Take your money

So, my cousin Ellie wants me to collaborate with her on an artistic project. She's already written a book, but she'd like me to do some sort of webcomic type deal with her.


She might be vastly underestimating my abilities, but no harm in trying.

The High Road

I had some crazy shit to put in here.

Instead, I'm just going to say that when I get depressed, all I wanna do is play WoW.

Finding Me.

The Heartstone

EpiPrologue

Lo held her grandmothers necklace tightly in the palm of her hand. Her fingers were cramped, but she couldn't let go. Her knuckles were white, and a lesser woman would have crumpled over in a sobbing mess over the severe gash in her side.

Instead, all she could do was stare intently at what was in her other hand. It was an amazing jewel the size of a coconut, weighing at least seven or eight pounds. It was transparent with a beautiful red hue. Lumps of mud, vegetation and slime covered much of it, but despite the layer of filth, there was no doubting the truly glorious gem she held.

It seemed wrong, a sin, to have it covered in such a disgusting mess. She closed her eyes, at last she had what she came for. So many others had tried, but their intentions were less than admirable. The nearly impregnable fortress, the truly frightening guardians. Thinking about it reminded her that she had just been through a lot.

As she held the stone in her hand, the throbbing in her side stopped, and she felt suddenly lighter. She wasn't sure what it was, but it felt good, it felt...right.

She opened her eyes and looked about to find that she was still standing in the fortress. She peered at the trail of bodies she had left behind. They were not human, perhaps, but it certainly seemed a waste. After her discussions with each of the guardians, she had realized that they were only doing what they thought was best. They protected the gem at all costs. Most of them were obsessive, thinking only of the stone at all times. It was a sad fate for all in the fortress, but now the stone could be put to good use. She didn't know how exactly, but she could tell it would all work out now, that was just one of the many things she simply knew.

She knelt down on the ground and wiped the stone cleanly on the thick, green grass which had engulfed the entire platform where she was standing. No doubt some of Sententia's work. She hadn't noticed in her previous battle that the entire chamber was surrounded by a near endless grove of trees. It had been so bright in the area that she wouldn't have noticed them. She supposed that each tree likely meant something to poor Sententia. It was likely not best to dwell on him. Killing him had to be done, She would leave the grove as it was, and hopefully it would flourish even without it's protector.

Lo finally let go of the pendant. Her hand strained to return to grasping the air, the fresh indentations from gripping the pendant still worn into her fingers. She quickly placed the stone into her leather pouch. It was a tight fit, as she had estimated the stone to be much smaller, but at least it didn't look like it would fall out, it would be a tragedy to lose it due to clumsiness after all of this work.

Lo picked herself off her knees and took one last glance around the platform. It was an amazing feet of engineering or magic, or whatever. The forest around her, the white stone steps and entrance leading down. The intricate carvings on the stones seemed to tell a story of the stone, but she didn't bother trying to figure it out. She might feel better, (much, much better, even) but she still had several small wound and one very large wound that all needed treatments. The Blind Tree of Occulum stood in the center of the platform. All of the stories about the tree were right, which is surprising, considering no one had ever made it this far.

She speculated briefly to herself, wondering if perhaps...one of the guardians had told someone about the tree. It didn't matter she supposed. She looked at the white stones again, running her hand across them one last time before she descended back down the stairs. It was time to return home.

She's so high above me.

Sometimes, I look at my hands and think to myself...

"Is it possible that I'm cursed with this splotchiness for s reason?"

It's an endless amount of fun for people to ask about it. Like cancer or something.

"What happened to your hands?"

"Oh, one day, I just thought to myself 'MAN! This canister of thermite is just not starting my hands on fire enough.' "

I always have some stupid asshole thing to say about it. I guess I just don't want to be reminded that I'm some sort of freak. Isn't it already bad enough that lots of people are scared of me, and that I'm fat? No, I have to look like marble cake too.

Now the skin on my arms is peeling. I'm sure a lot of people are going to think the two are related. At first I thought they were related, until I remembered the bad sunburn I'd gotten.

