I shouldn't be awake right now, and I'm pissed.
I randomly woke up about two and half hours ago, and had every intention on going back to sleep, but one of my dumb cats managed to get himself locked in the hall closet, which is right outside my door, and I was distracted by the sound of my mother letting him out. It was silent for a while after, and in the silence, one word entered my mind.
Affidavit.
It's a funny word in and of itself (and fuck yeah, I spelled it right the first time without the need for spellcheck), and it's the fancy term for a testimony or confession. Say it to yourself a few times; you'll probably start giggling. Because the word, normally, would be awesome and junk, but when it's the first thought in your conscious mind... it just becomes annoying.
Unfortunately for me, the first thought after I wake up usually sticks with me the whole day. And when I say the whole day, I mean the -whole- day. I've spent the last hour and a half with Affidavit randomly wandering through my head, derailing speeding trains of thought, and generally being a pain in the ass.
Phrase of the Day: Fuck you, affidavit.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
Why the Christmas Season Sucks
I can feel the glares boring into my skull already just from my controversial title, but please, hear me out before you demand crucifixions and burnings, okay? .... please? PUT THE CROSS DOWN.
In all seriousness I'm sitting here at quarter to seven on New Year's Eve, and I have yet to really get excited over the prospect of a new year. Most people are out right now, celebrating with friends and loved ones, while in about 45 minutes I'm going to be abandoned by my parents to spend the entire night surfing the net, playing Fable 3 (yes, I nerd out a lot. Deal with it.), and consuming mass amounts of cream and grape soda to fuel the fact that I will be spending the night alone in spaced out hyperactivity. Geez, isn't that a charming image?
Honestly, it's nights like this I wish I liked alcohol. I get giggly and happy after a few shots of peppermint schnapps, but I've never actually been totally hammered, in spite of the fact that I've been legally allowed to drink for a year and a half. Yay for Canada's 19 year old drinking age! I still feel like a Grinch. Maybe I am. But I have yet to see any amount of green fur or an undersized heart, so maybe I'm just bitter.
So rather than being allowed to drink myself into a coma, because I wouldn't be able to stomach it, and I don't like the idea of losing my dinner all night, I get to spend it in an acute state of hyperactivity, twitching and trying to unravel the mysteries of this new game that I haven't touched, yet have owned for a whole two freaking days. While maybe. MAYBE. Talking to some people on Skype. Skype is awesome, did you know that? It's even better now that my laptop has a built in microphone. My old one was a piece of chit, and huge compared to my netbook.
So this post wasn't very funny. I don't think I'm funny, but I've potentially killed people with my old posts. Remember the vanilla-coated-dark-chocolate-venus-flytrap-like-contraption? I do. It still makes me laugh. And I still haven't got to the point of this post yet, and I'm three or four paragraphs in already.
The Christmas season, otherwise the week of and the week after Christmas (this includes New Year's eve/day), sucks. Majorly. Because all it ever serves to do is to remind you that your life sucks. Resolutions only turn into impossible goals that make you feel worse about yourself. In all honesty, has ANYONE ever followed through on all their resolutions for the new year? And when you don't reach the goals, how does that make you feel? It only serves to make you feel worse about yourself, shovelling those goals to the next year until they compound to the point where all you want to do is lay down on your bed and not move for fear that your next breath will only yield more failure.
So. Much. Failure.
Yes, this is why the Christmas season sucks. At least, in my eyes. Perhaps you're different?
PS. Fuck you blue jays. YOU SUCK MORE.
In all seriousness I'm sitting here at quarter to seven on New Year's Eve, and I have yet to really get excited over the prospect of a new year. Most people are out right now, celebrating with friends and loved ones, while in about 45 minutes I'm going to be abandoned by my parents to spend the entire night surfing the net, playing Fable 3 (yes, I nerd out a lot. Deal with it.), and consuming mass amounts of cream and grape soda to fuel the fact that I will be spending the night alone in spaced out hyperactivity. Geez, isn't that a charming image?
Honestly, it's nights like this I wish I liked alcohol. I get giggly and happy after a few shots of peppermint schnapps, but I've never actually been totally hammered, in spite of the fact that I've been legally allowed to drink for a year and a half. Yay for Canada's 19 year old drinking age! I still feel like a Grinch. Maybe I am. But I have yet to see any amount of green fur or an undersized heart, so maybe I'm just bitter.
