I'm horrible at coming up with interesting things to write about, as now DT is on a rampage (a very apropos description, considering his next scheduled post) and I'm left thinking about whether I should buy a new game and critique it or if I should go with one of the aforementioned virgin topics. I am also incredibly tired, on account of 6 days of class in a row, 8 hours apiece. Unfortunately, this 6 day stretch that just passed is merely the halfway mark, and I have another 6 more days starting at 5pm. Bah.
So anyways, as I'm coding, Mizura signs on AIM and informs me that she is available to talk, since we haven't in awhile. We touch upon all sorts of things, from my closet romanticism to her sudden and determined perpetual single status. Talked about our winter breaks, and possibly that new Sherlock Holmes movie. MMORPGs, Dragon Age (hah.) and how cold it is in our respective homes. And then, at about 5am here, as I am fighting double vision, and trying to locate a memory leak and dynamically allocated memory issues, she asks me the question: "What is your definition of love?" Women seem to do that a lot. Like they know when they can get you to say something stupid, and they strike with precision and crippling alacrity, ready to log something away in the little black book.
Ugh. No way I can answer that in this state. I told her that I was off to collect my thoughts and whatever marbles I had not yet lost, and bid her a goodnight, taking a raincheck on her question.
And now, I have to decide whether to drop money for a video game or not. Damn it.
I'm also hungry. And very sleepy.
06 December 2009
03 October 2009
"Mortui vivos docent."
I realised that I had failed to hit her across the head hard enough when she started stirring even as I gripped the shovel. I had meant for her to have a peaceful, uninterrupted journey on her way to Styx, but the woman was always so damn stubborn. Her eyes were unfocused however; I had precious few moments to spare, lest the situation become even more untenable.
The moist earth made soft spattering sounds against her jeans not unlike the first heavy drops of rain. Her eyes began to lose that glaze as she started grasping her situation. I could see the neurons firing and the thought processes connecting. I gave up trying to do this shovel by shovel, and started scraping the dirt in; I didn't want to have to hit her in the head again. Murder is so ungraceful.
There is terror in her eyes, but I am doing the best that I can to help her alleviate those fears. No, I am giving her the best gift of all: total transcendence.
She will no longer fear.
She will no longer want.
She will no longer feel.
She will thank me.
The moist earth made soft spattering sounds against her jeans not unlike the first heavy drops of rain. Her eyes began to lose that glaze as she started grasping her situation. I could see the neurons firing and the thought processes connecting. I gave up trying to do this shovel by shovel, and started scraping the dirt in; I didn't want to have to hit her in the head again. Murder is so ungraceful.
There is terror in her eyes, but I am doing the best that I can to help her alleviate those fears. No, I am giving her the best gift of all: total transcendence.
She will no longer fear.
She will no longer want.
She will no longer feel.
She will thank me.
08 July 2009
05 July 2009
Mannequins. (Part 2?)
Damn mannequins.
I sit in bed, back up against the headboard, for awhile, as the nightmare's tendrils slowly loosens its grasp on my waking mind. The cold steel in my hands is heavy and slicked with sweat from my palm, and my finger twitches on the trigger. I set it down on the nightstand, reluctantly, as hissing sprinklers from outside my window still brought with it fresh memories of eternally animated polyethylene.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hands searching for the light switch. I finger the stunted plastic nub upwards, and am rewarded with silence and darkness. Flipping it down and then up again, a yellow bulb flickers solitary, and then stays lit, accompanied by a steady drone. My eyes adjust uncertainly, and I reach out for the small, cracked sink, steadying myself against a sudden wave of nausea. From the other room, I hear another quick series of clacks as the hissing stops and the sprinklers recede into their holes. Eyes properly adjusted, I wrestle with the rusty faucet for bit, and a steady trickle of water emerges. The wave of nausea passes as I cup my hands and gather some water, splashing my face with it. I look up into the broken mirror and an unfamiliar face stares back at me. A haggard man in an amber room. His matted dark hair accentuates his pale grey eyes. Our eyes are locked to each other. He looks like he's been in a fight, a nasty one. It's left him with a still fresh scar across his right cheek, and a blackened right eye to go with it. Another wave of nausea hits me, one I cannot quell, and I dry heave into the basin. Something warm trickles down my jaw, and I know what it is before I even look back up at my doppelganger. The scar is open again, and I wash it off, dabbing at it with a dirty towel. The medicine cabinet is stocked with a half empty bottle of cheap vodka, some gauze and some adhesive bandages. Cheap vodka on what's left of the gauze and a couple adhesive bandages to hold it all together. The makeshift dressing stings as I gently apply it to the scar. My hand comes away slowly testing the integrity of the dressing, before I leave it as is.
