Twitch Fit

I think twitch has a lot to do with my life.

Like, I can't get anything done unless I just... twitch or some shit. Get it done little by little. That's how shit gets done in my life, like writing, reading, drawing, video games. Mostly shit like that. Don't know why. It might have something to do with watching butt loads of movies and TV in my younger days. Maybe that's why they say that shit will harm your brain and drain your imagination? But in my case, it's done completely the opposite. I feel like I have oodles of creativity wriggling around somewhere. I just have to squeeze it out bit by bit.

My twitch, I guess apart from TV and movies, might also stem from video games. I'm a guy who likes to play in short bursts mostly. I'll play fifteen minutes here, twenty minutes there until I get the shit done. I find I've been doing that a lot in other activities now, mainly the whole writing and drawing thing. But hell, that doesn't mean I can't sit down and concentrate and do one thing for five plus hours. I can still do that. But it really has to get me truckin' and I have to be really excited. Or else I get bored and move onto something else. I guess that's how I operate now.

But editing... I think that's the one thing I can sit down for over an hour and do. Of course, though, I can't do it right after finishing a piece of writing. I gotta dwell on it a little bit and come back after a length of time, because that will let me think of it as someone else's work. Because I'm absolutely convinced, in my conscious state of mind, that I can't edit my own work. If I leave that shit be it's like my smell has wafted away, and I know I can edit it.

Take this shitty blog post for instance. It's unedited now, duh, but who knows? Maybe I would want it to look pretty a few weeks, months, or years down the road.

My New Found Method

I think I may have found my natural writing method, finally, and holy shit it's weird.

Like really weird. But it makes perfect sense now. I just really have to emulate my behaviour in other forms of work, like drawing, reading, video games... and, strangely enough, work itself.

I won't necessarily divulge what it is just yet. That'd be too easy. But it's safe to say that, while it'll mean a horrendously long turnaround for articles and essays and stories and white, this method is probably going to be my go-to for the foreseeable future.

Fuck, don't you love it when you stumble upon something that has literally just been standing in front of your eyes this whole fucking time?

An Unlikely Pairing

The starships outnumbered the stars.

The pilot of a lone fighter craft was not fond of the swarm of vessels behind him. At least a thousand fighters, not unlike the make of his own, gave chase, flinging scarlet, super-heated slugs past his hull trying to score a direct hit. He had enough distance from them to render their weapons wildly inaccurate—for now at least.

A precarious voice broke the monotony of the danger. “This is quite the dilemma you’ve got us into, you know that right?” It asked with a slight tremor.

The pilot had almost forgotten. Like his pursuers, he was neither fond of his synthetic passenger that sat in the cramped quarters at the back. It had a glowing set of red eyes and a mouthpiece amidst its globular black head. Its appearance and presence made things slightly more nerve-wracking, but the pilot remained careful not to show any signs of pressure to his newly acquainted “friend”: a Nemis bot that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Naturally, it became a problem.

“Calm down.”

“Calm down?” It became irritated, which was hard for a synthetic to do. “You’re telling me to calm down when we have two hundred squadrons of BATs behind us? Not to mention that we clearly have no idea where we’re going?”

But the pilot did have an idea. Ahead a gigantic green jewel shimmered in the light of the sun behind them. “We’re going there.” The pilot pointed.

“How?”

The pilot accelerated, forcing the synthetic into a panic. It wailed almost uncontrollably when he decided to put the fighter craft into a barrel, dodging another round of deadly lasers.

“You must be mad. How can you be like this in this kind of situation? Do you know what you’re doing?”

The pilot ignored the knock-off again, jamming the fighter’s control stick in the opposite direction to send it into another barrel roll. The synthetic screamed, its cries unheeded by the pilot.

“I don’t know how I got into this. Does this thing have an eject button?”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The pilot was firm in his answer.

“They want you, not me, you buffoon. Anyways, you’re human, what were you doing onboard a Nemis flagship, of all things?”