Ah well.
I tried to cut down on my food intake last week, but I've simply plateaued. It might have been that brownie sundae I had with my niece though, either way I haven't lost a pound all week, and I'm getting tired. I keep thinking that doing less will help, but it seems to have the reverse effect. Every time I run a mile on the treadmill, I feel like I should have gone for twice as long and twice as fast. Of course, when I move up to the speed I'd like to go at normally (4.0-4.5 MPH) I start to feel a terrible pain in my side. Not pretty, but I have been getting better.

As for actual lifting, I've moved up to 3 sets of 12 reps of 180 pounds on the bench press, and 3 sets of 20 reps of 170 pounds on the a machine. I feel like I should do more than those two. I tried to work my biceps, but I can't stand it. I don't know why, but my triceps have always been stronger, I can barely curl 40 pounds, it's pathetic, I think I've seen several women in the gym who can curl more.

Speaking of women, I'm consistently seeing a pair of 30-35 year old women at the gym. One of them looks fantastic for her age, the other one smells fantastic. I can't bring myself to talk to either one of them, they look like they could easily be married. Still, that one chick has an amazing...well, anyway, she's very fit.

Not that I would have any chance anyway, not that I'm even sure I would want one.

Actually, no, I would totally hit that, but still, there's about 7-8 much skinnier and more muscled men in the gym whenever the two go. Maybe that is why they go. I dunno.

Either way, I need to start losing again, I want to lose at least another 20 pounds before august is over. Previously, I'd stated that if I had continued at the pace I was going, I'd have lost 210 pounds by October. Technically, that would put me underweight quite a bit, but it's a nice goal to shoot for. I'd be ecstatic if I could lose half that much, though my goal is to hit 170 before next year. We'll see, with the stress of school, work and all of these other new endeavors, one can't really tell.

Anime Banzai is what I would consider to be right around the corner, I don't think I'll be going as Kamina, since I just can't pull off the half naked look. Even if I were to get skinny by then, what if I still had all of that excess skin to fit back into? Like Fat Bastard.

No thanks, I think I'd rather go as a Dalek.

I'll probably end up dressed as someone with very little exposed skin. And maybe a girdle.

Hrm.

Earlier I thought of a really funny joke involving the word mammary.


Something about short term mammary loss or something.

Damn, I totally forgot it.

Slow chemical

Fingers through her hair
I can feel the air
around me
around her

Sounds just like spiders
crawling inside there
how can we last much longer?
In here
out there

I step to the light
there's no time for fright
I just know it's right to

fight, the bastards off!

beat them at their own game

bite! a sneer or scoff!

There's no telling

what they are doing

I could be sitting

While they could be stewing.

What do you want out of this?!

What do we get out of this?!

Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?

Who are you?

Feet on the solid ledge
cut through the paper edge
scribble it now
write on it, how?

There should be more
Help with this door
what do we do with ourselves?
how can we go?
how can we stay?

just stay away...

...while I...

fight, these bastards off!

beat them at their own game

I'll bite! I'll sneer! I'll scoff!

There's no telling

what am I doing?

I could be yelling

That won't stop the swelling.

What do you know about this?!

What do you get out of this?!

Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?

Who are you?

Who are you?

I've seen you face a million times
but now I know it was just my mind
I can taste the memories we once shared
but I don't know if you ever cared
like a lamp post melting in the sun
we lost what was normal for everyone

Should we just join them now?

Is that was you really want?

We could be on our way

to be just like them?

But we aren't, we're new, we're fresh, we're ready, we're steady, we're underground baby, just listen close you can hear my love, hear it? hear my love, we aren't like them, I know what they are, but not us, no baby, no baby, it ain't enough, we have to wonder what the fuck is love?

I'm trying to figure it out.

Fingers in her hand
I can feel the gritted sand
around me
around her

Sounds just like spiders
crawling inside there
but I know we can last!
out there

I step to the light
there's no time for fright
I just know it's right to

fight, these bastards off!

beat them at their own game

bite! a sneer or scoff!

There's no telling

what they are doing

I could be sitting

While they could be stewing.

What do you want out of this?!

What do we get out of this?!

Why are we here, what do we do
Who are we?
who are we, who are we, who are we, who are we?

Who am I?

Come out and play.

I gripped the handles tightly in my fist as the gauntlet formed around my arms. Immediately that familiar sensation filled my gut, like having a leather glove on your hand again after years of exposed skin, it felt right, familiar and safe, all with a foreboding sense of danger. It was still a good feeling, and it could only mean one thing.

