#i reverse engineered my addiction by being stupid

[puke-ur-gutz]

i realized why i feel so bad. i ran out of weed

[writer59january13]

Where art thou anonymous benefactor...to offer me succor?

Ah... methinks legal tender could be a boon to help me bolster

mein kampf with necessary material equipage, which prospect to acquire essential commodities sabotaged

at the altar of gullible travails, thus perhaps thee could make a contribution to mine gofundme page.

Castaway stranded on figurative deserted island pitted with absolute zero salvation, sole recourse finds scant consolation with prayer lifetime atheist draws futile faith within himself grudgingly accepting feeble accomplishments ditto permanent estrangement among kith and kin tortured more punishingly versus death sentence of choice: firing squad, gallows, guillotine...

nostalgically sentimentally, and zealously yearning fore gone girl(s) of mine, one spouse two grown offspring long since severed emotional home ties even when under same roof appalled, embarrassed, jarred particularly regarding good for nothing hang dog looking papa, mentally unfit father, who wrought misery upon heads he begat chronically dirt poor Mainline moocher never earning a bloody

cent claiming psychological disability (verity substantiated with professional assessment attests to psychological mental illness probably present during inchoate biological development in utero, and most definitely congenital) unfortunate no supportive resources, thus experiencing grievous incalculable relentless scapegoat treatment - me no kidding inadvertently subjected with cruel, diabolical,

exponential sucker punches while riding the bus sitting stone temple pilot faced during class, belittled, defeated, framed unfairly as spitball culprit during eighth grade mathematics with Missus Labosh subsequently painfully shy lad threateningly harangued, and nearly paddled courtesy Methacton Junior High School principal Mister Clock believe me you, aye remained mum about said incident til...this moment,

not surprising since every unpleasantry suppressed unwittingly festering within psyche in tandem with threatening rapier sarcasm ostracizing jibes cumulative wrath unwaveringly smoldering, passively brooding, visualizing punching meanies, screaming... wanting to kill - sublimated hurts glowering, exploding... decades later -

more often surfacing unannounced at odd times venting bile at wife directly, and barking

at deux daughters subjecting innocent progeny with mine anger, or rerouting, harboring, channeling... pathological addiction answering and posting personal classifieds, yours truly guilty attempting to appease call of wild at mental, physical, and spiritual expense additionally setting poor paternal example accompanied with detached avoidance maybe costing yours truly king's ransom and/or receiving my just desserts, yes?

Thus yours truly imagines

whizzing backward at light speed

to reverse engineer and rejigger space/time continuum

many stupid blunders

that cost me being knocked out cold

courtesy rock em sock em life size robots

compromising opportunities the figurative ball

slipped out of my court

bungled, fumbled, mulcted

courtesy naiveté I did excede.

Analogous to albatross greater than weight

Atlas shrugged, severely over burdening fountainhead, yours truly intermittently wavered, sputtered, petered... out bumped uglies fumphered, rutted, née languished along since birth, (possibly while in utero, or even moment of conception nada so thoroughly good by George) or well resigned dirty deeds done dirt poor deeply grooved within very self restricted comfort zone,

eventually digging deep black hole sun, infinite void everywhere exit prohibited, whence twilight o' mine waning existence awakened sober inescapable realization impossible mission to garner je nais ne quois joie de vivre, thus officially reeling courtesy psychological angst (strumming), whereby galactic dash board pluck pitted against frantic ethereal desperation) eek clip sing el sol lure rays refracted back

rendering blind did as a bat sightless wayward son helplessly, rustling grimly, futilely groping, lumbering, resigning, scarce tenacity clutch slipping automatically bing foisted transcendent

state, where absolute zero soundcloud bereft succor – meadow fore enshrouds hermetically sealed turin soul (mine) cocooning grubby human forever pinwheeling within otherworldly realm

timelessly suspended within infinite void n'er aging, rather regressing toward infantile state, unable to distinguish familiarity after aye promise never tug heave fanta see piquing curiosity

acronym spelled out regarding above

soda describing bubbling sensation "**** And Never Touch Again," red alert universal emergency advisory button commencing countdown to

Armageddon, but subsequently resign quintessential pregnant outcome housing grimacing deathstill blackness unbeknownst to constitute afterlife, or less disconcerting, disheartening, disenchanting... prospect namely imperfectly square discombobulated chaos betokens palatable alternative, perhaps revelation (cryptically spelled courtesy Chinese fortune cookie) less

dim sum more tolerable conclusion possibly incorporates being rezoned, repurposed, reassigned... within parallel universe fast D'Cell rating indicative approaching beginning space/time continuum, where cosmos concentrated into microscopic speck sagely, taste fully, gingerly... handled... courtesy garden variety

budding fubar Homo sapien.

An armature linkedin to robotic divine creator, who never tired plying matter into big bang dang boomerang contraption only to release stretched material with frisson cold snap, crackle, and pop

indiscriminately, haphazardly, gamely... flicked teensy weensy itty bitty cosmic dross - poofing into immeasurable shift shaping said vast bajillion mile wide instant karma credit witnessed umpteenth

birth expanding into former vacuum of nothingness simulating an all encompassing immense awesome kaleidoscope when

viewed thru virtual reality goggles all the while frustrated wordsmith toying

with incomprehensible far out mind boggling notion defying elaboration.

[vagrantblvrd]

Skies So Blue (1/1)

Summary: There’s always a problem when it comes to the crew.

Always.

Said problems range from minor inconveniences like a diet eCola shortage in the penthouse to life-threatening injuries. (Sometimes one leads to the other because the ones with an addiction to the stuff are certifiable, but that’s another problem altogether.)

Notes: An Anon wanted my thoughts on this GTA V video. :D?

(Read on AO3)

There’s always a problem when it comes to the crew.