What was he doing there? He wondered. He’ll answer that soon enough.

“You’ve never seen a human up close before?” The pilot asked.

“Of course I have. Numerous occasions, actually. There was one time when our fleet was attacking Grandolure. Plenty of humans. Thousands even. And there was not one I couldn’t kill: the big boss leaves all that fun stuff for the HKs. Can you believe that?”

This was not the time to be having small talk, the pilot thought. He wrestled with the controls a bit, engaging auto-pilot for a brief moment. The distance between him and his pursuers was greater now. They should have no problem easily dodging the Nemis barrages now. He spent the free time fiddling with the shields, optimizing the rear generator for maximum defense against any stray bolts that might hit them.

“You know, you’re a very peculiar human, if I might add.” The synthetic divulged. He didn’t quite know when to stop. “Like I said, I’ve seen humans before, but none so crass enough to… oh you know, run away from an entire Nemis fleet. An elite one I might add. You know who you’ve double crossed back there right?”

The pilot did not respond. He took back control of the fighter.

“He’s not going to be happy, I can tell you that much.” The synthetic crossed its arms, pouting. “You know what I heard he does to organics? He tears them in half and stuffs a whole bunch of wires in them. He makes them one of us.”

“I don’t think he’ll be doing that to me.” The pilot calmly remarked. The world ahead was much closer now. It would only be a few minutes more.

“Why not? I trust you’re just as fragile as any other human. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

The enemy BATs were closing in again. Their laser fire got so dangerously close for a few seconds. The shields even absorbed a hit. The Nemis were finally getting to him, and it only took a thousand of their best squadrons.

“They’re getting closer. Wonderful. We’ll all be dead soon, thanks to you, you know.” The synthetic was clearly shaken. It shook its funny-looking head wildly. “I’m not programmed for this sort of thing. Not at all.”

“What are you programmed for then?” The pilot asked, another burst of lasers flying over his starboard wing and past the cockpit.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The synthetic rudely remarked.

“I would assume you’re programmed for the mundane. You lived a boring life aboard that starship, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, a perfectly boring life. Nothing nearly as exciting as getting blown to bits by your own friends, that’s for sure.”

Well, it was pretty evident that sarcasm was part of its programming, at least, the pilot thought.

At that moment, a laser made contact with the starboard wing. The pilot looked over from the cockpit and saw the scorch marks. The shields managed to repel most of the damage, but it still looked like trouble. The pilot slammed the acceleration and turned slight to port, avoiding another barrage, all while the synthetic wailed on sarcastically about the “excitement”.

This escape was certainly less ideal than he had thought. At least the planet was only moments away. The pilot could see the details in the clouds that reigned all over as well as the vast swathes of ocean and lively forests.

The pilot felt a tap on his shoulder and glanced behind himself to see the synthetic looking at the diagnostics screen. “That’s some pretty decent damage.” It pointed to the wing section. “Hey, I probably know the guy who did that. He’s a pretty good shot you know.”

The pilot shoved the synthetic back. “Sit.”

“Aren’t you lovely?”

“Funny.”

“You know, we probably wouldn’t be chased down like this if you were nicer.”

“You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Sit.”

“Precisely my point.” The synthetic finally sat down. “Do you know anything about this planet we’re about to park on?”

The pilot didn’t know anything. He kept quiet.

“Segga Prime. It’s a fairly temperate world. Not a prime place for colonization… too close to the Other Side for the IG, too useless for our empire—although I’m sure you’ve probably changed that thought for now. Perfect, though, for space pirates. Nasty ones too. I heard the bands in this sector really grind you down to the bone after a good raping or two.”

The synthetic seemed to be pulling facts and rumors straight from the network. It was still connected, albeit with a startling bit of independence. This could prove useful, the pilot thought.

There was an unsettling pause.

“Well, do you really want to risk landing there and cause two problems for yourself? I for one wish to avoid the risk of being raped.”

“Risks are unavoidable now.”

