rough draft:
Xor’chylic did not run. He floated a few inches off the ground, but increased his speed. Reaching out with his mind, he sensed his meal's location. Through the alley, surrounded by log buildings with thatched roofs, he ignored the drunkards and beggars. Their brains weren’t nutritious enough for his needs, and they had no flavor. Closing the distance to his prey, he projected the sound of running footsteps into its mind, and felt the “fear” emotion in the creature increase.
If he had lips, he would’ve licked them. As it was, the tentacles surrounding his mouth excreted more liquid. His victim's brain waves would become more intense with heightened anxiety, which would make its brain delectable.
It stopped moving abruptly, and Xor’chylic assumed it had reached a dead end. Though he didn’t understand the emotion, “fear,” he had felt it from other beings countless times before. The amount spewing from this creature’s psyche was almost enough to render it unconscious. If he was only interested in the grey matter, this wouldn’t be a problem, but since he devoured the cognitive energy housed in the brain as well, unconsciousness was simply unacceptable. At least before the feeding process began.
In order to be truly nutritious, this creature needed to be awake and aware of what was happening to it.
Just around the corner, he knew his meal waited, cowering and trembling. Possibly defecating itself. Xor’chylic lowered himself to the ground, relishing the visceral feeling of hard packed earth on his ancient feet. He walked around the corner.
The darkness blanketing the simple village was no barrier to his eyes, and he saw her with perfect clarity. She was certainly human, with soft, pink flesh and golden hair. She was wearing leather armor, though she seemed to have lost her shoes somewhere in the muddy streets. Clearly, she had forgotten about the dagger at her belt. With her back to the log wall of a building, she was digging furrows in the dirt with her heels as she tried to escape through the wall somehow.
He entered her consciousness with little difficulty.
I WILL NOT HURT YOU. He projected.
She clapped her hands over her ears and fell over, the weight of his consciousness touching hers causing her intense pain. He walked slowly to her and took her head in his hands. With his mind, he flung the dagger out of her belt and into the darkness behind him.
He didn’t live to be thirteen hundred and eighty four by being careless, even with a human made feral with fear.
With a fierce blast of mental energy, he stunned her. She could still sense her surroundings, but was rendered unable to act. Kneeling down, he threw back his hood, and began slowly wrapping his mouth tentacles around her skull. At first, the four tentacles spread their viscous enzyme on her hair. The thick, mucous-like substance matted her hair down, making it easier to manage.
After her hair was coated in his saliva, Xor’chylic tightened his feeding tentacles, bringing her forehead directly to his mouth. His mouth consisted of three rings of serrated teeth, with an eighteen inch, rough as a sharpening-stone tongue behind them. They did not open and close as he brought her skin to his teeth, but instead, each ring of teeth rotated in a separate direction, and then back again.
This was how he bored through her skull. She was still conscious once it was done, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Her body and mind couldn’t take much more. Once his tongue went into her brain cavity and began severing the tissue attaching her brain to her skull, she lost consciousness.
Not that it mattered, the heightened brain activity would last for long enough. Long enough to fuel his psychic energy for another month, and long enough to be absolutely delicious.
With an obscene slurping sound, he vaccuumed her brains into his mouth, in the space of fifteen seconds. He spent the next few minutes licking the skull clean.
Xor’chylic did not run. He floated a few inches off the ground, but increased his speed. Reaching out with his mind, he sensed his meal's location. Through the alley, surrounded by log buildings with thatched roofs, he ignored the drunkards and beggars. Their brains weren’t nutritious enough for his needs, and they had no flavor. Closing the distance to his prey, he projected the sound of running footsteps into its mind, and felt the “fear” emotion in the creature increase.
If he had lips, he would’ve licked them. As it was, the tentacles surrounding his mouth excreted more liquid. His victim's brain waves would become more intense with heightened anxiety, which would make its brain delectable.