So rather than being allowed to drink myself into a coma, because I wouldn't be able to stomach it, and I don't like the idea of losing my dinner all night, I get to spend it in an acute state of hyperactivity, twitching and trying to unravel the mysteries of this new game that I haven't touched, yet have owned for a whole two freaking days. While maybe. MAYBE. Talking to some people on Skype. Skype is awesome, did you know that? It's even better now that my laptop has a built in microphone. My old one was a piece of chit, and huge compared to my netbook.
So this post wasn't very funny. I don't think I'm funny, but I've potentially killed people with my old posts. Remember the vanilla-coated-dark-chocolate-venus-flytrap-like-contraption? I do. It still makes me laugh. And I still haven't got to the point of this post yet, and I'm three or four paragraphs in already.
The Christmas season, otherwise the week of and the week after Christmas (this includes New Year's eve/day), sucks. Majorly. Because all it ever serves to do is to remind you that your life sucks. Resolutions only turn into impossible goals that make you feel worse about yourself. In all honesty, has ANYONE ever followed through on all their resolutions for the new year? And when you don't reach the goals, how does that make you feel? It only serves to make you feel worse about yourself, shovelling those goals to the next year until they compound to the point where all you want to do is lay down on your bed and not move for fear that your next breath will only yield more failure.
So. Much. Failure.
Yes, this is why the Christmas season sucks. At least, in my eyes. Perhaps you're different?
PS. Fuck you blue jays. YOU SUCK MORE.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The English Language; Making You Feel Like an Idiot With Your Own Mouth
Okay, so I was talking with a friend of mine just now, and I was also reading one of my earlier blog entries, finding my tired antics amusing. Seriously, if you haven't read those survival guides, go do so now; I swear, you'll laugh. Unless you don't like swearing. Or the fetal position. If you don't, keep reading here; it'll save you disappointment.
Anyways, I asked her if finding my own writing amusing was a bad thing, to which she replied that it wasn't; it just means it's just that funny. I tried to think up the word that described what I feel this action might come across as, and guess what? I was fucked by the language I've been learning, and am still learning, to speak since I was old enough to attempt to. Seriously, don't try and speak without teeth; you sound more like an idiot than normal. (For the record? I still haven't thought of that word. I'm pissed.)
The English language is hard. Every language has something about it that makes it difficult; Japanese makes you think you sound like you're trying to lift a house, Chinese makes you think you sound like a tape recorder being played backwards at mach speed... and German? Good grief, it sounds like you're about to murder someone with your words! Never mind writing half of this shit; I know France is one of the fashion capitals of the world, but do they have to dress up their words too? Wtf is a chapeau? It's one of these --> ^ <-- on top of a letter. Chapeau is the French word for hat. STOP DRESSING UP THE LANGUAGE; IT STILL SUCKS. Greek, Russian and most Asian languages are also difficult to write for those who are not great at drawing. It's mostly symbols; you could be trying to say "Hi, how are you?", and one little screw up will make it look like "Hi, hoe are you?" Not only do you sound like you are dyslexic, but you might have also insulted a martial artist or ninja, and it's now open season on your ass.
Even so, I don't think any other languages can make you feel as stupid as English. There's so many different words to describe the same damned thing, you can spend hours groping for the right word, and still not come across it. I still haven't thought of the one I wanted!
Take blue for example; it's a colour. A simple, plain colour. But no, we had to take it one step further. There's also cyan, ocean, teal, turquoise, lapiz, cerulean, navy, sapphire and a myriad of other fucking words to describe this one colour. Do we need all of this? Is not adding 'dark' or 'light' to blue not enough to get your point across?? I'm STILL coming up with different blue names as I write this, and I go back to the list to add them every time!
Because of this vastly descriptive language, you can either;
A. Spend hours trying to find the exact right word to fit the mood/theme/overall right word to describe your noun.
B. Discover that the word you've been using to describe a noun is not correct at all, and you will have to do option A all over again.
C. Get stumped trying to think of a word you know that you KNOW fits exactly what you want to say, but you can't remember it because of all the other equally viable, but not as perfect, words blocking your brain's access to that word.
Needless to say, Vander does not like feeling that she became a language's bitch because the language is an unmitigated ass and likes to be fucking complicated. Some of you are going to dictionary.com right now because I'm using words very few people use. Not only is English making you its bitch, but some of these words are intimidating.
But I win this time, English; I'm dissing you with yourself. Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on.
By the way, I remember the word I wanted now; it was conceited. And I spelled that right without having to use the spell check. Who's the idiot now, English?!
PS; I used the spell checker to make sure I didn't look like an idiot, and apparently Blogger's spell check doesn't have all the words in it. Suck it again, English.