I heard them rattling off behind me as I stood there, but I wasn't listening. It was my time now, and I didn't bother with their prattle. The gauntlet was on now, it was mine again, I could feel it's weight being screwed into my shoulders like it had never left me. I didn't bother to discard my cigar, I just glared at it all. So how long was I in this hole? Why did they bother to bring me out? I had to admit that while it felt good, I wasn't about to thank them. I'm sure they still hoped I would go out there and get myself killed.

The arms of others surrounded me busily, placing each piece of armor onto my nearly naked body. The shackles that were on my legs and arms were gone now. They wanted me prepared for battle, they know that I was strong enough to take on the enemy, and that handicapping me would only handicap them as well.

There was the familiar feeling again of the shoulder plates, leg plates and shin guards as I stepped into the large, prepared boots in front of me. The massive weight of the suit would have crushed a lesser man, but being part of the military had made me tough, and being a prisoner had made me desperate and even tougher. I hefted it all proudly.

The feel of cold steel on my body shot goosebumps all around my body, I gritted my teeth as the bolts settled in, my muscles flexed as I felt around inside my tin can. The helmet was placed on my head by another set of arms, the voice drolling on in the background suddenly sounded more important. I took in as much of my cigar as I could.

"All marines prepare for launch."

I stared at the computer screen and glared briefly.

"Hell. It's about time."

The visor on my helmet closed, and as my HUD appeared, all I could think of was my old buddy, Jimmy.

The powered armor moved smoothly as the rockets fired up, lifting me away to the next battle again, this time, though, it would be different from all the others I'd seen.







Now, for those of you who don't know, this is a narrative for the character shown in the first Starcraft 2 cinematic. I found the entire cinematic to be moving, beautiful, brutal and grungy all at the same time. It is about time Blizzard, it has been for awhile. If you haven't seen the trailer, I suggest watching it. It's not hard to find.

I bought the game today, which is it's release date. Starcraft has, much like Warcraft, influenced my entire life in many way, particularly in regard to my art, but it also taught me strategy, lateral thinking, and logic. It's like Saturday morning cartoons, or Mario, it was there when I was a kid, and seeing the second part of it take off brings back such nostalgia. Here's to you, Blizzard, you've done it once again. Keep on doing it, so that this person can continue experiencing the incredible stories you create.

Aerials.

The ink of the pen filled the iotas of the paper, drowning it in black like smoke filling in the trenches of a burning battlefield.

It was as if the words were already written, so the ink simply followed the path of least resistance upon the page. Mirroring the parchment was a blackened hand. Not charred, but dirtied by the walnut it knew so well. Would it ever wash off? Not likely, it had been stained again and again, and this time was no different. Washed often, perhaps, but not nearly as often as it was bled into by the souls of words and cascading drawings which littered the tiny desk of the writer.

The skritch skritch skritch of the quill passing the paper was such a familiar sound that it now brought comfort to the writer who was barely even aware of it. A white noise that soothed the soul of the enraged monster put to elegant words perhaps. More likely, a grand cacophony, filling the mind with the constant scenes of revelry, lust, destruction, birth, life, death and all manner of other things seen fit to grace the swatches of paper which would eventually be constructed into a book. Like the bones of a tome, the words were the foundation of all that the writer poured into life.

The hands steadily raced across the pages, filling in the words with a practiced skill, he knew just how to balance the quill so that a single drop never touched the paper unless he willed it so. Gravity was no factor here. As if he could control the ink itself, command it, not as a slave, but like water through an aqueduct of Rome. It was elegant, and beautiful. Like most readers of his works, though, they did not know of the process gone into the creation of a masterpiece.

He dipped the quill into a black box. He paused for a moment. Staring in contemplation, the man looked up from his desk. Was it possible. Perhaps he could live more if he were to write the adventures of his own life, not with ink, but with his own two feet. He had begun writing at an incredibly young age, and though many things distracted him from it, he had always been writing, even while doing other things. Maybe it was time to stop writing; to take action. To mold his life the way he had his stories. He could always return to them if need be after all, but to continue forward, out the door of his home. There was no doubt that his stories were amazing, but had he lost fulfillment on the way? Lost himself? Lost everything he had ever loved, given everything away for a pittance in comparison to the lives of those in his grand epics?