Always.

Said problems range from minor inconveniences like a diet eCola shortage in the penthouse to life-threatening injuries. (Sometimes one leads to the other because the ones with an addiction to the stuff are certifiable, but that’s another problem altogether.)

The current problem is that Geoff’s out of town for business and he took both Alfredo and Matt, arguably the last two sane members of the crew left besides Trevor himself. And while Trevor is in charge these days, you wouldn’t notice by the way they act.

(Geoff warned him though, when he and Lindsay handed the reins over. Told him all about how they were horrible human beings and, “God have mercy on your soul, because the bastard sure as hell had none for mine,” and left for what he insisted was a long overdue vacation from the crew. Lindsay had laughed as she patted him on the cheek with a “You poor, stupid bastard,” before going off to rain chaos on the unsuspecting now she was free to do so.)

Geoff is out of town, the crew treats Trevor like a substitute teacher in an 80s/early 90s movie, and to make matters worse? It’s been a while since the crew’s pulled a heist or a job that requires more than the bare minimum from them.

They’re bored.

They’re bored and Trevor’s learned that a bored Fake AH Crew is a dangerous Fake AH Crew because they make their own entertainment.

While some good things have come out of their shenanigans in the past – improved team morale for starters – said shenanigans also draw unwanted attention from local law enforcement that’s no good for future plans they may have.

So.

“You...want me to kidnap you.”

Trevor grins, nice and friendly and holds up the wad of cash he’s offering as payment to a fine young gentleman.

New enough to Los Santos that he hasn’t heard (too much) about the Fakes aside from a few key points. (Big crew, don’t fuck with them or you’ll be sorry, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.)

Hasn’t heard about their more outrageous exploits or what they like to do to blow off steam for their own enrichment. (Pack of idiots rolling a pumpkin around their enclosure and all.)

Most importantly, he’s just stupid enough, greedy enough, to be blinded to the amount of money Trevor’s offering for an afternoon of driving him around.

“Well I mean,” Trevor says, goes a little singsong. “’Kidnap’ is such an ugly word, you know. All these connotations to it. No, no.”

Goodness no.

“I want you to steal a car for me.”

The guy – Frank? Jimmy? Trevor doesn't remember, and if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t care.

See, Trevor asked around, got a short list of potential candidates for this little task that might need a reminder of how things work in Los Santos. A quick little tutorial for the ones new to town like this fine fellow who’s already ruffled a few feathers.

“...The car you will be in,” Lyle? Kyle? says, nice and slow, like he’s solving one of the world’s greatest mysteries. “That one.”

Trevor tips his head to the side.

“If you don’t want to earn some pocket money, I can always find someone else who will,” Trevor says.

Because Los Santos.

Chock full of people like this one.

The guy squints at Trevor.

Big guy. Somewhat imposing, if you happen to be easily imposed. Nose that’s been broken at least once and rough around the edges (aren’t they all, though?). Scruff going on to make him seem older and admirably suspicious because it is an odd request.

“What’s the catch?”

Trevor doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does.

“Oh, you know,” he says, big, big smile. “The usual.”

========

Gerald, Trevor’s going to call him Gerald, takes the offer.

“Sure, why the fuck not?”

It’s a lot of money just to steal a car, and Trevor was reliably informed Gerald would do just about anything for the right price.

Sold a lot of people out for less, or so Trevor’s heard. Has a habit of screwing over his partners and so on and Trevor is delighted the man’s greed has gotten the better of him yet once again. Makes having to send one of the others to pay him a little visit unnecessary later.

Birds and stones, and a delicious touch of karma because some of the people Gerald’s fucked over were theirs and that simply won’t do.

Gerald doesn’t seem to have caught on just yet, but Trevor’s sure he’ll figure it out along the way.

========

There are rules to this, of course.

The others may use any and all vehicles at their disposal, but weapons aren’t allowed.

If, for example, one of them were to get their hands on a Lazer from Zancudo, they’re not allowed to use missiles (homing or otherwise) or the cannons. (If they get their hands on tank, just. No.)

Gerald is likewise forbidden from using weapons. In case he were to get ideas, what with Trevor riding along in the backseat of their vehicle and all. (Trevor’s wearing his favorite clothes and would just hate to get blood on them.)

Other than that, it’s a free-for-all, which in Trevor’s experience always goes smoothly with this bunch.

========

“Oh, my,” Trevor says, watching a Cargobob overshoot them. “That was a close one, wasn’t it.”

Gerald swears, anger and something like panic creeping into his voice and for good reason. The crew is out in force today, Cargobobs overhead and stolen police cars behind. A generous smattering of other stolen vehicles all over the place and they’ve only been at this for twenty, thirty minutes at the outside.

Very dramatic, all of it.

Pulse-pounding adventure and danger. High-speed chases and the car’s engine is making this distressing noise, smoke coming from its engine.

Trevor waves as an SUV goes screaming past, and snaps a picture with his phone – it’s bound to turn out blurry and out of focus, but he’s sure Jeremy will appreciate the thought behind it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” Gerald demands as he puts their poor car in reverse, aiming for a side street they passed. “I mean, seriously. What the fuck?”

Trevor grins and takes a picture of Gerald as he scowls at Trevor in the rearview.

For memories.

“Creative types,” he says, which isn’t stretching the truth at all. The others come up with the most...inventive heists and all sorts of shenanigans. “Wacky.”

========

After the Tank incident several years back, about the time Trevor got dragged into the madness that is the Fake AH Crew, they’re forbidden from bringing a tank into the city.

APCs and the like, however, are not tanks.

“Holy shit,” Gerald whispers, the very image of a broken man. “Holy shit.”

Trevor hmms, and checks to make sure his seat-belt is secure.