“That certainly makes me more comfortable, thank you very much.”

Behind his helmet, the pilot smiled a bit.

Segga Prime was closer now. In the next minute they would break through the atmosphere.

“When we break through atmo, they’ll stop following us.” The pilot stated, hoping to instill some vigor in his synthetic partner. “Temporarily.”

“Good to know.” The Nemis bot crossed its arms. “You know a little bit too much about Nemis protocol for an organic.”

The pilot knew more than a little bit too much. Nemis protocol called for regrouping before entering any atmosphere of any kind. They would perform several analyses of chemical compounds, ecosystems, and anomalies, and then develop tactics and strategies based on their findings. And the most frightening aspect of all this? The Nemis could perform all of these computations in almost a flash, if need be.

“Strap in.”

Klaxons went off. The synthetic looked around wildly, almost confused, grabbing a belt and wrapping it over its waist and shoulders. The pilot did the same, albeit a lot more calmly. He guessed he should’ve told the bot not to worry, but decided the hell with it. He did not want to ruin the moment.

Boom. The BAT broke the atmosphere. Friction caused the air around the cockpit to flash red and orange. Turbulence shook the canopy. Despite the rocky entry, the pilot still kept his eyes on the radar display. He watched as the cloud of blue blips repelled against a white line, slowly steering away. A bit of relief came over him, but it was soon swept away when that idiot synthetic starting talking again:

“I-I-I kind o-o-o-of wish we were b-b-b-back b-b-being chased b-b-by our wonderful friendsss.” Its speech was impeded by the constant bouncing. It was obviously sensitive to the bumpy ride, its sensory becoming overloaded with the stresses of trying to adapt to the situation.

The turbulence only became worse as they descended. The pilot looked to the starboard side when he heard a furious crack, and watched as the damaged wing erupted into flames and completely disintegrated. The klaxons went wild. The screech of the ship tearing through the air steadily grew in pitch and annoyance.

“We’re going to die, we’re going to die, we’re going to die—!” The synthetic kept screaming. The pilot kept ignoring it.

His hands scrambled to keep the ship together. Port side wing was burning. The cockpit was cracking. Pressure systems were failing. Then suddenly, everything became quiet and still.

White became clouds. Clouds soon gave away to green. Green became vast swathes of tall evergreens.

And then it was all black.

The List

After a few seconds of arguing with myself, I've decided to compile my own personal writing rules in case a poor sap not unlike myself decides to wander here.

Never write a prologue.

Write one anyways.

Read a shit ton of books.

Watch a shit ton of films.

Draw every single day.

Write every single day.

Be compulsive in saving and dating everything you write.

Keep a bible of your fiction.

Take a walk once in a while.

Make sure to get lots and lots of sleep.

Listen to non-lyrical music on repeat.

Don't keep a daily word count.

Don’t show anyone your work until you’re finished.

Unless you’re drunk.

Don’t edit your own work.

Don’t be pretentious.

Don’t write about writing.

Don’t talk about writing.

Don’t do everything in order.

Don't follow any rules.

Have fun.

That Moment

It seems to me that I've been having a bit of a renaissance in terms of writing. Like my mind has been crawling out of some sort of Dark Age full of dreadfully dreary depression and hard life decisions. And I kind of like it.

I've always had a warped sense of what writing means to me, both on a personal level and on a career level. I'd kill to have a career solely based on this shit, but let's be realistic here: it's fucking impossible. But yet I always strived on, thinking I was hot shit when all I really was doing was writing hot shit about hot shit. Personally, writing has always been a struggle for me. I was always berated by professors about a lack of style or voice. I was always jealous of peers getting their vastly superior pieces published in small time papers or journals.

Now I kinda see why. Because I always took my writing too fucking seriously. I was always that whiny, selfish pig who would love no better than to get his shitty essays or short stories or top ten lists published or praised and whatnot. I had a sense of dignity that didn't allow me to take the fucking plunge and be adventurous. I was always writing what I felt should be the final word on the page rather than just writing for the hell of it.