Anyways, I asked her if finding my own writing amusing was a bad thing, to which she replied that it wasn't; it just means it's just that funny. I tried to think up the word that described what I feel this action might come across as, and guess what? I was fucked by the language I've been learning, and am still learning, to speak since I was old enough to attempt to. Seriously, don't try and speak without teeth; you sound more like an idiot than normal. (For the record? I still haven't thought of that word. I'm pissed.)
The English language is hard. Every language has something about it that makes it difficult; Japanese makes you think you sound like you're trying to lift a house, Chinese makes you think you sound like a tape recorder being played backwards at mach speed... and German? Good grief, it sounds like you're about to murder someone with your words! Never mind writing half of this shit; I know France is one of the fashion capitals of the world, but do they have to dress up their words too? Wtf is a chapeau? It's one of these --> ^ <-- on top of a letter. Chapeau is the French word for hat. STOP DRESSING UP THE LANGUAGE; IT STILL SUCKS. Greek, Russian and most Asian languages are also difficult to write for those who are not great at drawing. It's mostly symbols; you could be trying to say "Hi, how are you?", and one little screw up will make it look like "Hi, hoe are you?" Not only do you sound like you are dyslexic, but you might have also insulted a martial artist or ninja, and it's now open season on your ass.
Even so, I don't think any other languages can make you feel as stupid as English. There's so many different words to describe the same damned thing, you can spend hours groping for the right word, and still not come across it. I still haven't thought of the one I wanted!
Take blue for example; it's a colour. A simple, plain colour. But no, we had to take it one step further. There's also cyan, ocean, teal, turquoise, lapiz, cerulean, navy, sapphire and a myriad of other fucking words to describe this one colour. Do we need all of this? Is not adding 'dark' or 'light' to blue not enough to get your point across?? I'm STILL coming up with different blue names as I write this, and I go back to the list to add them every time!
Because of this vastly descriptive language, you can either;
A. Spend hours trying to find the exact right word to fit the mood/theme/overall right word to describe your noun.
B. Discover that the word you've been using to describe a noun is not correct at all, and you will have to do option A all over again.
C. Get stumped trying to think of a word you know that you KNOW fits exactly what you want to say, but you can't remember it because of all the other equally viable, but not as perfect, words blocking your brain's access to that word.
Needless to say, Vander does not like feeling that she became a language's bitch because the language is an unmitigated ass and likes to be fucking complicated. Some of you are going to dictionary.com right now because I'm using words very few people use. Not only is English making you its bitch, but some of these words are intimidating.
But I win this time, English; I'm dissing you with yourself. Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on.
By the way, I remember the word I wanted now; it was conceited. And I spelled that right without having to use the spell check. Who's the idiot now, English?!
PS; I used the spell checker to make sure I didn't look like an idiot, and apparently Blogger's spell check doesn't have all the words in it. Suck it again, English.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Spastic Vanders
For some reason, my mood seems to reflect that of those to whom I'm speaking. If someone is sad, so too will I be, and if they're giggly... well, then I think I take it over the edge, but you get the idea, yes? I thought so.
Today, for instance, while I was sitting alone paying video games like the loser I know I am, I was neutral. Neither sad, or happy.
As soon as I logged on Skype and started talking to people, that shit changed. Drastically. Some of my online buddies, and fellow staff members, read the previous post and started giggling their asses off. (I suggest now they put out an ad in the paper for people to be on the lookout... if not to bring the asses back, to at least steer clear. Their shit is nasty.) So, of course, I started to laugh because they were laughing.
And now I can't shut up. I'm so loud my voice is echoing through my rather empty house. It's disturbing, and hurting my own ear drums, and severely impeding my progress on my game.
At this point it's probably best to stop talking to me and let me revert to my natural, neutral state, but that could take a while, and I get bored. Very easily.
So I had a giggle fit when I sneezed so loud, I startled my cat. Someone thought I died, it was so bad. But seriously, had you seen the expression on his face, you probably would have collapsed into laughter too. What's worse, everyone heard it because I was on fucking Skype and I couldn't breathe enough to turn my mic off. That shit is not fair.
They also coerced me into writing another survival guide. Two in fact. I think one of them is addicted to them, and I can't stop writing them because I'm a laugh whore, and when other person laughs, it makes me laugh. So sue me.
I'm eventually going to have to do a rant on my cat(s). I have five, but one specifically is mine. His name is Salem, but his nickname is Batcat. That will be explained. My ferrets too need a post. But for now, I think I'd better save this and get on with my day. It's almost bed time.