It stopped moving abruptly, and Xor’chylic assumed it had reached a dead end. Though he didn’t understand the emotion, “fear,” he had felt it from other beings countless times before. The amount spewing from this creature’s psyche was almost enough to render it unconscious. If he was only interested in the grey matter, this wouldn’t be a problem, but since he devoured the cognitive energy housed in the brain as well, unconsciousness was simply unacceptable. At least before the feeding process began.
In order to be truly nutritious, this creature needed to be awake and aware of what was happening to it.
Just around the corner, he knew his meal waited, cowering and trembling. Possibly defecating itself. Xor’chylic lowered himself to the ground, relishing the visceral feeling of hard packed earth on his ancient feet. He walked around the corner.
The darkness blanketing the simple village was no barrier to his eyes, and he saw her with perfect clarity. She was certainly human, with soft, pink flesh and golden hair. She was wearing leather armor, though she seemed to have lost her shoes somewhere in the muddy streets. Clearly, she had forgotten about the dagger at her belt. With her back to the log wall of a building, she was digging furrows in the dirt with her heels as she tried to escape through the wall somehow.
He entered her consciousness with little difficulty.
I WILL NOT HURT YOU. He projected.
She clapped her hands over her ears and fell over, the weight of his consciousness touching hers causing her intense pain. He walked slowly to her and took her head in his hands. With his mind, he flung the dagger out of her belt and into the darkness behind him.
He didn’t live to be thirteen hundred and eighty four by being careless, even with a human made feral with fear.
With a fierce blast of mental energy, he stunned her. She could still sense her surroundings, but was rendered unable to act. Kneeling down, he threw back his hood, and began slowly wrapping his mouth tentacles around her skull. At first, the four tentacles spread their viscous enzyme on her hair. The thick, mucous-like substance matted her hair down, making it easier to manage.
After her hair was coated in his saliva, Xor’chylic tightened his feeding tentacles, bringing her forehead directly to his mouth. His mouth consisted of three rings of serrated teeth, with an eighteen inch, rough as a sharpening-stone tongue behind them. They did not open and close as he brought her skin to his teeth, but instead, each ring of teeth rotated in a separate direction, and then back again.
This was how he bored through her skull. She was still conscious once it was done, but he knew it wouldn’t last. Her body and mind couldn’t take much more. Once his tongue went into her brain cavity and began severing the tissue attaching her brain to her skull, she lost consciousness.
Not that it mattered, the heightened brain activity would last for long enough. Long enough to fuel his psychic energy for another month, and long enough to be absolutely delicious.
With an obscene slurping sound, he vaccuumed her brains into his mouth, in the space of fifteen seconds. He spent the next few minutes licking the skull clean.
Sep 25, 2006
At some point you wanted to write. You wrote a lot, and called it practice. You went to school, and you wrote. Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Then what? It went away. Like your grandmother’s ashes in a hurricane. Just. Gone.
Whoosh. With nothing left but a feeling of hopelessness, when you’d think about trying to find any of it again.
They say these things happen.
Then you thought you’d play poker. It was more difficult and less fun than you thought. You told everyone that you were a professional poker player. You talked about poker more than you played it. You thought that the money would just fly at you, and all you had to do was catch it. Not so, good sir, not so by a stretch.
The trouble with being your own boss is that you’re a lazy shithead.
Then you got a job. A job that carefully trained chimpanzees could accomplish with little fallout. You play videogames, but are not content.
You stumble across this concept. It’s like reading about something you already know by heart, but never incorporated the name of the thing into your consciousness.
But you know, you want to find your flow.
Then what? That part of the story, is still unwritten.
Whoosh. With nothing left but a feeling of hopelessness, when you’d think about trying to find any of it again.
They say these things happen.
Then you thought you’d play poker. It was more difficult and less fun than you thought. You told everyone that you were a professional poker player. You talked about poker more than you played it. You thought that the money would just fly at you, and all you had to do was catch it. Not so, good sir, not so by a stretch.
The trouble with being your own boss is that you’re a lazy shithead.
Then you got a job. A job that carefully trained chimpanzees could accomplish with little fallout. You play videogames, but are not content.
You stumble across this concept. It’s like reading about something you already know by heart, but never incorporated the name of the thing into your consciousness.
But you know, you want to find your flow.