Only as I leave the dingy bathroom do I realise how sore and bruised I feel. How sore and bruised I am. My whole body protests as I stretch back out on the bed, eyes to the cracked paint on the ceiling. I wonder about her. About how she's doing, and if she's enjoying herself. I push her out of my mind reluctantly, hesitant to let go of her intoxicating aura. I wonder about what I'm to do next, and where I need to go. There are things that need to be done, things that require a specific sort of attention.
I sit up too fast, and my body screams at me, tired muscles craving attention. I glance around, seeking my coat. I spy it, draped over framework of a chair with no seat. I toss it on, and even as my hand passes through the sleeve, it reaches for the inside pocket. The coat pocket holds a crumpled pack of cigarettes stained with someone's blood, perhaps mine. I contemplate taking just one, but instead bring the pack with me to the door. It sticks a little but with a bit of effort, much to my body's chagrin, I get it open, and the sunlight once again assaults me.
I lean back on the door frame, putting a cigarette to my lips. Patting the coat, I find my lighter. It's a beat up thing, it used to be shiny and new. It was a gift from her; she was always one to give out thoughtful gifts, things that were useful. The coat was her idea, too. The lighter still works, but the chrome finish has long begun flaking off, exposing the shoddy imposter for what it is. It worked, and that's what mattered. It never failed me, and it served double duty as a memento of better times. I struck the flint a couple of times before it gave me good light. I took a long drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke course with my respiration. It took some of the pain away, some of the soreness. I closed my eyes and let it out, a steady flow.
I sit in bed, back up against the headboard, for awhile, as the nightmare's tendrils slowly loosens its grasp on my waking mind. The cold steel in my hands is heavy and slicked with sweat from my palm, and my finger twitches on the trigger. I set it down on the nightstand, reluctantly, as hissing sprinklers from outside my window still brought with it fresh memories of eternally animated polyethylene.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hands searching for the light switch. I finger the stunted plastic nub upwards, and am rewarded with silence and darkness. Flipping it down and then up again, a yellow bulb flickers solitary, and then stays lit, accompanied by a steady drone. My eyes adjust uncertainly, and I reach out for the small, cracked sink, steadying myself against a sudden wave of nausea. From the other room, I hear another quick series of clacks as the hissing stops and the sprinklers recede into their holes. Eyes properly adjusted, I wrestle with the rusty faucet for bit, and a steady trickle of water emerges. The wave of nausea passes as I cup my hands and gather some water, splashing my face with it. I look up into the broken mirror and an unfamiliar face stares back at me. A haggard man in an amber room. His matted dark hair accentuates his pale grey eyes. Our eyes are locked to each other. He looks like he's been in a fight, a nasty one. It's left him with a still fresh scar across his right cheek, and a blackened right eye to go with it. Another wave of nausea hits me, one I cannot quell, and I dry heave into the basin. Something warm trickles down my jaw, and I know what it is before I even look back up at my doppelganger. The scar is open again, and I wash it off, dabbing at it with a dirty towel. The medicine cabinet is stocked with a half empty bottle of cheap vodka, some gauze and some adhesive bandages. Cheap vodka on what's left of the gauze and a couple adhesive bandages to hold it all together. The makeshift dressing stings as I gently apply it to the scar. My hand comes away slowly testing the integrity of the dressing, before I leave it as is.
Only as I leave the dingy bathroom do I realise how sore and bruised I feel. How sore and bruised I am. My whole body protests as I stretch back out on the bed, eyes to the cracked paint on the ceiling. I wonder about her. About how she's doing, and if she's enjoying herself. I push her out of my mind reluctantly, hesitant to let go of her intoxicating aura. I wonder about what I'm to do next, and where I need to go. There are things that need to be done, things that require a specific sort of attention.