Today, for instance, while I was sitting alone paying video games like the loser I know I am, I was neutral. Neither sad, or happy.
As soon as I logged on Skype and started talking to people, that shit changed. Drastically. Some of my online buddies, and fellow staff members, read the previous post and started giggling their asses off. (I suggest now they put out an ad in the paper for people to be on the lookout... if not to bring the asses back, to at least steer clear. Their shit is nasty.) So, of course, I started to laugh because they were laughing.
And now I can't shut up. I'm so loud my voice is echoing through my rather empty house. It's disturbing, and hurting my own ear drums, and severely impeding my progress on my game.
At this point it's probably best to stop talking to me and let me revert to my natural, neutral state, but that could take a while, and I get bored. Very easily.
So I had a giggle fit when I sneezed so loud, I startled my cat. Someone thought I died, it was so bad. But seriously, had you seen the expression on his face, you probably would have collapsed into laughter too. What's worse, everyone heard it because I was on fucking Skype and I couldn't breathe enough to turn my mic off. That shit is not fair.
They also coerced me into writing another survival guide. Two in fact. I think one of them is addicted to them, and I can't stop writing them because I'm a laugh whore, and when other person laughs, it makes me laugh. So sue me.
I'm eventually going to have to do a rant on my cat(s). I have five, but one specifically is mine. His name is Salem, but his nickname is Batcat. That will be explained. My ferrets too need a post. But for now, I think I'd better save this and get on with my day. It's almost bed time.
Untapped Marketing Genius
I don't know where most people get their best thinking done, but my holy spot seems to be the porcelain throne. That's right, I'm a bathroom thinker. Don't dwell on that fact; it'll just break your brain, or give you an acute sense of jealousy/worry that the Porcelain Gods chose me to bequeath these abilities to.
It was proven, or perhaps just reinforced, this morning. I've been awake for all of 15 minutes, and the only reason I haven't posted sooner was because my computer takes so long to wake up and perform the actions I ask of it.
Most people tend to visit the porcelain throne as soon as they wake up, which is probably a good idea considering some of the other options, and I am no exception. In a drunken tired haze (I don't drink, but the way I act when I'm very tired might make one think otherwise), I stumbled inside to do my business. Which is none of your business, so if you were reading in hope to see me talk about taking my pants off, your hopes were in vain. I'm sorry. Anyways, while sitting there, looking around, bored, I happened to let my gaze fall upon a pair of my father's boxers.
Let's get one thing straight right here; I have no choice when inspiration strikes. I could be looking at a piece of dust, and suddenly I have a brilliant idea. Normally the vision of seeing a pair of my father's boxers on the bathroom floor would have me recoiling viciously, but instead, I was fixated upon the Fruit of the Loom label along the waistband.
These are the thoughts that immediately ran through my head...
Fruit of the Loom Specialty Wear!
Fruit of the Tomb; Super absorbent, anti-smelly underwear for the elderly! Or mummies.
Fruit of the Zoom; Aerodynamic underwear for the sprinter or stock car racer!
Fruit of the Womb; Diapers for that little bundle of joy you just can't allow to wear anything but the best.
Fruit of the Doom; The choice of underwear for terrorists everywhere! Or those people from the Doom video games; I'm sure they'd love to be able to use their underwear as a weapon.
WARNING: Highly explosive.
Fruit of the Room; Extra roomy underwear! Covers up that beer gut, or that leftover flap that was left by bearing your ungrateful children.
Fruit of the Platoon; Wear them - for Freedom! Ass kicking, long lasting, camo underwear for our troops.
Fruit of the Loom (no relation); For the stalker in all of us! Perfect for stealth missions where you loom over your stalkee's bed, silently mouthbreathing all over them.
Fruit of the Coon; Hunters everywhere will love these! Especially coon hunters! Comfortable and sporty, as well as sound resistent, perfect for sneaking up on unsuspecting animals you plan to maul and wear as a hat.
Fruit of the Dune; Breathable undies for dune surfing, or Egyptian residents that need a little more cool on their delicate behinds.
Fruit of the Boom; DUCK IN COVER! Explodable undies! Not reccomended for children.
Fruit of the Moon; Women everywhere will adore these... if they can get past their mood swings.
Fruit of the Moo; Cow print is so this season!
Fruit of the Fume; Malodourous? So are these! At least you won't ruin any good underwear.
Fruit of the Flume; Flame resistant underwear. Firefighters, fear not for your ass! We can't guarantee limbs, however.
