Thursday, November 24, 2016

He Soldiered On

He had Writer's Block (he labeled himself a writer selfishly), the Block of the Dark Times, the Enemy of the Morning Pages, the giant tumor in the back of his creative mind, omnipresent in the middle of any attempt of expressive thought.

He felt like writing in third person helped the ideas come, and would possibly chip away at that giant boulder maniacally laughing in his presence. Nothing felt better to The Elephant in the Room Called your Brain then the white void of the page staying blank, the pen without a strong manual grip. The keyboard collecting dust, aside from the fapping times of course.

Maybe writing like this did help. It sure didn't feel like it however.

And still he forced himself to type, type, type, and write whatever garbage the Fuck You Rock would allow past it's constipating blockade, or whatever he could sneak past it. He soldiered on in this great war.

And then he had the thought: soldiered on... Everyone seemed to be using this cliche through times of personal struggle, grief, or hardship. But this personal hardship also flew across the contrast of an air-conditioned Starbucks and an audible slurp of a Venti Mocha. He raised his arms from the laptop and stretched his neck. Life surely was a mortal struggle in this situation. But what of those who were actual soldiers? Warriors? Fighters on the verge of death, the dance on the fine wire between success and utter failure. Let's just say one loss was not acceptable. Not just any regular season games, these battles.

He imagined not just the soldiers playing cards somewhere in Okinawa in the present day, not just those on the beach of Normandy (he thought of that time he watched Saving Private Ryan and all the gore), but those men long, long ago. What could "soldier on" have meant to those Vikings defying the cruel Sea Gods, Germanic barbarians invading the Roman Empire, Mongol raiders crossing the Dothraki Sea, and so on. The blood, the smell of death and post-death shit, the tears, and the animal war cries long forgotten to history. Good thing he hadn't eaten that cannabis brownie before typing or he might have had a panic attack then and there.

What caused these men to soldier on? The promise of a god? Of gods? Of men who pretended they were gods? What enabled these ancestors to keep on living, fighting, and travelling without frequent flyer miles? Friends being mutilated in front of their eyes, their cities being decimated, their crops turning to ash. Their courage, stupidity, or both must have been the reason, he thought finally. The courage to tackle an obstacle no matter the cost, despite the fear, yeah, that must have been it.

So too he vowed to chip away at Boulder-Oni until his creativity and hackiness flowed through like a river, and not the municipal bullshit like the kind you see on "Naturally Sourced" water bottles. The organic, free-range kind of river. Yeah, something like that. He vowed to keep launching bombs at the Block like it was fucking Normandy. He would soldier on, doing anything to defeat it no matter the cost.

...Well, as long as that didn't involve him engaging in actual warfare, risking his life, or even giving up Starbucks. Fuck that. He was glad to be alive in such a time. He then checked his phone for the next ten minutes and fantasized sexually about the cute blonde barista.

Happy Thanksgiving. Remember to be grateful, and hug and kiss your loved ones.

-Sean




Sunday, November 13, 2016

Would It be So Wrong?

Would it be so wrong if I loved you for who you are, for all your faults, your misgivings, your gas?

Would it be so wrong if you loved me for being myself, not for being someone you wanted to be.

Most people say they love someone, nah, screw all that, they love that person for the ideal image they have in their head, and then they encapsulate that idea in a perfect mental statue of pristine heavenlyness, and never let go. Would it be so wrong to be so narcissistic?

Would it be so wrong if I gave that homeless guy 5 bucks "to catch the bus" I mean to crowdfund his meth addiction?

Probably.

Would it be so wrong if I watched porn and decided to spare you the details?

Would it be so wrong if I reserved paragraphs for single sentences or phrases?

Would it be so wrong if they reserved a six-person table for a party of two during dinner rush? And I'm talking about the party of two that offers a coffee, a hummus, asks for the wiki password, then sets up camp for two and a half hours. That would be okay right?

Would it be so wrong if I only typed in a free-flowing mess (morning pages I'm told), used run on sentences (look it up on Wikipedia), tons of parentheses to get my long-winded approach across, because I felt it necessary and speaking of which would it be so wrong to ignore punctuation and sepllnig in the name of creativity bruh I mean how long do we have to accept the tyranny of things that the Modern Language Association deems appropriate, btw fuck your margins, and fuck your anal citation rules.