I sit up too fast, and my body screams at me, tired muscles craving attention. I glance around, seeking my coat. I spy it, draped over framework of a chair with no seat. I toss it on, and even as my hand passes through the sleeve, it reaches for the inside pocket. The coat pocket holds a crumpled pack of cigarettes stained with someone's blood, perhaps mine. I contemplate taking just one, but instead bring the pack with me to the door. It sticks a little but with a bit of effort, much to my body's chagrin, I get it open, and the sunlight once again assaults me.
I lean back on the door frame, putting a cigarette to my lips. Patting the coat, I find my lighter. It's a beat up thing, it used to be shiny and new. It was a gift from her; she was always one to give out thoughtful gifts, things that were useful. The coat was her idea, too. The lighter still works, but the chrome finish has long begun flaking off, exposing the shoddy imposter for what it is. It worked, and that's what mattered. It never failed me, and it served double duty as a memento of better times. I struck the flint a couple of times before it gave me good light. I took a long drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke course with my respiration. It took some of the pain away, some of the soreness. I closed my eyes and let it out, a steady flow.
14 April 2009
Mannequins.
The faceless horde approaches. The light clack of plastic to concrete resonates across the empty street as they shuffle closer like a ragtag marching band to a metronome beat, slightly out of sync, but ever so slightly. Two of them seem to be in the lead, as if they smelled prey and wanted first blood.
Clack.
There is nowhere to run, only one option left. Peripheral vision tells me there is a car about four feet to my right, and some lone trashcans some distance to my left. Cul-de-sac, some room to maneuver, but there is nowhere to run. Nowhere. Run.
Clack.
The grip of my Colt is slick with sweat, warm. It is comfortable. There is no hesitation as I put four rounds into one of the lead mannequins. Polyethylene shards fragment into the shuffling masses behind it, deterring them little. Holes in its chest, quarter of it's head gone, the lead loses no speed, pacing with its partner, now closing seemingly faster.
Clack.
They are five feet away, fanning out, arcing the front line to trap me. I break for the car, clambering on top of it. I fire again, emptying the clip between the damaged one and a few others. There is no stopping them. The hissing grows, like white noise.
Clack.
They have no weak spot, no flaw to their evenly dense enamel. The hissing grows louder, unbearable.
Clack.
Two feet away, arms reaching.
Clack.
Clack clack!
Hiss.
The sprinklers pop up, spraying water into the flowerbed near my window, as rude of an awakening as ever.
I jolt, sitting up straight, reaching for the gun under my pillow as my other hand shields my eyes from the morning glare.
Damn mannequins.
Clack.
There is nowhere to run, only one option left. Peripheral vision tells me there is a car about four feet to my right, and some lone trashcans some distance to my left. Cul-de-sac, some room to maneuver, but there is nowhere to run. Nowhere. Run.
Clack.
The grip of my Colt is slick with sweat, warm. It is comfortable. There is no hesitation as I put four rounds into one of the lead mannequins. Polyethylene shards fragment into the shuffling masses behind it, deterring them little. Holes in its chest, quarter of it's head gone, the lead loses no speed, pacing with its partner, now closing seemingly faster.
Clack.
They are five feet away, fanning out, arcing the front line to trap me. I break for the car, clambering on top of it. I fire again, emptying the clip between the damaged one and a few others. There is no stopping them. The hissing grows, like white noise.
Clack.
They have no weak spot, no flaw to their evenly dense enamel. The hissing grows louder, unbearable.
Clack.
Two feet away, arms reaching.
Clack.
Clack clack!
Hiss.
The sprinklers pop up, spraying water into the flowerbed near my window, as rude of an awakening as ever.
I jolt, sitting up straight, reaching for the gun under my pillow as my other hand shields my eyes from the morning glare.
Damn mannequins.
27 February 2009
crunchy peanut butter.
you don't know what you're missing until it's gone. i always seem to forget that my pantry lacks this one basic commodity. peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, although with the penultimate strawberry jam, does not sate the craving if it's creamy peanut butter. it just doesn't taste right.
savor the extra crunchy while it lasts.
savor the extra crunchy while it lasts.
03 January 2009
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