Fruit of the Soon; You're pregnant; baby comes soon! If your water breaks, this will absorb it. Yay.
Fruit of the Goon; You're big. You're scary. You're not very bright. Neither are these! Perfect match!
Fruit of the Goom(ba); Feel like fucking Mario! No guarantee to conquer Bowser.
Fruit of the Broom; Either you're a maid, or the Magician's Apprentice's experiment gone wrong. Either way, these are the ginches for you!
I bet there are some companies out there wondering why this genius isn't theirs. Offer me the job; you won't be disappointed.
I swear, I'd have come up with more, but upon a second trip to the bathroom, the Porcelain Gods reclaimed their abilities to bestow another day... and I was distracted by a blue jay. Not the baseball team, I mean the ones with the really loud, obnoxious voices that make a mess of your bird feeders because they can't eat seeds like normal birds, they have to fling it everywhere to get at their favourites, which leaves your expensive bird seed little more than squirrel bait.
Fuck you, blue jays. And learn to sing; you're birds, you should not sound like a mouse getting stepped on.
It was proven, or perhaps just reinforced, this morning. I've been awake for all of 15 minutes, and the only reason I haven't posted sooner was because my computer takes so long to wake up and perform the actions I ask of it.
Most people tend to visit the porcelain throne as soon as they wake up, which is probably a good idea considering some of the other options, and I am no exception. In a drunken tired haze (I don't drink, but the way I act when I'm very tired might make one think otherwise), I stumbled inside to do my business. Which is none of your business, so if you were reading in hope to see me talk about taking my pants off, your hopes were in vain. I'm sorry. Anyways, while sitting there, looking around, bored, I happened to let my gaze fall upon a pair of my father's boxers.
Let's get one thing straight right here; I have no choice when inspiration strikes. I could be looking at a piece of dust, and suddenly I have a brilliant idea. Normally the vision of seeing a pair of my father's boxers on the bathroom floor would have me recoiling viciously, but instead, I was fixated upon the Fruit of the Loom label along the waistband.
These are the thoughts that immediately ran through my head...
Fruit of the Loom Specialty Wear!
Fruit of the Tomb; Super absorbent, anti-smelly underwear for the elderly! Or mummies.
Fruit of the Zoom; Aerodynamic underwear for the sprinter or stock car racer!
Fruit of the Womb; Diapers for that little bundle of joy you just can't allow to wear anything but the best.
Fruit of the Doom; The choice of underwear for terrorists everywhere! Or those people from the Doom video games; I'm sure they'd love to be able to use their underwear as a weapon.
WARNING: Highly explosive.
Fruit of the Room; Extra roomy underwear! Covers up that beer gut, or that leftover flap that was left by bearing your ungrateful children.
Fruit of the Platoon; Wear them - for Freedom! Ass kicking, long lasting, camo underwear for our troops.
Fruit of the Loom (no relation); For the stalker in all of us! Perfect for stealth missions where you loom over your stalkee's bed, silently mouthbreathing all over them.
Fruit of the Coon; Hunters everywhere will love these! Especially coon hunters! Comfortable and sporty, as well as sound resistent, perfect for sneaking up on unsuspecting animals you plan to maul and wear as a hat.
Fruit of the Dune; Breathable undies for dune surfing, or Egyptian residents that need a little more cool on their delicate behinds.
Fruit of the Boom; DUCK IN COVER! Explodable undies! Not reccomended for children.
Fruit of the Moon; Women everywhere will adore these... if they can get past their mood swings.
Fruit of the Moo; Cow print is so this season!
Fruit of the Fume; Malodourous? So are these! At least you won't ruin any good underwear.
Fruit of the Flume; Flame resistant underwear. Firefighters, fear not for your ass! We can't guarantee limbs, however.
Fruit of the Soon; You're pregnant; baby comes soon! If your water breaks, this will absorb it. Yay.
Fruit of the Goon; You're big. You're scary. You're not very bright. Neither are these! Perfect match!
Fruit of the Goom(ba); Feel like fucking Mario! No guarantee to conquer Bowser.
Fruit of the Broom; Either you're a maid, or the Magician's Apprentice's experiment gone wrong. Either way, these are the ginches for you!
I bet there are some companies out there wondering why this genius isn't theirs. Offer me the job; you won't be disappointed.