And would it be so wrong if I recited this at your local poetry night, preferably in a rhythmic pace with a deep voice, at a hipster coffee shop?

Actually, yeah, that would be totally wrong. Fucking confirmed.

Would it be so wrong for a megalomaniac to post these indulgent thoughts to the net?

I suppose.

Sunday, November 6, 2016

Let's. Break. It. Down. White Boy Style


Everyone loves music right? Even when the term "music" is loosely defined. Oh what the fuck. I digress.

Listening to:

Let's tackle this like Ray Lewis shall we? Artistic critcism is important to culture and all that jazz, or at least that's what the critics would have you believe. So LEY GO, when it comes to 'dis BLOG, to quote Yo Gotti in the beginning of this song, "we can do this shit ALL NIGHT." I mean, I personally can't do this all night or my girlfriend is liable to kill me, but then the next line from Yo Gotti's cohort "BAD BITCH IN THE CLUB" seems appropriate. I think it's modern romanticism really, and after calling her a "bad bitch", that allows me to, again, "do this shit all night," since I'll be banished to the keyboard and fapping, rather than getting laid in my own bedroom.

But I digress (drink every time I type this), let's BREAK IT DOWN.

Apparently Yo Gotti's "friend" French Montana (I'm speechless really) seems to think that whoever this "bad bitch" is that is currently at that same nightclub, her significant other does not deserve her. in fact he feels so emphatic about this point, he drives it home by rhythmically repeating "FUCK NIGGA DON'T DESERVE YOU" three times, followed by "GO 'N SHOW HIM WHAT THE CURB DO."

Obviously their solution to her problem of having a subhuman boyfriend is simple, They both begin to repeat "FUCK WITH ME GIRL YOU KNOW I GOT YOU" (or is it "u"?)

The evolution of English is a curious thing. We've gone from:

"If you date me you won't regret it, I'll provide security and excitement in your life"

to:

"FUCK WITH ME GIRL YOU KNOW I GOT U"

I mean as long as the message gets across I guess I'm okay with it. but I'm getting a little ahead of myself, let's back it up BITCH.

"GO 'N SHOW HIM WHAT THE CURB DO"

Had this guy taken the same puritanical English grammar course that I did in the eighth grade, he would have been burned at the stake for such a sentence, even though personally I find it quite entertaining. I too would like to randomly shout at people in a crowded nightclub and show them "what the curb do".

Let's BREAK. IT. DOWN. (white boy style)

First off, when did "Please proceed with..." turn into "GO 'N"? I mean, I'm not complaining. What kind of moron needs all those extra syllables, words, and run-on sentences to get a point across?... Don't answer that please.

Next, "WHAT THE CURB DO." I could write a 10-page essay focusing on this goldmine of a phrase, but I'm lazy and I'd like to keep posts under 1,000 words if possible. I always thought that the cliche read "kick him to the curb", thus "curb" is an object of a preposition, not a subject capable of taking the intransitive verb "does"... er I mean... "DO"...

Okay, my brain hurts too much. Need to smoke that now-legal grass. BTW If you think I'm "hatin" on the poet-laureate, I actually love this stuff. At least it provides plenty of entertainment and gives me something to write about. I leave you with this brilliant poetry by Yo Gotti (found in the attached song):

"Most of these niggas in the friend zone,
TOUCHDOWN, I be in the end zone!" 

Yelp Help Whelp

He shot them a wry smile, and they smiled back. The utensils were stacked neatly on the patio table, the conversation winding down, the sun already finished its descent, the food consumed... well most of it, save the neat two-inch slice of a homemade lasagna. Mayhaps the size of a golf ball remained.

"Can I grab you a to-go box?" The waiter asked.

"Sure." The fair-skinned lady replied, albeit with slightly shifting eyes.

"No problem! I'll be right back with-"

"Yeah, she didn't really like it," her short-haired friend interjected with a mousy voice that reeked of the latest SJW video on the front page of Youtube. He chuckled out of automatic behavior, a nod to the obvious, if not blatant sarcasm.

"No, actually she really didn't like it, right?" Clearly the one who "really didn't like it" wasn't being very vocal about the issue. Last time I checked, thought the waiter/server/insert gender neutral horseshit here, people in Western countries who don't like the food at a restaurant tend not to finish 95% of the god-damn plate.

"Oh, really?" He said with fake intrigue.