“Indeed,” he agrees, and it’s such a shame he ran out of physical room on his phone for videos because their tiny little car facing a line of Brickades is a stunning sight.

Gerald makes this noise in the back of his throat, and Trevor can see the moment he throws all caution to the wind and has his fuck it, what the fuck moment as he puts his foot to the pedal and they shoot forward.

While there are several Brickades present, there aren’t enough to create an effective blockade. More to intimidate than anything else, and Gerald squeezes their car through the narrow gap left open to them with inches to spare. (At least two, possibly three.)

========

There’s a small flock of drones buzzing around them and a Terrorbyte bearing down on them at the other end of the runway. (Not great odds, but Gerald is proving to be quite resourceful or just incredibly lucky.)

“Are those goddamned blimps?”

There’s also a parachute in the air, and by the rainbow pattern it has to be Gavin.

“They’re faster than you’d think,” Trevor says, “and surprisingly maneuverable.”

He smiles, bland little thing, when Gerald gives him an incredulous look.

========

“Why the hell do you people have so many vehicles?”

Trevor glances up from his phone.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, and Gerald repeats himself with a skosh more emphasis this time.

Trevor shrugs, glancing out his window at the freight train they're keeping pace with, occasional flashes of color as the others tries to land on one of the flatcars. They look like dolphins swimming alongside ye olde sailing ships.

Beautiful and graceful even in failure.

They’re being (gently) herded back to Los Santos, although Gerald seems to think he’s still in control of their destination and not the other way around.

“Well I mean,” he says, and shrugs again. “Nice things.”

Shiny, shiny things. Like a kid in a candy store, his crew. See something flashy, shiny and have to have it. Come up with an idea for a heist to get their hands on it or some form of shenanigans or what have you.

Gerald stares at him in the rearview mirror as though he’s realized they’re all a bunch of lunatics.

========

Like all good things, this merry little chase Gerald’s been leading the others must end.

Unlike all good things, it ends with a blockade created with a handy-dandy rocket launcher, several parked cars, and a crashed ultralight as several Cargobobs hover overhead. (They really do love their Cargobobs.)

Also, Ryan hauling poor Gerald out of the driver’s seat where he’s in the process of beating the everloving shit out of him.

Trevor can’t hear whatever Ryan’s telling Gerald as he teaches him a lesson using violence – he’d be a terrible teacher – but he can guess.

Winces as Ryan drags Gerald in for one last doozy of a punch before dropping his unconscious body to the ground, shoulders heaving a little from exertion. Sees Ryan take a moment to compose himself before he makes his way back to the battered car that’s somehow survived the day’s activities.

He unlocks the door and smiles up at Ryan when he wrenches it open like a brute.

“Hello, Ryan,” he says, bright and cheerful. Flattens a hand against his chest and bats his eyes up at the strong, burly man who rescued him from the clutches of the vile kidnapper. Says, with a terrible Southern accent, “My hero.”

Ryan stares at him for a long, long moment, and then he sighs.

All dramatic about it too, the way Geoff gets sometimes as though life is an endless bout of pain and suffering and woe is him, woe is him.

“I hate you,” Ryan says, matter-of-fact, just a simple little declaration.

Trevor smiles.

“I’m sure you do,” he says. Tips his head to the side. “But the real question is, are you still bored?”

There’s a (literal) trail of crashed and ruined vehicles behind them marking the meandering path Gerald took and who knows how much in property damage.

Chaos, panic, and so on. (Par for the course for them.)

Ryan opens his mouth, and pauses.

Unconsciously mirrors Trevor by tipping his head the opposite direction as he considers Trevor’s question. Makes this annoyed sound when he finds his answer.

“...No,” he admits.

Trevor beams at him.

“Well there you go, then!” he says.

The crew had an exciting day and Gerald got his comeuppance for fucking over one of theirs. (Most likely he hasn’t connected the dots, but if he hasn’t there’s always next time.)

“You’re a lunatic,” Ryan says, as though a sane man would be in Trevor’s position with the crew.

Trevor laughs, because yes, but also -

“Thank you, Mr. Vagabond. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Ryan snorts and steps back to let Trevor out of the poor battered car that’s somehow survived everything they threw at it today.

Trevor looks around at the destruction, random people gawking far too close for their own safety. Looks up, and smiles at the Cargobobs circling the area.

The lone Frogger, because Lindsay.

Back down at Ryan who’s got his hand pressed to his earpiece as he talks to the others to let them know Trevor’s “mugger” has been neutralized and Trevor himself is unharmed and so on and so forth.

He feels something a lot like fondness as Ryan keeps shooting him these little looks, giving that up t some point to stand beside him. Shoulder touching Trevor’s because then at least, he’ll have some warning if Trevor slips away to start a bonus round to their little game.

Overhead one of the Cargobobs separates from the pack and looks for a good place to land to ferry them back to the penthouse, and the faint sound of sirens sound in the distance.

Good old LSPD and various emergency services leaping into action now that the Fake AH Crew has finished another one of their games and it’s safe for people to come out to deal with the mess left behind. It’s an odd agreement, understanding, they have, because this kind of game isn’t about body counts the LSPD’s learned it’s better in the long run if the crew get to have their fun.

Trevor laughs at the absurdity of it all because they’re all a little mad here, aren’t they? Keeps things interesting.

“Madman,” Ryan says with a little shake of his head and something like amusement in his voice. “Let’s go home.”

Well, the penthouse, really.

Celebratory drinks, and takeout set to embellished recounting of the day’s adventures. Plans for future rounds with a few tweaks thrown in, and this overall sense of accomplishment on Trevor’s part because the damn pumpkin worked.