I swear, I'd have come up with more, but upon a second trip to the bathroom, the Porcelain Gods reclaimed their abilities to bestow another day... and I was distracted by a blue jay. Not the baseball team, I mean the ones with the really loud, obnoxious voices that make a mess of your bird feeders because they can't eat seeds like normal birds, they have to fling it everywhere to get at their favourites, which leaves your expensive bird seed little more than squirrel bait.
Fuck you, blue jays. And learn to sing; you're birds, you should not sound like a mouse getting stepped on.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Because You Can Never Offend Too Many People at Once...
So because I'm vagrantly low and hopefully also productive at the same time, I may advertise a site called Jaydis now and again. Jaydis is an RP site I'm staff of. Nothing to throw a fit over, but I started this last night when I was binging on Coke (the drink, not the illegal substance... what's wrong with you?), chocolate-lemon cake (which I made... it was awesome) and sleep deprivation.
Apparently, sleep deprivation leads to a lot of things. Bad things. Things you look at the next morning and think 'OH GOD, WHAT WAS I THINKING?!' You don't know. You don't remember things like that.
So once in a while I may post one of these randomly... or several. I have several lined up from earlier tonight. But I'm gonna post the two best. If you're curious, click the provided link and look up the characters. It will make total sense, I promise you.
Oh, and I swear. A lot. If this offends you, I'm sorry, but the filter doesn't work on my mouth when I'm drunk on tired.
The Arcaltris Portinari Survival Guide:
Step One; Meet Arcaltris. Not too hard, right?
Step Two; Be intimidated, but act as if you're not. If he doesn't see through your proverbial bullshit, proceed to step three. If he does, proceed to step seven.
Step Three; Feel confident. Start talking more. If he approves, proceed to step four. If he doesn't, proceed to step seven.
Step Four; Start getting bold. Ask questions instead of answering them. If you ask something inappropriate by accident, proceed to step eight.
Step Five; Find that you're starting to like Arcaltris. If you start asking more personal questions, hoping to get to know him better, go directly to step eight.
Step Six; See Arcaltris is growing bored. Try to get him engaged in the conversation again. Fail. Proceed to step seven.
Step Seven; Panic. You have two options; leave the conversation gracefully by lying your ass off, or start babbling. If you babble, proceed to step eight.
Step Eight; Fetal position. It never fails. He will see you're pathetic and leave and never bother you again. If you fail to take the warning and do step eight, proceed to step nine.
Step Nine; Piss Arcaltris off. Proceed to step ten.
Step Ten; Find Arcaltrs does not have a sense of humour. Proceed to step eleven.
Step Eleven; Attempt step 8 when he fixes his murderous glare on you. If you fail at step eight, proceed to step twelve.
Step Twelve; You're fucked. You should have tried step eight when you had the chance.
A Guide to Survive a Gabriel Ozera Encounter:
Step One;
Perform all following steps carefully. If you don't, you're fucked. You might be fucked either way, but there's a statsitically trackable difference, and a large increase in the percent likelihood that you will survive. If you choose to ignore this, proceed to step thirteen and be well.
Step Two;
Avoid if you can. I know trying to avoid Gabriel is like trying to avoid a cold when you have a really weak immune system, but you can always try, right? Boring dreams are a good repellant; keep your dreams boring, and you might avoid his attention. If you're not this lucky... well, you're not a very lucky person, are you?
Step Three;
Encounter. Yes, you were the unlucky one, and now you have to deal with the shitty stick life presented you with. You didn't get the shit end; the whole thing is coated in excrement, to the point where you can't even use it as a fucking defense weapon because it's shitty. Literally as well as figuratively. Proceed from here with caution; you don't have a defense, so you're vulnerable.
Step Four;
WARNING: Do not fall for his seemingly angelic appearance! This is a death trap, and 99% of people fall for it! Be smart and don't fall for it! LIVE! Gabriel is like a dark chocolate cake coated in vanilla icing; his surface is lovely and delicious looking, inside is a bitter concoction of whore and devilish mischief that will assail you much like dark chocolate lays siege to your taste buds with a neverending wave of bitterness. If you'rea woman you're twice as likely to fall for the vanilla outside, and he will change his outer appearance to suck you in. He is a vanilla-coated-dark-chocolate-venus-flytrap-like-contraption that will ensnare and destroy you. Do you get the point now? I hope so. 'Cause that was a delicious metaphor, even if it did end in a really fugly plant. The icing covers that up, did you know that? Be damned if I did.
