It's actually worse than you could imagine!
Half hour ago I sat down to write this article. Looking upon the empty page it occured to me -- I might as well make some use of this little Romanian rhyme I've been obsessing over for no comprehensible reason ever since waking up an hour prior. Does this ever happen to you, by the way ? Does a certain string of words just basically wake you up and then not want to fucking go away already ? No ?
Well good for you then!
But it happens to me. Here's the problem with it : [blablabla] doi tractoristi[?] se caca. Isi pun iar bastile pe cap, se sterg la cur, si pleaca. See ? It's not the original, folcloric biti, but it's not yet fixed, either! Because that's why : I lay there, sleeping ; and as I lie, the desperate from beyond approach. The broken, the pained, the suffering, they all come to me, in my sleep. They hiss and beg : for fixture and release. Could I set right what's ailed them for lo these many centuries, millenia, eons beyond rememberance ? Would I ? Please ?
God knows if I can't, if I won't... it ain't ever getting done.
They come to me like desperate humans flock to supposed healers and assorted miracle workers. I hope you appreciate the symmetry : just like the local dwellers flock to supposed embodiments of the world beyond, incarnations of the abstract, saints and charlatans, just so the hurt, the wounded, the battered and broken of the beyond flock to me. Sometimes I can do something for them, it's been known to happen ; but not today, and certainly not always.
But this article didn't start with the attempted rescue of a poetry chick from the latrine, to fashion it into a motto or something, oh, no. That was coincidental ; the article (as the title bear witness) started with my despair at my picture set. You see, yesterday at some point Hannah started doing my shoes. It was one hell of a scene, her foot tiptoed in its cute sock as she sat, surrounded by black leather shoes on the off-white glazed porcelain floor, actual shoe polish in the actual metal can with the lever opening mechanism as a century ago, and as foreverii. How often do you see naked (but for the cute socks) chicks with fake tits shining your shoes ? I'd bet just about never, which is why I tried to take some pictures.
They didn't come out.
Poor schmucktards the world over are struggling to invent, construct, fake an' depict the natural comings and goings of my life in my harem -- because, you understand, I didn't tell her to do this. She did it herself. There's a difference there, feel it ? Yet, for all that, my pictures don't come out. And it's not the first time, either! Before, I had like a gallon of tapenade, hand made out of the best olives I've had yet (which is why I bought ten pounds) with capers and green peppercorns and anchovies and everything -- holy god, it was so fuckin' good!
Yet the picture didn't look like anything in particular.
Before that, I had pictures of the insane pastes, and you must admit, it looks like shit. It doesn't taste anything like shit, in fact it's the exact opposite of shit on the merits, the only problem is that such merits as it does have share entirely nothing with such merits as the camera's prepared to convey. My pictureitis isn't, in other words, a psychological problem, it's not that my neuroticism drives me to paralysisiii but rather of a... self-constructed nature. You see... as one seeks perfection, one necessarily -- and I do mean, and stress & underscore : necessarily -- moves outside of the purvey of the tools he's employed to even get that far in the first place. By now the things that matter, the things important to me aren't merely "good food" in some kind of instagram-able sense. It's not a matter of "24/7 live-in slavery" as such might be representable by the factitious crowd, nor has it been, and for years. Eventually you run out of the coincidental material you saved up for the very reason that it'll serve well representationally while not being outrageously offensive to the thing represented, and then... you get pictureitis.
In confronting that which they feared, he had become something else in their eyes...and no longer their champion.
Speaking of Fallout, Bethesda's latest Farmville attempt's not even terrible, if you have their previous work loaded up to supply the story & fantasy to coat the otherwise very sad & dry structure with. Whereas Knight's Bounty Dark Side... well. The story & dialogues are a little whacky, but I must say they do eventually coallesce into something (even though it's not a very High Fantasy kind of something, it's still not terribru) ; the Impossible difficulty setting truly delivers one helluva impossible experience (do try it out, let me know how you fared). They also added a secondary pump (with a nice ass slav chick to pin it), this one works by using the unit to sacrifice things you've summoned, as opposed to spell-Sacrificing things the other slut seduced. Considering the sacrificing unit sometimes actually pops out of Demon Gates as such, I'd say they pretty much diluted the old pump under new pump issuance -- but the game is so fucking hard I have no complaints.iv
Funny, not even in the things all young men understand each other perfectly well (which is why they were made in the first place, what the fuck's the point of dolls and Dolls In The City the supporting show, if not the need to cheaply manufacture easily-had consensus for inept but ambitious consensus-seekers ?) do we understand each other at all.
- That reads "La umbra nucului batrin doi tractoristi se caca, se sterg cu bastile la cur, le pun pe cap, si pleaca", approximatiely "in the shade of the old walnut two agricultural implement technicians are taking a shit. They use their typical 1980s soviet headgarb to wipe their arse when done, put the damned things back on their heads, and leave", which is self-evidently broken. Especially that "ancient walnut tree", such a fucking cop-out... Typical ruralia, what can you ask for ("ce poti sa le ceri" in original -- the definitive, ritualized form of dismissal of the subhuman in 1990s Romanian culture). And besides, the point self-evidently is that they shit in in the caps, not that they wipe themselves with them. Isn't it ? Does this sort of thing occur self-obviously to you too ? No ?
Well good for you then! [↩]
- She even asked about this, you know, "hey, this shit's getting hard to find, can we actually manufacture it ?".
I guess I'm buying some third world oil refineries. [↩]
- This, incidentally, is perhaps the best physiological explanation for autism I'm aware of : neuroticism taken to the extreme, where the complaint becomes so overpowering it's not merely disabling to a conscious individual, but it actually precludes the very possibility of the formation of a conscience in the first place. Start on that path young enough and harsh enough, get yet another kind of wolfbaby.
- Also, I'm doing this at level 13. I don't even have Hypnosis yet (can't afford the crystals to learn it), Chaos level 2 and so on. Maybe closer to level 30 or so where ye olde Pump came out in all its glory this 2nd added pathway tapers out or whatever, I dunno yet. [↩]