"Yeah, well, she's a Yelper, can't you do anything about it?" The question was asked in high-pitch, waffling between concern and a Mafioso-style threat. Oh, the consequences that faced the restaurant should they receive a horrific 140-characters-or-less review... he had to take immediate action.

Somehow the food critic had found her voice, "Yeah, it was kinda bland, have you tried it?"

It was the most popular weekly special of the restaurant. Inside the manager was currently on break devouring said blandness.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" He asked with the fakest shit-eating smile. A full refund? A gift certificate for the entire family? A foot massage with essential oils and shit? The rolling of the red carpet with a royal announcement the next time Her Grace treated us with her presence again? Or maybe just an upvote on her next Reddit post or like on her next Instagram photo.

"No, that's okkaaaaayyyyy," awkwardly forced.

"Ah yes, a box then." He couldn't wait to take a break himself and check the score of the Lakers game.

At that moment, somewhere in a war-torn country in Africa, a mother was crying; her malnourished infant in her weathered arms.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

The Pull of the Glow

The glowing of the blue, the blue of the glow, I stare into the screen, it stares into my soul.... errrrr... some terrible half baked poetry I once thought of after smoking way too much grass, at least more marijuana than I'm currently used to consuming illicitly.

Every day and every night, it's the same song and dance: Turn on the phone and check for notifications. Click the youtube shortcut button on my laptop, check my subscriptions. None of my subscriptions posted anything new? *Sigh and scroll down* oh look hilarious Hillary Clinton vs Trump videos, guess I'll check that out. Warriors at Lakers highlights omg Larry Nance Jr. posterized the SHIT OUTTA David West tho, Game of Thrones compilation vids... hey, wHere the fuck did the time go?

Where indeed did the fucking time go? This "blog" (barf) is quite the neon flashing WARNING sign of that. I just kinda assumed that it would write itself apparently, seven years won't go by just like that, will they? Oh wait apparently they will, fuck.

Eckhart Tolle, the Buddha, and the one homeless dude on your corner who kinda smells like six-day old unrefridgerated chicken soup, all these homies have talked about staying in the all-too mysterious present, that the fantasies of your undefined future, and the regrets and dreams long gone from your past, all of these are just your mind in the present, playing its little youtube movie on the screen of your awareness. Nothing really matters except the feelings, the actions, the mindset you find yourself in during this very moment, and what you do with your time and energy to make the most out of this moment, or something??? I dunno, I failed New Age SECRET of Making Money Marketing courses.

And with that said, since you somehow stumbled upon this graveyard of a necro'd blog, you really should go back to your PRESENT, the reason you started staring into your glowing screen in the first place tonight, and get back to fapping.

Where the fuck is my book deal?

I'll be here all week.

-Sean

Friday, October 16, 2009

Shattered Dreams and Other Finishing Moves

"The dream is dead."
-Onslaught

So in yet another attempt to make my life more interesting than a church pew, I've decided to tackle lucid dreaming. If your real experiences blow, just try to control your dreams! Obviously my priorities are well in order.

Anycase, the end result of this previous night's (morning's?) attempt at lucid dreaming was this:

I am lying in bed, staring at my alarm clock. It reads 11:22AM, which means I am going to be late for my shift at the Islands gulag. I struggle to emerge from bed, rush to get everything ready, head downstairs...

...and then I awoke. 8:30AM

...

In addition to that Final Fantasy-esque plot of a dream, I logged into my blogspot account for the first time in months. As such, I consider myself to still be in a dream-state.

What a nightmare.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

"It is better to shoot for the stars and land in the mud, then it is to shoot for the mud and make it."
-Doctor Paul, PhD

A lesson in basic sociolinguistics (for those who care/are dumb enough):

Language, like the art of playing in raw muddy sewage, is constantly evolving. It just seems to keep getting dirtier and dirtier. Four letter words are being used a shit-ton especially by the younger fucking population. Some have alluded to the prevalence of Internet parlance and gangsta' rap to be the "dumbing down of our language". Usually said "some" have never taken a linguistics class but apparently know and preach more about the subject then I do. It's okay smart ass, good luck getting home tonight after your tires have been slashed. Mama didn't raise no fuck.