Step Five;
Way to go; you fell for it. You were lured in by the vanilla frosting. I know it's damned delicious, but seriously, did you have to? Even after all that warning? Never trust anyone who's eyes change colour as often as Skittles do as you take them one by one out of a bag. First blue, then green, then red, then yellow? And then randomly some off shade you don't have a name for? HOW DID YOU LIVE THIS LONG?! Regardless, you're in for it now. You may as well proceed to step thirteen, but I suppose we can go through some of the ways you might pry yourself from this horrible, self-imposed sentence in purgatory. I did warn you.
Step Six;
Try to outwit him. Fail. Face it, with your measely eighteen to 35 years of life under your belt vs. his 800 plus, you don't stand a fucking chance in hell. Revert to step eight if you must. It might amuse him a little.
Step Seven;
Bargain. You don't have much he wants; he's immortal, and is loaded. About the only thing you could offer him that he doesn't have is you, and if you'd rather avoid that situation, bargain your ass off, then offer him your ass. This will likely fail as well; again, revert to step eight.
Step Eight;
Fetal position.
Step Nine;
More fetal position, if he hasn't disturbed your silent descent into madness and denial and hope he's now amused enough to leave you alone.
Step Ten;
Be wrong. Fall to his Dream Walker abilities. Proceed to be mind raped. This will likely be followed by actual rape; he's full of whore, remember, and won't be satisfied until every part of you is sullied in some way.
Step Eleven;
Be right. Have a mandatory sex session (rape for you people who can't be bothered to find out what this means). Do not enjoy it. Or enjoy it; it's up to you, but I wouldn't reccomend enjoying it, 'cause he'll come back to haunt you. Repeatedly. Your sanity will suffer more than it has to.
Step Twelve;
Pray he'll go away. Be wrong. Get toyed with more in dream land. Maybe have another mandatory sex session. Who knows? Gabriel likes shit like that. Bribe him with alcohol if you have it handy. It might distract him long enough to make a shameful, but at least alive and slightly still sane escape.
Step Thirteen;
Scarred for life, you're now fucked. In many ways, likely several times. I did warn you, ya know. Why didn't you believe me? Nobody believes the people who turn out to be right. But anyways. Enjoy your scarred, traumatised life. You earned it.
Step Fourteen;
Move far, far, far away. Or kill yourself. But suicide is the pussy way out. Try to live a normal life again. Pray Gabriel never finds you again.
Step Fifteen;
In the most unfortunate of circumstance, he finds you again; repeat steps three through fourteen until you die, or he gets bored, or you manage to get away. Don't count on the third option.
Apparently I'm a little obsessed with the fetal position... but it does accomplish quite a bit. I'll get around to posting something about myself when I have the ability to think beyond 4 seconds into the future, and 30 seconds into the past. My coordination is also failing; being up for 30 hours does that to someone.
Apparently, sleep deprivation leads to a lot of things. Bad things. Things you look at the next morning and think 'OH GOD, WHAT WAS I THINKING?!' You don't know. You don't remember things like that.
So once in a while I may post one of these randomly... or several. I have several lined up from earlier tonight. But I'm gonna post the two best. If you're curious, click the provided link and look up the characters. It will make total sense, I promise you.
Oh, and I swear. A lot. If this offends you, I'm sorry, but the filter doesn't work on my mouth when I'm drunk on tired.
The Arcaltris Portinari Survival Guide:
Step One; Meet Arcaltris. Not too hard, right?
Step Two; Be intimidated, but act as if you're not. If he doesn't see through your proverbial bullshit, proceed to step three. If he does, proceed to step seven.
Step Three; Feel confident. Start talking more. If he approves, proceed to step four. If he doesn't, proceed to step seven.
Step Four; Start getting bold. Ask questions instead of answering them. If you ask something inappropriate by accident, proceed to step eight.
Step Five; Find that you're starting to like Arcaltris. If you start asking more personal questions, hoping to get to know him better, go directly to step eight.
Step Six; See Arcaltris is growing bored. Try to get him engaged in the conversation again. Fail. Proceed to step seven.
Step Seven; Panic. You have two options; leave the conversation gracefully by lying your ass off, or start babbling. If you babble, proceed to step eight.
Step Eight; Fetal position. It never fails. He will see you're pathetic and leave and never bother you again. If you fail to take the warning and do step eight, proceed to step nine.
Step Nine; Piss Arcaltris off. Proceed to step ten.
Step Ten; Find Arcaltrs does not have a sense of humour. Proceed to step eleven.
Step Eleven; Attempt step 8 when he fixes his murderous glare on you. If you fail at step eight, proceed to step twelve.
Step Twelve; You're fucked. You should have tried step eight when you had the chance.