[smoothshift]

The story of (and ode to) my $900 BMW E46. Long read ahead. via /r/cars

The story of (and ode to) my $900 BMW E46. Long read ahead.

https://i.imgur.com/hINwDHO.jpg

Decided to make this post after I saw the woes of the guy with the $900 Ranger. If you don't like the writings of Dostoevsky, Tolkien, and Edgar Allen Poe, move along...there may or may not be a tldr at the bottom.

I live in the absolute middle of nowhere in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. You can imagine the lack of car culture; there are as many car enthusiasts up here as there are Packers fans in Detroit. Well, I decided eventually I wanted a BMW, probably because I test drove an e46 328ci before I moved up north. I was 19, the year was 2015.

A 2001 330I on Craigslist caught my eye one day. He was asking $1200. It was a manual, had 167k miles, had the Sport Package (pre-ZHP), had a busted front bumper and crumpled hood, a missing sideskirt and a cracked rear bumper. Only one picture in the ad, salvage title. Hmm, I thought, doesn't look like the bumper was pushed back at all, so maybe it's not as bad as it looks. I called the guy and discussed the car. It ran and drove, just didn't look very good. We emailed back and forth a bit, and I decided to meet him.

Just so happened the car was six hours away, south of Grand Rapids. So next Saturday I jumped in my 2001 Sebring Coupe (what a glorious, reliable hunk of junk) and picked up my buddy Will to spot me back.

We arrived at the place, and there was the car. I think my heart did a little pitter patter. It was sitting in front of the guy's shop (he built and repaired stock cars for a living). Hood was up, and the car was running, but the idle was bouncing like crazy...sounded like a dying animal. I didn't know what was wrong, the guy didn't know what was wrong. I called a BMW dealer, got on the line with one of the techs, and basically was told that I needed to bring them the car before he could offer any advice. Great. Eventually we discovered a large vacuum leak on the lower intake boot. Duct tape fixed that problem. It's also worth noting that the headlights were in the trunk, as the guy had taken the car to the body shop after the wreck to assess it and they hadn't bothered to reinstall them. More on this later.

So then I test drove the car.

I didn't really know how to drive stick. But I winged it. Or wang it. Or whatever. Somehow I only stalled like 3 times before I got it back to the shop. I handed the guy $900 in cash (we hadn't discussed price, here again I "wang" it). He really had wanted $1200 but...we had a deal. He signed the title over. It was still a green title...the insurance company hadn't bothered to write the title off. Probably wasn't worth their time. SCORE.

Next came Phase 2 of the mission. I needed car parts. Luckily, I had been in contact with a guy in Kalamazoo who was parting out an identical 330I, also Schwartz II (AKA Model T Black), also Sport Package. So Will and I left the basketcase BMW and followed Maps in my Sebring...right into the hood of Kalamazoo. As a privileged white male, I was a little out of my comfort zone, to say the least. The GPS dropped us right outside of some kind of impound, and the cars parked outside were old 90s sedans with giant chrome wheels.

Hoo boy.

The impound gate was open and Will and I walked in where a bunch of dudes were standing around smoking. Alarm bells were going off in this country boy's head.

"Uh, I'm looking for a BMW that's being parted out?" The guys exchanged glances and then one said, "Oh I wonder if you're looking for Jose." One of them led me a couple doors down. We walked past a house where an 11 year old was casually smoking cigarettes on the porch. Then turned and walked into Jose's backyard. The big black guy rattled his screen door and he came out. "Bought a wrecked car man? I'll sell you the title for this one. Twenty bucks. Your insurance will be cheaper." I turned down his offer, no thank you, and bought $300 worth of hood, fender and bumper. Whew. We were ready to be out of there, though arguably hadn't seen any trouble, we were just rather uncomfortable there.

We bungeed the hood to the roof of the Sebring, and loaded the bumper inside. I know it took up significant space even with the back seat folded down, and to this day I don't remember how both Will and I fit in the car. But we did.

So we drove back to Wayland, where the e46 was, and bolted on the hood. We didn't want to bother with the latch, so we just took it off and bungeed it down to the bumper. We decided we had enough daylight left to drive back to my parents lived, which was around 3 hours, so we just left the headlights out. More on that later.

We were ready to embark with my "new" BMW. I pushed in the clutch, turned the key, the engine came to life. I put it in reverse, carefully feathered the clutch, and started backing out of the driveway. Oh, did I mention that the passenger side mirror was busted off? Well the passenger side mirror was busted off. IE, I couldn't see anything behind me on my right side. This was fine. I was feathering that clutch like a pro - didn't even stall. All was well until I felt the back end go down, and the front wheels come off the ground. I just backed the car INTO THE DITCH.

Will was doubled over laughing in my Sebring. I had to tuck my sorry tail between my legs, go back into the shop, tell the owner of my misdeed, and ask for help. He pulled me out, and I promised to treat the car better. I doubt he was very confident I would make it home.

Surprisingly, the first while of the journey was great. I adapted quickly to the clutch and shifter, and we made it to Subway to grab a bite to eat. And we got back on the freeway.

Well, about those headlights.

Something must have taken too long, because it started getting dark. We were hauling down the freeway and it looked like we didn't have much daylight left. I called Will.

"Hey I'm just going to hang on your bumper since I don't have headlights. Don't brake too hard, and drive careful." I've had other brilliant ideas as well, like modifying a mousetrap into a toenail clippers.

So we did, and the night came. People started flashing their lights at us, and somehow we didn't pass any cops. I think I might have been in a little hot water if we had. Finally I called Will again.

"Hey, I think we should probably pull over and see if we can put these headlights in. This is kinda stupid." So we did. I pulled one headlight out of the trunk, and put it in. I didn't bother with any hardware, just bungeed it in (bungee straps hold anything together. I'm pretty sure the USSR held together as long as it did due to bungee straps). Plugged in the light connector, and there was light. I went to turn the key...

...and it wouldn't turn.