And now I realize that I've been playing dumb for the past five years of my life. And so these words exist on the screen. Unedited. Unfiltered. And it's fucking awesome.

So rule number one for me, going forward:

Never edit your own fucking work, you twat.

Also, cheeseburger pizza is a Godsend.

Bordering on Greatness

I hope you’re excited as fuck to get bored as fuck in Borderlands 2, because I know I am! Are you ready for… wait. Wait. Are you meaning to tell me it’s not boring, Mr. Contemplative State of Mind? It’s actually… kind of good? Well, whatever you say. I guess I can give this boring-ass game a good review.

First I have to admit that going into this game, I was a bit skeptical. Well, not so much “a bit” as much as “holy fuck, this game is going to put me to sleep again”, because that’s what the first Borderlands did. It put me the fuck to sleep, letting me dream of playing better games. I bought the game twice. TWICE. And both times I stopped playing at level 25, and both times I stopped because my eyes stopped functioning at a basic level. The game was an ugly, repetitive shit fest by any stretch of the imagination, yet it struck such a resounding chord with millions of people, including my roommate who managed to clock in over 200 hours.

Needless to say he was psyched as fuck to get his hands on the sequels.

Me?

Not so much.

Anyways, I got the game for free on PC for butt fucking my ex-roommate’s cat for a few days (which, by the way, is a far more entertaining activity than playing the first Borderlands). I agreed to participate in a four-pack on Steam as payment. And why would I agree to that you ask, especially after just letting lose my severe disdain for the first game? People go ape shit over getting free shitty games ALL THE TIME, so I figured I can join the masses for once and let my intense love for that cat remain as the true payment.

Needless to say, once release day came, I was a little more than impressed.

Borderlands 2 is FUCKING AWESOME. Well, at least compared to the first. It still put me to sleep at times, but it put me to sleep DREAMING ABOUT IT. In case you don’t want to read any further, go out and BUY THIS GAME not because you’re a fucking loot fanatic, but because you should support developer’s like Gearbox nurturing their shrunken balls and going out of their fucking way to address every single fucking concern about their broken ass games. It’s astonishing, really. Every single complaint I had against the first game is fixed. In a way, I’m really disappointed I can’t knock the sequel for the same faults, but who gives a shit. A good game is a good game, and Borderlands 2 is certainly that.

The biggest pancake nipple I had against the first game was the fact that there was no fucking story to drive along to. There was nothing gripping, nothing to pull me along the tired and boring fetch quests. The characters, while humorous at times, were as flat as Paris Hilton. The missions themselves were driven by motives as empty as Mel Gibson’s Texas mickey after a Bar Mitzvah. And the setting. Christ, the setting… it has as much variety as some other meaningless pop culture metaphor that I’m too tired to think of right now. It was just painful to see that little to no effort had been put into the game’s actual story and plot. Mind you, the actual mythology was okay: it was clear in the first game that the guys at Gearbox wanted to do something more with their designs, but it was also clear they had no idea what to do with it. Luckily, they knew what to do for the sequel. Right off the bat, BOOM, THERE’S A FUCKING VILLAIN WITH A CLEAR MOTIVE: TO KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER, before you reach “The Vault. That’s at least 1500% more story than the first game, and already that’s pretty impressive. Then second, BOOM, AN ENVIRONMENT THAT’S NOT A FUCKING DESERT. The snow levels were a great tit feast for the eyes. And surprisingly enough, it wasn’t just a desert with a palette swap. What was really impressive was that there was actual fucking detail in this world—from the vast harbor filled with glistening ice floes, to the fire-spewing MOTHERFUCKING VIKING SHIP MOUNTED ON TOP OF A PENILE SHAPED MOUTAIN to Claptrap’s oily masturbation chambers, I really felt that this was something I could believe in and being genuinely humored by.