Then what? That part of the story, is still unwritten.
Aug 16, 2006
What happens in a year?
It's been almost a year since I've posted.
What happens in a year? I'm sure you guys can guess: Not much.
Not much at all.
What happens in a year? I'm sure you guys can guess: Not much.
Not much at all.
Sep 25, 2005
On Rage
There are two types of people in this world. Accept that as a fact, and everything will be easier. Those who induce rage, and those who become enraged.
Guess which I am.
Yeah, you fuckin' got it. I get mad all the damn time. When I say that automobiles infuriate me, I'm not kidding. Seriously, I think about the carbons and the toxins and the people suffering all over the world because of our dependance on decayed organic matter as fuel. I think about the fact that this black sludge is the result of ALL LIFE before us on this planet.
No, really. Everything that came before. The floating mountains of bacteria that inhabited this planet, all the way to the fucking dinosaurs. Well, not really ALL life, but most of it. A good portion of it became this black sludge shit.
What are we doing? Burning it at such a rate that we're almost out. We've almost burned away the remains of everything that came before.
If you don't think this is wrong and unnecessary, if you honestly don't think there's any other way worth pursuing, then we have nothing further to discuss.
So fuck you. If nobody ever insisted that there was a better way of doing things, we'd still be letting "Priests" of "THE ONE TRUE GOD" fuck our small children.
Oh wait...
Guess which I am.
Yeah, you fuckin' got it. I get mad all the damn time. When I say that automobiles infuriate me, I'm not kidding. Seriously, I think about the carbons and the toxins and the people suffering all over the world because of our dependance on decayed organic matter as fuel. I think about the fact that this black sludge is the result of ALL LIFE before us on this planet.
No, really. Everything that came before. The floating mountains of bacteria that inhabited this planet, all the way to the fucking dinosaurs. Well, not really ALL life, but most of it. A good portion of it became this black sludge shit.
What are we doing? Burning it at such a rate that we're almost out. We've almost burned away the remains of everything that came before.
If you don't think this is wrong and unnecessary, if you honestly don't think there's any other way worth pursuing, then we have nothing further to discuss.
So fuck you. If nobody ever insisted that there was a better way of doing things, we'd still be letting "Priests" of "THE ONE TRUE GOD" fuck our small children.
Oh wait...
LINKS
New, Poker-only blog!
Click over neaw!
Two of my friends and myself are authoring it.
Also, in some non-poker news, a friend of mine has started a blog.
It should be mostly fiction, if I'm to believe what he tells me.
Click over neaw!
Two of my friends and myself are authoring it.
Also, in some non-poker news, a friend of mine has started a blog.
It should be mostly fiction, if I'm to believe what he tells me.
Sep 20, 2005
I love gambling
I just got done with an up and down session at the tables. There were some massive swings in chip totals, and mistakes were made.
That's right, mistakes were made.
Somewhere between my fingers and my brain, a communication breakdown occurred.
Honestly, at this time, that's all the information we have. Of course it has been reported through members of the liberal, jew-run media that proper precautions were not enacted to protect the chips.
These accusations are simply not true. There was nothing more that could be done to protect the chips. While there may have been mistakes, the chips themselves knew the risk of living in that region.
I mean, can't my chips afford the weather channel? My chips can't afford to drive their SUV's out of the destroyed area? I know gas is expensive, but fuck.
When the whirlwind of destruction comes careening toward you, get in your automobiles and drive, you stupid, stupid, black chips.
That's right, mistakes were made.
Somewhere between my fingers and my brain, a communication breakdown occurred.
Honestly, at this time, that's all the information we have. Of course it has been reported through members of the liberal, jew-run media that proper precautions were not enacted to protect the chips.
These accusations are simply not true. There was nothing more that could be done to protect the chips. While there may have been mistakes, the chips themselves knew the risk of living in that region.
I mean, can't my chips afford the weather channel? My chips can't afford to drive their SUV's out of the destroyed area? I know gas is expensive, but fuck.