I jumped onto Google and looked up the problem. Somehow no one else had experienced it. I was almost in tears. Here I was, stuck in my dream car at 10 o'clock at night, and I couldn't as much as turn the key. Will suggested that I wiggle the steering wheel. It worked! BMWs have really tight steering wheel locks compared to the crappy cars I had owned before. We made it the rest of the way to my folks and I ran Will home without further problems that night.

I had many adventures in that car. I named her Helga. In fact, I got a license plate that said "H3LGA." I drove that thing down many dirt roads, never got stuck! (It's worth noting that dirt roads up north are often pretty nice) Helga weathered several brutal winters, thanks to Hankook snow tires. That was the first car I ever put confidence in. I took her down to Virginia in the middle of the summer without AC. I whipped the curves of H58. I went camping and slept in the cramped backseat. I even...get this...beat stock Dodge Neons at the stoplight! I got through some of the loneliest times of my life with Helga as my friend that always was there for me. Sure, it cost me a clutch and flywheel, a CCV system refresh, several vacuum hoses, other random parts, and a differential (another story for another time) but it was SO WORTH IT. I think all in the car cost me about $4000 over the 50,000 miles/3 years that I owned it.

Last year, in the name of diversity and practicality I traded it for a beat up Honda Civic hatch. Stupidest thing I ever did. Current stable is a 1996 318ti and a 1988 535i, both manuals. I'm now addicted to cheap, old BMWs, and you can't talk me out of it.

I just deleted a thousand word rant about what happens when stupid people own BMWs. You're welcome.

Tl;Dr I bought a manual BMW for $900, owned it for 3 years, loved it, and put about $3000 in parts into it.

[softgrungeprophet]

it’s that time again. time for me to be annoyed/frustrated at the comics that came in the 20-teens that simultaneously responded directly to the 2000s, followed in the 2000s’ continuation, but completely glossed over and ignored the very serious topics that were brought up. and then we get the fucking 2018 run which does NEITHER and just seeks to make it worse for shock value without being even remotely thoughtful about anything it does! wow.

we could have had some really interesting growth for eddie and the symbiote’s relationship by honestly addressing things like eddie’s illness, hypocrisy as anti-venom, his status as a victim of abuse, and so on...

of course i know if i say “eddie is a victim” people will get hissy but like.... i’m not saying he’s an innocent blameless baby who was manipulated into being the weirdo he is... i’m just saying... he’s a victim of abuse. he’s been taken advantage of a lot. almost any help he’s received has required some kind of reciprocation.

he’s a shithead and he went off the deep-end after new ways to die because remender’s version of eddie fucking sucks, he’s smug and weird and violent, and also he’s been neglected and tortured and abused and experimented on and he needs therapy and blah blah blah

he’s also not some fuckin accidental drunk driver who was hit into thinking he’s innocent. that’s so fucking--jeez. everything about these retcons donny has been doing miss the point even more than the comics he says he loves so much. it’s wild. like i don’t like new ways to die OR new ways to live, remender’s run was okay but i hated the way he wrote eddie, marvel knights spider-man just sucks in general, the hunger 03 also sucks, but like they do feed into each other in a way that.... sort of makes sense....

i just wish there was a way any of the comics would have said, “hey look there are some ways in which eddie is a victim but there are also some ways in which he needs to take responsibility for his actions”

but that kind of nuanced take is impossible for the way these comics are put out and canceled and retconned and so on forever.. it’s so ... ugh.....

the hunger 03 sucks... it also influenced over a decades’ worth of Venom comics including costa’s in its own weird way.... and i just wish we could simultaneously be like, Yes the symbiote is not inherently evil or corrupting but Also it did abuse Eddie, and Yes Eddie has been treated poorly for a great deal of his life and Also is a motherfucker who needs to be held responsible for his actions.

Is this hypocritical to be like, “can we address the 2000s” while also saying “2018 run is not valid”

in my defense even the shitty 2000s were like a continuity and didn’t try to fully retcon every single aspect of venom lore that ever existed (tho it sure did plenty of retconning....) whereas the current run... is doing exactly that....

of course this goddamn run will probably also influence the following comics unless the next writers retcon the retcons or like, ignore it and it gets put into its own earth or something. idk. like no one really counts dark origin right? and that works cause it also had a negligible influence on the rest of the comics. but like, the bad hunger had a very lasting impact on the comics. so i guess we just hope that donny cates, despite currently selling super well, does not actually influence any of the comics that come after?

i don’t fuckin know. i just think it kind of sucks that like “eddie was abused” is something that gets used as either a “lol no that never happened and if you talk about it you hate the symbiote” or else an excuse to demonize the symbiote even after its own character growth arcs in the apparently supremely unpopular gotg and space knight stuff... lol

maybe if every fucking series from 2013 to 2016 (minus costa which is honestly more 2017) didn’t get canned we could have gotten more. like honestly, 2016′s Carnage--for all its flaws--seemed like it had something to say about Eddie as a character, about his flaws and so on, and I gotta wonder where that was going. It flat out says “Venom didn’t make Eddie Brock a bastard” so like? But then at the same time all of the symbiotes in that series were completely silent so? I don’t even know.

Cullen Bunn was clearly going somewhere too but I have no idea where other than “symbiote is alive but has trouble communicating” and “eddie is coming down from his murder spree as he realizes flash thompson is in fact helping people as agent venom”

the two fit together in a very strangely complementary way. sometimes i gotta wonder about a universe in which those two comics in particular ran concurrently to address venom, flash, toxin, and eddie’s many issues. but toxin’s probably gone... though in my heart they are with jubulile and her mom in south africa, learning what it’s like to be part of a loving family...

man. the resigned “Okay.” at the end of twav...... twav good imo.

anyway

i don’t even know what the point of this is. i’m all over the place in this post. it’s frustrating that donny has made it kinda impossible to bring up eddie’s victimhood without like... qualifying it to the ends of the earth to clarify that you don’t think he’s some kind of pure cinnamon roll who’s been dreadfully manipulated for 12 years....