The door hung open to grand cabin. It was a spartan dwelling, no pictures, no hangings. Very few objects at all were in the home, except for the basic needs. A table in the kitchen, littered with parchment, envelopes, tomes, dusty pages, old cheeses, breads and other accoutrements. The kitchen could not be called dirty, but it was not clean either. Thick dust was caked around almost all areas, and fingerprints were easily seen on knives, cabinets and other furniture.

In the center of the room was an empty desk with an inkwell and some papers, which were half written.

The room was completely empty, as the sun shown through a window. It reflected on the copious dust in the air after someone had abandoned the cabin, taking only a quill, perhaps a reminder of things left behind.

Stand for Something!

My previous post, Smashing the Opponent was something I wrote because I was in a highly emotional state, but I still feel strongly about it. I sent it to Jurell, and he liked it a lot. I respect what he has to say because he's a great poet.

I've decided to incorporate it into a short, illustrated story, which I'll create.

Along with this project, I'm going to be working on many other things, so who knows when it will be done, but the end goal would be to publish it. Maybe by the time I'm done with it I'll have the artistic prowess to do it justice.

I think that strong art will compliment it extremely well, so we'll see how it goes.

So like a rose...

Shirley gets me every time. She can be so majestic with her vocals.

Anyway, I've been feeling kinda crappy lately, but more importantly, I was bit by a mosquito and had an alergic reaction after I tried to make it explode by pumping blood into it!

Not recommended.

Instead of it dying, it drank my vital essences. My hand (where it bit me) is kinda swollen, red and itchy. Not good!

Oh well, school is coming up soon. I'm excited to do drawing but between still having to work, and all these new exciting video games out, I'm going to have my hands full! Still, it'll be a good learning experience I'm sure, and I'll get a lot out of having an actual teacher.

Moviescript Ending

The previous post is scary enough that not even I want to read it.


I often find that I feel like the sidekick character in a movie. My happiness is secondary to the main plot.

I've lived a lie for so long, and all it's done is hurt the people around me, given them false perceptions. To crawl so far into myself so that I lose my identity, just to protect myself is truly saddening.

Which is coincidental, I feel the pain of others so easily that I've numbed myself to my own pain, and theirs, and everything, really.

People, friends, family, they don't know me, because I barely know me. I've hidden what I really feel, in favor of feeling nothing at all. But the truth is, there's more to the world than pain, I just have to find someone who can reciprocate feelings with me properly. Happiness in my life would only beget more happiness, and it's exactly what I am, what I want and what I've needed for years and years. For some reason, I just never realized it fully.

Smashing the opponent...

Is it better to suffer quietly the indignation of our own hearts and minds than to voice our tribulations loudly, even if the body will not be comforted by such screams?

Screaming alone in the forest of the world, surrounded by trees with no cures for our wounds will no sooner heal us than simply remaining silent.

And yet, why are we compelled to question the silence of our pain. As if it would somehow relieve the sting of the cuts and gashes, we contemplate the possibility like a child, fearing that perhaps in our fervor, we would simply open these wounds further, spilling our lives and blood and tears onto the cold, unforgiving forest floor.

Perhaps we hear the cries of others, far out of reach, and choose to cry back, hoping to comfort each other with what little semblance of sanity each of us has left. But as we hear the cries, we may find they only remind us of our own handicap, and so the cries become more shrill, and more frightening.

I often curse my face for having lips, as they merely provide me with a means to further my own wounds. Would that I was born without them, for having the option to use them is simply too great a responsibility for a soul such as myself. My mind works against itself in a struggle that occurs constantly. As if one half were laughing at the other, every word is full of regret, and every unspoken syllable a lavish thought, aborted before it can begin. The though of saying, and the thought of not saying spiral endlessly until words and thoughts become hated so much that silencing the mouth is not enough to quell the tremors of my mind. Paranoia is a powerful motivator, but true fear will drive one insane.

Night at the Roxbury

I've got all sorts of crazy thoughts in my head.

I've come to some realizations, and in the end, they're really quite depressing.

Getting really drunk on Saturday opened my eyes to some things, and now some changes are going to be made...

But something tells me that even if I can make changes, and turn my life around, what's really important to me is still going to be completely out of reach.

Hands.

I have no interest in blogging.