When the whirlwind of destruction comes careening toward you, get in your automobiles and drive, you stupid, stupid, black chips.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
I JUST GOT A FREE FUCKING LAPTOP!
Oh wait... It was just a bullshit popup. My bad.
Is anyone else getting really sick of advertising in this country?
I swear, the next innovation is going to be a nano-machine earweevil that will burrow into your brain. See, it won't take control, because advertising is spearheaded by a bunch of morons, it'll just start broadcasting from inside your brain.
"Eat at Joe's.... Eat at Joe's."
You must remember that the main goal of advertising is to drive the more intelligent members of a species insane.
That's the definition of advertising, it's in the dictionary. Read it sometime.
Oh wait... It was just a bullshit popup. My bad.
Is anyone else getting really sick of advertising in this country?
I swear, the next innovation is going to be a nano-machine earweevil that will burrow into your brain. See, it won't take control, because advertising is spearheaded by a bunch of morons, it'll just start broadcasting from inside your brain.
"Eat at Joe's.... Eat at Joe's."
You must remember that the main goal of advertising is to drive the more intelligent members of a species insane.
That's the definition of advertising, it's in the dictionary. Read it sometime.
Sep 19, 2005
While I'm talking about poker, here's something that can stop:
Starting sentences with the phrase, "Poker is a lot like life..."
This is only a trend with people seeking to validate the devotion they give to poker. Poker isn't like life. Poker is a game of strategy in the long-term, and luck in the short-term.
In life, you can make all the incorrect decisions and reach the top of the iceburg. Naturally, you forget about the 70% of us that are underwater, but you get what you pay for, and life is free.
An example would be President George W. Bush. Here's a man that's the "leader" of the most powerful nation on earth, and he still thinks naming an anti-theft device "The Club" is really fucking funny.
That doesn't belong on the resume of the President of the United States. That is on MY resume. Fuck.
Poker is not like life. It's easy to see similarities between something that is not understood by humans (life) and anything else that's so incredibly complicated that it's nigh incomprehensible (in this example, poker).
Starting sentences with the phrase, "Poker is a lot like life..."
This is only a trend with people seeking to validate the devotion they give to poker. Poker isn't like life. Poker is a game of strategy in the long-term, and luck in the short-term.
In life, you can make all the incorrect decisions and reach the top of the iceburg. Naturally, you forget about the 70% of us that are underwater, but you get what you pay for, and life is free.
An example would be President George W. Bush. Here's a man that's the "leader" of the most powerful nation on earth, and he still thinks naming an anti-theft device "The Club" is really fucking funny.
That doesn't belong on the resume of the President of the United States. That is on MY resume. Fuck.
Poker is not like life. It's easy to see similarities between something that is not understood by humans (life) and anything else that's so incredibly complicated that it's nigh incomprehensible (in this example, poker).
This post is about one of the ultimate expressions of capitalism.
A theoretical exploration of poker.
Of course, I'm not speaking literally. However, poker is an extreme expression of lassiez-fair economics. My spelling might be off, of course, but the concept remains true.
When you play poker, you wager monies. Pretty simple concept there.
Naturally, it gets more complicated if you want to do this for a living. A little like the stock market, though I'm sure that's a common analogy.
With each wager, you attempt to maximize the amount of *expectation* you have when risking your monies.
Expectation is an important concept. Excpectation is the amount of money you expect to make given the *average* of all possibilities for the outcome of a hand. The important part is to disregard individual results, because poker is a game of wild variations in "luck".
I call luck "variance" because it means much the same thing, but doesn't have any sentimental attachment.
Sentimental attachments, whether it is to a particular hand or class of hands in poker, is a dangerous position.
The equation works like this:
Expectation = edge * volume.
Your "edge" is essentially the skill you have in excess of your opponents (If it helps, think of it in terms of the mistakes they make but you avoid. Every time an opponent makes a mistake, there is a potential for profit. Conversely, when you make mistakes, you SHOULD lose money, though unskilled opponents will frequently not capitalize on your mistakes.) The more you play, the bigger your edge will get (if you try to improve, which most people don't or can't). It's a positive feedback equation, because the more you play, the larger your edge gets (again, if you try to improve). The more you play, the bigger your edge gets, and the more you are betting (the volume section of our equation) and the more your edge affects your profits.