I feel like I’m not making any sense!!! Words are hard.

I feel like I’ve kinda been avoiding writing about the symbiote though in part because it’s hard for me to balance that many characters and in part because of Donny’s stupid bullshit, which is dumb as fuck but I guess that’s what he wanted huh!!!! Need to read Lethal Protector to cleanse my palate but it’s taking forever to get it from the library because they only have one copy.

ugh

The symbiote is not an evil creature like he wants everyone to think... goddammit.... but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t carefully address both its and Eddie’s mistakes without fabricating new different mistakes to obscure the previous ones. Or whatever. Fuckin I don’t know lol the entirety of the continuity is just a bunch of bullshit. 80s-90s continuity largely separate from 2000-20...15ish continuity largely separate AGAIN from the 2016 continuity yet also directly tied to it, against completely separated from the 2018 continuity which is off saying “fuck you” to literally every venom writer to ever exist since Eddie’s conception, ironically including the guy who wrote the cursed hunger

What am I trying to say! I don’t know! i feel like a broken record. There’s a lot of empty space between Agent Venom and 2016 that was never filled! also between 2016 and 2018 lmfao.

Donny “everything went wrong and I’m not going to explain how other than ‘God’ and ‘Eddie lost his job cause screaming symbiote’“ Cates really pullin some shit. what do you mean eddie tends to work toward solving his own problems EVEN WHILE DYING. waid’s mini-story in NWTD showed that eddie, despite being sad and sick and exhausted was still like.... eddie, stubbornly searching out his own solutions and getting angry. ofc i’m not sure how well it succeeded at parts. the comics in those days were still pretty steeped in the weird symbiote hallucinations that it was never clear if they were meant to be caused by the symbiote or just eddie’s sick brain. like the Last Temptation. I have a love-hate relationship with those two issues... I think they’re pretty well-done but also something about them just rubs me the wrong way. 

Anyway back to Cates: it’s not like there wasn’t space for a spiral after FH or anything. You could have really dug into Eddie and the symbiote’s insecurities wrt family and parenting. but nah. let’s just make it so there’s a SECRET CHILD, and oh the pre-established sibling? we could have dug into her and made her a real character. but no, she doesn’t exist, women are either fake or dead or violated.

asshole.

but again like..... the 03 hunger, cursed and bad... like... it’s still workable. you can work with the corrupting forces, the addiction metaphor (on the SYMBIOTE’S part, with adrenaline) and the intense codependency, and still have them move on and into a healthier-by-comparison relationship.

but cates’ run is like... much harder to recover from if it has as lasting of an effect, because it leaves no part untouched, and goes beyond “normal” abuse into really weird unforgiveable territory... like the canon of that comic is the canon in which everything has been completely changed into something unrecognizable.

i joke about my AUs being unrecognizable because, visually at least, they WOULD be unrecognizable for most Venom fans, but the comics inform them as characters a lot in the stories i write in those AUs, from the 96 good hunger, to the 03 bad hunger, to space knight to venom inc, and so on. But donny cates really is out here essentially reverse-engineering retcons to justify his characterizations.

barely related: the way eddie was raised and the way he coped by overachieving and so on and so forth makes me think he would have--despite presumably gaining a great deal of confidence in college once out of his father’s home--been really vulnerable to being taken advantage of by like, other students or teachers, but idk how exactly to articulate what i mean like... uh... not even that he WAS taken advantage of but that his need for validation would have left him open to it... i guess??

that’s got pretty much nothing to do with this post though but kinda ties into what i’ve said before about how i think eddie was a withdrawn and isolated adolescent who only opened up in college. why i disagree with donny’s retcon for that reason in addition to other reasons--the way he’d been shown to be bullied as a kid in previous comics, as well as the lack of history of alcoholism, the clarification in lethal protector that carl wasn’t physical, so on and so forth.

again that’s not related to this post really... and it’s like, a good 50% headcanon, but it makes sense in my head as something that fits his history?? i guess?

[andysandfordcomedy]

2022 I bid you adieu

(badass album cover by Ben Ziskind)

(me after first surgery. August 2020)

I’ll be honest with you, trusting reader: it feels pretty good to do one of these end of the year posts without the all too familiar “good riddance, this stupid ass year and hello, arbitrarily numbered upcoming year: Imma make you my BITCH!” At a certain point, the disingenuous core of that fake attitude shines through and it’s just a bit cringy. I can’t help but fall into the trap of assigning meaning to this year because it just so happens to be proof in a 3 year cup of pudding for me. 2020 was so fucking rough for me, and I was not in the mood to overcome all that bullshit (Crohn’s flare up, addiction issues, 2 surgeries, 3 months with a colostomy bag, intensely alone and depressed the whole time) just to get to a starting point of 0 for what I needed to do: build, workout, and eventually tape my best hour. I built and worked it out after moving to Atlanta in March of 2021, recorded in February 2022, and after some bullshit, finally released in November of 2022. It feels so goddam good to be able to say that. And not only that, but with all the tracks in rotation on 3 different channels on XM and an amazing jump off with 6 full album spins (meaning whole album played straight through 6 times) in week one. That’s the way to start the day right there(woo!).