Fortunately, alternatives to the boring occasional "fuck" or "cunt" exist. There is a wave of slang rising in the Southern California area. It may just be a kiddie-pool wave now, but given the power of Internet/facebook whoring expect a Tsunami of Team Torrance jargon to own your souls in the near future. Our influence on the lexicon will put even Apple's proprietary powers to shame. This is no idle threat: already our facebook friends are feeling the onslaught on their frontal lobes.

Textbook, no wait, Bible example:

bloon [blun]

-verb (intransitive)
1. to heavily procrastinate by means of technology: Vuk blooned for so long on Crysis settings that he forgot about his appointment with Mike.
2. to achieve a vegetative state in a dim room, often while accompanied by music and laptops. Instead of going to class today, this entire afternoon seems like a most excellent time to bloon, what say you?

Origin:
2008; Long Beach, CA

Related Forms:
blooned, adjective
blooner, noun


And now for a brief history: a good friend of mine, Chris, discovered a very interesting Internet flash game and brought it to our humble abode ("abode" meaning cave of video gaming and other such foolishness) in the later quarter of 2008. That game, as it will be forever honored in the archives of nerd history, is Bloons Tower Defense 3.



http://www.ninjakiwi.com/Games/Tower-Defense/Bloons-Tower-Defense-3.html

Don't visit if you have anything pressing in the next couple hours, or days. I'm not liable.

It certainly isn't the best game ever made, nor the flashiest. And once you figure it out it's definitely not the hardest. But BTD3's relatively simple design, hilarious sound effects, and use of MONKEYS for fuck's sake caused a minor pandemic of procrastination amongst my circle of friends. The ability to waste literally countless hours watching monkeys chuck darts at balloons-er I mean BLOONS is amazing and would impress even a stoner like Snoop. Chris started the procrastination on his little macbook and soon every retard was following suit with ice balls, cannons, and super monkeys. No that is not a joke. It got to the point where we were discussing pros/cons of monkey glue, having mini-bloons tournaments, and severely tilting (a vocab word for another day I'm afraid, noob) any female hoping to receive attention (because hey we're good looking guys) and instead walking into a den of laptop-bound zombies and incessant "popping" sounds.



And if you think that run-on sentence is bad, I'm completely sober at the moment, so consider yourself lucky.

Yes, I did just put "and" at the beginning of the sentence, did you want me to shit on your windshield too Mr. Oxford?

After being so rudely interrupted, where was I? Oh yes, the epic of blooning. As our mastery over the game progressed and our mastery with the outside world became like Shaq's foul shot, BTD3 transformed into autopilot-central. Innovative strategy disappeared and instead simple technical execution of build orders took over. This translated into a vegetative mode of playing, similiar to when a fledgling guitarist, instead of practicing new chords and melodies, just blitzes out "Smoke on the Water" for the 6,780th fucking time. I understand though man; completion of something you've wired yourself to be perfect at is nice; it lets some random gland in your brain fart out sterilized endorphins into the bloodstream.



At about the same time, I actually started writing again. Perish the goddamn thought! Probably the first real time in six years I started dumping the contents of my brain all over the pages in my notebook. Don't worry, it wasn't too gory. The more and more I wrote, the more ideas that came flowing in. It wasn't even fair. In any case, one result of all this self-absorbed finger cramping was the creation of a simple term, catalogued above: "bloon". It simply came up one day when I came up for air from the Monkey Matrix (I don't edit in case you're wondering) and asked the question: "dude, are we BLOONING right now?" Procrastination, it seems, has never been the same. As we've branched out to different games and ways of wasting time, the term expanded as such. "Blooning" became less associated with tower defense and evolved to point out any situation where a person has replaced social skills

None of us OG Blooners play BTD3 anymore ironically. However, blooning will always be a part of my life as a phantom limb that frequently requires scratching. I've come to accept that, and shit, just getting this first post published is a testament that I can survive in the viral world of blogging despite my desire to sit in a room, surf the Internet, listen to Electronic music, play Team Fortress 2, and well, bloon. My next post will provide some history/future/perspective on my life as a nerd and where blooning will take us all. Indulge in my self indulgence if you dare, or continue to stay in the mud.

Dumbledore: "When you find the ideas, use it for blogging, only for blogging."
Me: "No, I will surely use it for blooning!"
Dumbledore:" Here is your final lesson - do not commit the crime for which you now serve the sentence. Productivity said, "Blooning is mine."
Me: "I don't believe in Productivity."
Dumbledore: "That doesn't matter. He believes in you."