Any questions?
A theoretical exploration of poker.
Of course, I'm not speaking literally. However, poker is an extreme expression of lassiez-fair economics. My spelling might be off, of course, but the concept remains true.
When you play poker, you wager monies. Pretty simple concept there.
Naturally, it gets more complicated if you want to do this for a living. A little like the stock market, though I'm sure that's a common analogy.
With each wager, you attempt to maximize the amount of *expectation* you have when risking your monies.
Expectation is an important concept. Excpectation is the amount of money you expect to make given the *average* of all possibilities for the outcome of a hand. The important part is to disregard individual results, because poker is a game of wild variations in "luck".
I call luck "variance" because it means much the same thing, but doesn't have any sentimental attachment.
Sentimental attachments, whether it is to a particular hand or class of hands in poker, is a dangerous position.
The equation works like this:
Expectation = edge * volume.
Your "edge" is essentially the skill you have in excess of your opponents (If it helps, think of it in terms of the mistakes they make but you avoid. Every time an opponent makes a mistake, there is a potential for profit. Conversely, when you make mistakes, you SHOULD lose money, though unskilled opponents will frequently not capitalize on your mistakes.) The more you play, the bigger your edge will get (if you try to improve, which most people don't or can't). It's a positive feedback equation, because the more you play, the larger your edge gets (again, if you try to improve). The more you play, the bigger your edge gets, and the more you are betting (the volume section of our equation) and the more your edge affects your profits.
Any questions?
Sep 15, 2005
Sep 14, 2005
Yes!
So it's been about a month since the last update. Sadly, there is not any new fiction at the moment. I know, I can't seem to finish a story, so I've decided to shelf it for a while.
Shelving something is sort of like putting something on the back burner, but not quite as gay.
That's right. Gay. Because of the fire. Nevermind.
I'm still playing poker. It's not quite where you could call me a professional poker player, but it's what you would call the 'cusp' of playing professionally.
Soon, I should be moving up in stakes, from single dollar to multiple dollar bets. This is great and exciting. I've been lucky.
There's a new blog that you guys should check out. I'll add it to the links on the right as well. The blog is authored by an unemployed rocket scientist.
Anyway, I'll post again once I move up.
So it's been about a month since the last update. Sadly, there is not any new fiction at the moment. I know, I can't seem to finish a story, so I've decided to shelf it for a while.
Shelving something is sort of like putting something on the back burner, but not quite as gay.
That's right. Gay. Because of the fire. Nevermind.
I'm still playing poker. It's not quite where you could call me a professional poker player, but it's what you would call the 'cusp' of playing professionally.
Soon, I should be moving up in stakes, from single dollar to multiple dollar bets. This is great and exciting. I've been lucky.
There's a new blog that you guys should check out. I'll add it to the links on the right as well. The blog is authored by an unemployed rocket scientist.
Anyway, I'll post again once I move up.
Aug 10, 2005
So. I've been playing poker.
A lot of poker.
I've learned some things about myself.
I love writing, and I love playing poker. I also love lots of people, but that's not what this is about.
Maybe, just maybe, I can reconcile the things I love to do with the fact that I have to work for money in this culture to have any freedom at all.
It's a secret dream of mine that I could earn a living playing poker, and write.
What would I write about if I could make money playing poker?
I dont know what I would write about exactly, but it wouldn't be poker. Poker would be work.
With the internet and all, this wouldn't even be something I'd need to come into the office for, this would be something I could do from home.
That. At least, is worth a shot.
I'm done writing for the moment, but since you've been kind enough to wade through the avalanche of bullshit about my life, I'll post the first outline for the first chapter of a story I'm writing.
Oh. You don't care? Then fuck you.
This character's name is Whispering Leaf, Whisper to his friends. He's the best hunter in his tribe. He is called whispering leaf because of the obvious quietness relevance. Rumors in his tribe circulate about his methods, because he always hunts alone. Unlike his tribesmen, he refuses to use anything but his father's obsidian dagger.