I’m not one for heavy spiritual overtones, but if I hadn’t already had experience in setting goals that were just beyond the horizon and with no road map to guide me toward accomplishing those goals, I don’t know if I could have followed through with how far past the horizon and how vague the path was to get to where I hoped to get on this particular trial and tribulation. I really felt on the cusp of letting myself wither away in my room in bedstuy OR following the pull of the intuitive compass inside my chest pulling me towards Atlanta, towards the Earl, towards the people I needed to work with, and toward a very specific career path that I would be the first person I know to prove to myself it’s a viable one. I know that sounds crazy, or maybe dramatic, but I don’t know anyone that made the same plans as me, much less someone to watch pave the away ahead of me, reassuring me that it’s doable. Now I know that it’s more doable than I had initially hoped, which never fucking happens to me. 

Ok, I will try not to be vague here for the sake of others wondering what career paths are viable in stand up comedy. Of course, I think everyone should know that there truly is no set path to “making it” and I don’t even know what you have in your head as what “making it” is, but everyone should come to terms with the good and bad sides of how true that is, that there is no set path to a comedy career. On one end, you need not be discouraged if you don’t seem to fit what is often portrayed to be the path to comedy success. If you are like me and mysteriously unbookable for all supposed comedy stepping stone up & coming comedians on the rise/look out for these new faces of comedy’s future showcase festivals as decided by industry gate keepers with the power to “make” whoever they think they’ve discovered...don’t worry. Not only is it possible to have a career without being tapped by a future outted sex offender type, that whole model is completely hollow. That is all pomp and pageantry that doesn’t predict the future of comedy at all. On occasion, they happen to see the talent in a talented person that would’ve gone onto to do big things with their talent regardless, and then people reverse engineer what was causation and correlation or whatever. My point is, don’t fucking shed one tear over not getting New Faces, or wonder if you should quit because Comedy Central told you in a meeting that they just don’t know what to do with you, but hey you are funny. And yes, that’s me I am referencing there. My intuition told me to let my stubbornness take the wheel and laugh at those execs when they said that to me, because at the time Comedy Central was everything and to accept reality at that moment would mean I was just informed for sure that I had no chance at a career in comedy. Luckily, I have to do this anyway, and as it turned out, Comedy Central ain’t shit now and is only going to be less relevant to anyone in the world of stand up going forward. That’s the good part about there being no set path: you can’t know for a fact that you’re screwed. The downside is of course that you can’t be sure what is a viable approach until you know where that approach leads. And now I will stop gumflappin and explain my personal path I’ve decided to thwack through the comedy woods.

One aspect of comedy that you can bet your bottom dollar on is that you can’t really rely on shit. Everything is so precarious and quick-sandy. So many big things almost happen before the bottom falls out. Even live shows that you have already done make you nervous until that check clears. One of the only dependable sources of income in comedy for me personally has been residuals through the world of comedy audio. Over the years, my monthly sound exchange deposit has only become more and more crucial to my survival, and it’s at the heart of any possibly viable shot at making the kind of passive income where I could do more than just get by, but could actually see myself having real money to retire on and continue to grow. It took a couple albums that I worked very hard on and years of experience learning how XM and Pandora and the world of comedy audio itself works to not just be able to pay my rent and bills with my monthly deposit, but to see a path and timeline that could be very lucrative and actually doable, though not easy at all. In 2018, I released my second album and first special, Shameful Information, and my first album, Me The Whole Time, was still getting played on XM quite a bit, so for 2018/19 I was averaging an all time high for me on my monthly deposits. Well life kept happening to me as it does, and I had never had to think along the lines of any timeline beyond check to check my whole life, so yada yada, by the time pandemic hit and my deposits started to dip down some and I had no other income, and no plan or real possible way to be ready to record a next album that would be anywhere up to snuff, much less better than my last one (always my goal), I had to think about how to start gettin busy working toward my next best hour, and I knew that best case scenario, I wouldn’t have a whole grip of new tracks being added to rotation for at least a couple years. And as things tend to go, I was thrown into much worse than the best case scenario, so it’s really a miracle that I only had to suffer a more or less 5 year gap. The longest gap I will ever allow moving forward, I assure you. However, even with that damn near 5 year gap, I am still covering rent and bills with my deposit having no tracks newer than 2018. That goes to show the staying power of comedy audio if you put in the effort to make a good album. That showed me that if I can bust my ass to record a quality album every 2 to 2 and a half years, I won’t just be playing catch up, I will be stacking paper more and more with each album. 

Basket Case came out in November, and I will start getting money from those tracks in February and March, and my hope to get back to where I was in 2018/19 and then work on the next album to put me over that mark turned out to be wrong in the best way. The good news is, I will be making the money I hoped to be making in 2024/25 by February 2023. That is wonderful news, but no reason to think I added time to the clock. It’s all about keeping the quality up anyway, but that happens to be an obsession of mine that I can’t not shoot for. I’m just putting all this down on record here to let whoever needs to know that a career in comedy without fame or celebrity or the average person even knowing who you are is very possible. I am that comedian. Only comedy nerds know me, and I really don’t mind that at all. I want everyone who would love my shit to be able to find my shit and see me in person. Beyond that, everyone else can kick rocks. I don’t need em. I’ve been poor as shit most of my life, and I am about to be richer than I ever thought I would be. I feel lucky as hell that I can’t help myself from doing what some would consider an insane amount of work, but it isn’t work to me. It never will be. That’s dumb luck, ya know?

Do me a favor: Don’t follow your fucking dreams. Dreams are nonsense: follow your obsession, and figure out some way to satisfy that obsession so that it pays you well enough to not have to actually work just so that you can do that thing. If that isn’t possible in the end, turn to non-violent crime. That’s what I’d do. Anything but soul draining jobs that make other people money. Do whatever you can to have money and not let money have you. Don’t be afraid to lean toward the less safe route. Having a financial safety net won’t save you from being miserable. Do whatever ya gotta do, just don’t do what you wanna do any less. That’s all you’ll regret in the end, believe me. You heard it here: 2023 is gonna be great. Imma start dispensing rhyming wisdom, for real. 