That’s another thing. The humor. Gearbox realized they had something here with the first game’s characters. Especially Claptrap. GOD BLESS THAT LITTLE ROBOT. He’s a clear example of the superb writing in this game. Granted, the script is a little ho-hum at times in terms of balancing the humorous with the not-so-humorous—evidenced by all the weighty serious shit that goes down once the story starts moving along—but Claptrap more than makes up for that. He finally becomes the pop culture icon that he always strived to be in the first game, making an impression on me as much as GLaDOS or Master Chief had in the past, in terms of recent video game characters. It’s as simple as this: CLAP TRAP IS A FUCKING FUNNY LITTLE RASCAL that completely justifies playing this game, if not then combined with the vast swath of sardonic, well-played, well-acted, and well-written minor characters in the game. The vast swath of little moments in this game continuously put a shit-eating grin on my face.

That isn’t to say the game’s writing is completely satisfactory. So let’s get back to the ho-hum stuff. The Warrior? Boring. Fighting a giant alien god at the end of a video game is so overdone, and the game doesn’t even do anything special with it. In fact, the fight is even dragged out, and only results in a little humorous tipoff to an infamous internet meme. At least there’s fucking loot after you beat it, or so I’m told. And then there are the characters from the last game. The actual process of meeting up with the previous Vault Hunters is interesting enough… but their actual usage in the game is incredibly dull and melodramatic: adjectives that really have no place in an adventure that’s extremely proud of flaunting its illogical and exciting characters. The old Vault Hunters are merely excuses for emotional drama, and emotional drama has no place in a game about infinite guns, masturbating robots, and women with breasts the size of Kimdotcom.

But whatever. All of the above doesn’t mean diddly-shit if it doesn’t have good gameplay. And with this game, the gameplay is in the gunplay. The first Borderlands prided itself in having over 17 million guns. Apparently, and the dubstep-infused hipster marketing and I could be wrong, there’s approximately 87 bazillion guns in the sequel. Now, that’s a lot of fucking guns, and I may have had only access to maybe… three hundred or so, at least. But already there’s a great sense of weight and variety to them, which was an acute problem in the first game because every fucking gun looked the same. At least some of them look cool now, with all them fancy lights and scopes and shit. And they also operate differently from one another, thanks to differential elemental properties, firing modes, AND EVEN THROWING THEM AS GRENADES OR ROCKETS WHEN YOU RELOAD (LIKE HOLY SHIT THAT IS AWESOME except when you’re behind cover). There’s almost a strategic value to the game because of this, and it makes me masturbate furiously. Slag is the best option you have at any given time, however, allowing increased damage to your foes. A little overpowered, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the balance of the game gets thrown off, since slag is a bit hard to find compared to the other elements. It’s also worthy to note that the critical hits have much more of a satisfying feel to them as well, and—although not nearly enough heads explode as they used to—the gore level is still appropriately hilarious as chunks of cel-shaded meat often litter the ground after a chaotic bout with flaming midgets.

That said, the game is STILL UGLY AS SIN technologically, despite a monumental visual upgrade on PC. The game still runs on DirectX9, believe it or not. Granted, the stylized visuals make up for this short coming, as well as the fact that this game is OPTIMIZED AS FUCK and runs on my setup at >60fps with everything on high, including Physx, at 1080p. It really is just an Xbox game running at high resolutions with amazing particle effects, but damn does it ever do it with sass. It’s like Jabba the Hutt with make up on in the sense that hey!—it’s at least better than Jabba the Hutt without make up on. Regardless, they improved the art style a great deal. Everything looks like it belongs in the same universe rather than just looking like chunks of corn and carrot in a toilet full of yellow piss. And that’s all that really remains important. I’m not going to knock an ugly game because it doesn’t use all of the technological advances of the time. I’m going to knock it if it has a really fucking horrendous art style, which this game DOES NOT HAVE.