It is large for a knife, and hasn't broken. Usually, a knife made of glass shatters at some point (though it is always usable to *finish* the kill, it must be replaced afterwards). This one, however, has not been blemished or dulled since the day Whisper's father died.
This was all teaser stuff.
Here's the first outline for the first chapter.
---
Whispering Leaf peered through the leaves of a towering oak, grasping the hilt of the obsidian blade strapped to his thigh. He knew nothing of his mission, though the wise woman had told him something ominous.
"You will observe, Whisper. You will watch, and your purpose will be known to you."
"Tell me, mother," he had said, "tell me what my purpose is."
"I cannot, my dearest son. I cannot because it has not been shown. The spirits have told me that you must be there. They will say no more, and you must obey. You must be patient."
"Yes, wise woman."
"Go with the spirits as your allies," She said, "and hold no malice in your heart. Be true to your father, but strike swiftly when you must."
Once the parting words had been spoken, there was nothing to do but nod and leave. Even if you were the wise woman's son, you left when the parting words were spoken.
Whispering Leaf shook the sorrow from his head. It didn't leave, but receeded from his attention, to a dark corner of his head where the last conversation was kept on constant loop.
He looked once more at the pale men in a smooth, wooden boat.
---
In the next chapter, Whispering Leaf will come into contact with the Europeans he has been watching from his hiding place. (though we know nothing about their mutual surroundings yet) More secrets about his past, and clues as to his mission concerning these white men, will be exposed.
A lot of poker.
I've learned some things about myself.
I love writing, and I love playing poker. I also love lots of people, but that's not what this is about.
Maybe, just maybe, I can reconcile the things I love to do with the fact that I have to work for money in this culture to have any freedom at all.
It's a secret dream of mine that I could earn a living playing poker, and write.
What would I write about if I could make money playing poker?
I dont know what I would write about exactly, but it wouldn't be poker. Poker would be work.
With the internet and all, this wouldn't even be something I'd need to come into the office for, this would be something I could do from home.
That. At least, is worth a shot.
I'm done writing for the moment, but since you've been kind enough to wade through the avalanche of bullshit about my life, I'll post the first outline for the first chapter of a story I'm writing.
Oh. You don't care? Then fuck you.
This character's name is Whispering Leaf, Whisper to his friends. He's the best hunter in his tribe. He is called whispering leaf because of the obvious quietness relevance. Rumors in his tribe circulate about his methods, because he always hunts alone. Unlike his tribesmen, he refuses to use anything but his father's obsidian dagger.
It is large for a knife, and hasn't broken. Usually, a knife made of glass shatters at some point (though it is always usable to *finish* the kill, it must be replaced afterwards). This one, however, has not been blemished or dulled since the day Whisper's father died.
This was all teaser stuff.
Here's the first outline for the first chapter.
---
Whispering Leaf peered through the leaves of a towering oak, grasping the hilt of the obsidian blade strapped to his thigh. He knew nothing of his mission, though the wise woman had told him something ominous.
"You will observe, Whisper. You will watch, and your purpose will be known to you."
"Tell me, mother," he had said, "tell me what my purpose is."
"I cannot, my dearest son. I cannot because it has not been shown. The spirits have told me that you must be there. They will say no more, and you must obey. You must be patient."
"Yes, wise woman."
"Go with the spirits as your allies," She said, "and hold no malice in your heart. Be true to your father, but strike swiftly when you must."
Once the parting words had been spoken, there was nothing to do but nod and leave. Even if you were the wise woman's son, you left when the parting words were spoken.
Whispering Leaf shook the sorrow from his head. It didn't leave, but receeded from his attention, to a dark corner of his head where the last conversation was kept on constant loop.
He looked once more at the pale men in a smooth, wooden boat.
---
In the next chapter, Whispering Leaf will come into contact with the Europeans he has been watching from his hiding place. (though we know nothing about their mutual surroundings yet) More secrets about his past, and clues as to his mission concerning these white men, will be exposed.
Jul 24, 2005
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