A Guide to Survive a Gabriel Ozera Encounter:
Step One;
Perform all following steps carefully. If you don't, you're fucked. You might be fucked either way, but there's a statsitically trackable difference, and a large increase in the percent likelihood that you will survive. If you choose to ignore this, proceed to step thirteen and be well.
Step Two;
Avoid if you can. I know trying to avoid Gabriel is like trying to avoid a cold when you have a really weak immune system, but you can always try, right? Boring dreams are a good repellant; keep your dreams boring, and you might avoid his attention. If you're not this lucky... well, you're not a very lucky person, are you?
Step Three;
Encounter. Yes, you were the unlucky one, and now you have to deal with the shitty stick life presented you with. You didn't get the shit end; the whole thing is coated in excrement, to the point where you can't even use it as a fucking defense weapon because it's shitty. Literally as well as figuratively. Proceed from here with caution; you don't have a defense, so you're vulnerable.
Step Four;
WARNING: Do not fall for his seemingly angelic appearance! This is a death trap, and 99% of people fall for it! Be smart and don't fall for it! LIVE! Gabriel is like a dark chocolate cake coated in vanilla icing; his surface is lovely and delicious looking, inside is a bitter concoction of whore and devilish mischief that will assail you much like dark chocolate lays siege to your taste buds with a neverending wave of bitterness. If you'rea woman you're twice as likely to fall for the vanilla outside, and he will change his outer appearance to suck you in. He is a vanilla-coated-dark-chocolate-venus-flytrap-like-contraption that will ensnare and destroy you. Do you get the point now? I hope so. 'Cause that was a delicious metaphor, even if it did end in a really fugly plant. The icing covers that up, did you know that? Be damned if I did.
Step Five;
Way to go; you fell for it. You were lured in by the vanilla frosting. I know it's damned delicious, but seriously, did you have to? Even after all that warning? Never trust anyone who's eyes change colour as often as Skittles do as you take them one by one out of a bag. First blue, then green, then red, then yellow? And then randomly some off shade you don't have a name for? HOW DID YOU LIVE THIS LONG?! Regardless, you're in for it now. You may as well proceed to step thirteen, but I suppose we can go through some of the ways you might pry yourself from this horrible, self-imposed sentence in purgatory. I did warn you.
Step Six;
Try to outwit him. Fail. Face it, with your measely eighteen to 35 years of life under your belt vs. his 800 plus, you don't stand a fucking chance in hell. Revert to step eight if you must. It might amuse him a little.
Step Seven;
Bargain. You don't have much he wants; he's immortal, and is loaded. About the only thing you could offer him that he doesn't have is you, and if you'd rather avoid that situation, bargain your ass off, then offer him your ass. This will likely fail as well; again, revert to step eight.
Step Eight;
Fetal position.
Step Nine;
More fetal position, if he hasn't disturbed your silent descent into madness and denial and hope he's now amused enough to leave you alone.
Step Ten;
Be wrong. Fall to his Dream Walker abilities. Proceed to be mind raped. This will likely be followed by actual rape; he's full of whore, remember, and won't be satisfied until every part of you is sullied in some way.
Step Eleven;
Be right. Have a mandatory sex session (rape for you people who can't be bothered to find out what this means). Do not enjoy it. Or enjoy it; it's up to you, but I wouldn't reccomend enjoying it, 'cause he'll come back to haunt you. Repeatedly. Your sanity will suffer more than it has to.
Step Twelve;
Pray he'll go away. Be wrong. Get toyed with more in dream land. Maybe have another mandatory sex session. Who knows? Gabriel likes shit like that. Bribe him with alcohol if you have it handy. It might distract him long enough to make a shameful, but at least alive and slightly still sane escape.
Step Thirteen;
Scarred for life, you're now fucked. In many ways, likely several times. I did warn you, ya know. Why didn't you believe me? Nobody believes the people who turn out to be right. But anyways. Enjoy your scarred, traumatised life. You earned it.
Step Fourteen;
Move far, far, far away. Or kill yourself. But suicide is the pussy way out. Try to live a normal life again. Pray Gabriel never finds you again.
Step Fifteen;
In the most unfortunate of circumstance, he finds you again; repeat steps three through fourteen until you die, or he gets bored, or you manage to get away. Don't count on the third option.
Apparently I'm a little obsessed with the fetal position... but it does accomplish quite a bit. I'll get around to posting something about myself when I have the ability to think beyond 4 seconds into the future, and 30 seconds into the past. My coordination is also failing; being up for 30 hours does that to someone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)