Considering these things, Borderlands 2 is a significant improvement over its piece of shit predecessor. It has variety, attitude, charm, and solid gameplay, making one hell of an experience for veterans and noobs alike. ESPECIALLY NOOBS LIKE ME who thought the last game was too similar to choking on flaming piss fumes and grandma shit. And the best part of the sequel? I ONLY FELL ASLEEP ONCE, THANK FUCK. No, no really, that is one of my actual praises of the game.

Just shut up and play it already.

"I'm not a scientist."

Silly me. I forgot I left this blog somewhere here.

Anyhow, I guess I have some new writing to share. Specifically speaking, awful, awful science-fiction fantasy shit that I've been working on for quite some time now inside my head. Only in the past few months did it manage to climb out of the formaldehyde jar and plant itself as grisly words on a screen.

---

Someone kidnapped the stars from Resna’s night sky.

That meant perfect cover for the three operatives climbing the jagged peak. They aimed for seemingly nothing but the thrill of reaching the top. They had rifles slung over their backs, with belts laden with an assortment of hooks, ropes, and grenades. Clad in jackets with tough black leather and helmets with crescent black visors, they trekked up the steep side in single file to cover their tracks—not that they needed to anyways. Their only tools against the darkness were little flashlights that emitted the smallest of warmth and sight.

Unusual darkness meant unusual cold. Ice covered the way to the top, making it especially treacherous. But then again, it made for perfect conditions for the trio. No one would suspect anyone climbing something so utterly and completely dangerous.

The first operative made it atop a ledge, sitting down with his feet dangling as he waited for the others to follow suit. They were good, but not as good as him, he thought. The other eventually came up and sat next to the first, who had a helmet and visor more elongated along the sides of his head.

“Commander Willard,” one of the lesser operatives said as he sat down, his voice malformed by his helmet’s transmitter, “signs are clear, target is twenty feet above us.”

Willard nodded slowly. He looked up, and through his visor saw a twinkle in the barren sky. The light flash twice—a bright red—then vanished. Odd, Willard thought, but paid it no more mind as he refocused himself on the objective. Willard laid a gloved hand on the operative’s shoulder and whispered to him. “You take center, Farv. Cork and I will come around and flank left. Once you’re up there, don’t move”

Farv gave a quick nod and shot up, pouncing to the next ledge.

Cork’s visor was pointed down towards the clouds that separated the peak from the world below. Willard knew his comrade’s nerves were a bit shot. Willard couldn’t blame him. After all, his long lifespan allowed him a substantial wisdom in these kinds of objectives. His longevity also told him Cork’s relative inexperience could make or break this mission, given the amount of times he had to work with greenhorns due to a shortage of ‘experts’.

“You’re human, aren’t you Cork?”

It was a legitimate question. Willard had never seen his operatives’ faces before. Protocol, his superiors said, just in case.

It took a while for Cork to answer. “Yeah.”

“You don’t see humans much around these days, much less work with them. I hear you can be pretty useful, even if you don’t get the hang of things right away.” Willard paused, hoping he was right. “Is that true?”

Again, Cork took his sweet time answering. “Yeah, I guess.”

Willard, of course, never heard of any such talk. Humans were so rare that hardly a word was spoken of them. Yet still, everyone in the galaxy speaks their languages, follows their structure, and knows their history. He wondered how useful they can actually be, apart from what they have already given to galactic civilization. This is the first time he’s met one, never mind actually carrying out a dangerous mission with one.

As Willard pondered this, Cork looked up towards the sky. Farv had disappeared over the next ledge, much like the stars.

“Where are they tonight?”

“Where are who?” Willard asked, pretending not to know.

“The stars. You can’t see them.”

Willard looked up. He grunted and looked back at Cork. “So you can’t. Some molecular disturbance in the atmosphere I would imagine.”

“Molecular disturbance?”

“Don’t ask me…”

Willard stood on the ledge and pushed on a pressure point on his flexsteel neck armor. His visor went from a glossy black to a glowing bright red, with a large shimmering white circle centered perfectly. It blinked.

“…I’m not a scientist.”