Follow your obsession, fight off your depression.

toodles 2022!

-Andy

[world-of-tanks-blitz-cheaym]

World of Tanks Blitz codes: August | Pocket Gamer

💾 ►►► DOWNLOAD FILE 🔥🔥🔥 Jump to content. Or even just a simple IP ban. If they're just scanning for cheat engine being attached then once I have the code responsible for fps, then I can simply write a. Since you are on pc, can you dig into the game folder and edit the graphics options settings page directly? As to anti-cheat and running some other software to modify parameters I do remember that trick, but iirc rhey fixed it pretty quickly. At least when I tried it 2 years ago it didn't work. Now that I've gained some experience with reverse engineering games, I wouldn't mind trying to get on blitz. In before ban hammer! WMd76, on 21 February - AM, said:. WMd76, on 21 February - PM, said:. Yeah, I'm back. Let's not make a big deal about this. Risottogeddon, on 22 February - PM, said:. The address holds the value of the frame cap in plain numbers instead of a flag like value. So what I did, was just use Cheat Engine and scan for the value of the cap, Then switch to 30 fps mode, and scan for that after a battle since the setting in settings only takes effect after a battle has started. Then scan for 30 after that battle and switch to 60 fps mode, and repeat. Eventually I found 3 addresses, one was a static address. This means it is always the same offset from the beginning of the exe. So I played with this value first and low and behold it was the right one lol. WMd76, on 23 February - PM, said:. WMd76, on 24 February - AM, said:. Your device knows where all the enemy tanks are. Enemy camo would not exist. Let me ask you this though. How are you so sure they handled it that way? I was in the middle of writing a few counter points on how they could handle it, but then I realized that in replays you can see both teams right? It's been a while. If you can, then either you are correct or the server sends you the information post battle. Then saves the replay file with this additional info. I dunno. To add the obvious here, I wouldn't try that because that's actually cheating. Which isn't my goal, it was just to unlock the fps cap for people on PC. Community Forum Software by IP. Does the game check for memory injection? Page 1 of 2 1 2 Next. I'm curious for one main reason. I'm tempted to try to find a way to unlock fps for PC since this game for some unknown reason will not play well with G-Sync, and my monitor is hz anyways. If you don't know what I mean by 'memory injection', I honestly don't blame you. I suck at wording things. To keep it simple, when you run a program it's code, and the variables and flags are loaded into memory, or RAM. When this happens, each byte of RAM the game uses can be accessed via a memory viewer I. Visual Studio or even something as simple as Cheat Engine. When you view the memory addresses, depending on what program you use, you can change the values within the addresses. I'm curious if the game checks for this and will ban, because I'd love to find a way to get fps and I'm tired of waiting for WG to add it. I believe that there is an anti-cheat engine in place in Blitz. I don't really know it's exact extent though. You could always try making a reroll account and testing it that way though. Certified Batignolles Chatillon 25t addict. That was shown to work in the past. I've killed a lot of braincells in my life. Like, a lot. I could use a memory injection. If it burns when I pee, does that mean I wouldn't be a good fireman? Well if I do get banned for 'cheating' let it be known that for the record it was actually very easy, did it within 10 minutes. If I may be so curious, was it a simple edit or did it involve a 3rd party tool, or Edited by acrisis, 21 February - PM. WMd76, on 21 February - AM, said: Well if I do get banned for 'cheating' let it be known that for the record it was actually very easy, did it within 10 minutes. Smh jk. The address that holds your fps cap is wotblitz. Risottogeddon, on 22 February - PM, said: so uh how did you find the address, because i am mildly stupid. You know, sprites, pixies, fairies and maybe even unicorns. WMd76, on 23 February - PM, said: The address holds the value of the frame cap in plain numbers instead of a flag like value. I hate Annihilator spammers I need more tanks Wallet Warrior: Loyal Original M60 owner. Reply to quoted posts Clear. Sign In Username or email:. Remember me. Sign in anonymously.

[lynchkavinskyparrish]

Ronan/Kavinsky

11. “You’re going to make it. Just stay awake.”

 Ronan was at one of Kavinsky’s substance parties, steadfastly ignoring said party’s host. Ignoring the smug looks and ignoring the thought that, Kavinsky, in his element, was truly something to behold. 

He may have come to Kavinsky on his own recognizance, but he had given up enough of his pride by showing up to the damn thing, he wasn’t about to give Kavinsky any more satisfaction by staring. That didn’t mean he couldn’t listen.

The strange crossbreed of the New Jersey and Bulgarian accent gave Kavinsky’s voice an almost melodic lilt. It made him easy to distinguish from the crowd and nearly impossible to ignore. His particular cadence was marred by the harsh words he spoke with even harsher syllables, but Ronan found he didn’t mind the added roughness.

 It was to be expected from Kavinsky and, recently, Ronan had found comfort in the expected. Everything in Ronan’s life had been turned on its head, nothing felt stable. Even Gansey, the most constant part of his life, had become irregular. Gansey’s Glendower obsession had become more real and Ronan had become less tethered. 

Everything was changing, but Kavinsky, Kavinsky was a constant. Ronan liked to use that idea, liked to pretend that was the only reason he came to the party. The alternative, the idea that he was drawn to the fire in Kavinsky’s eyes, was less desirable.  

It was pathetic but, while Ronan may not have done any of the substances at the party, he was there to meet an addiction. Every so often, he had to visit Kavinsky, just to reminded himself of why he was a bad idea. Ronan would stage a ‘chance meeting’. Kavinsky would say just the wrong thing. And Ronan would leave, anger temporarily burying desire.

The problem was that, recently, Kavinsky hadn’t been too bad. His insults had become routine and they’d lost their potency. Ronan was having to replace quality for quantity. 

He knew it was a shitty excuse, but anything was better than admitting that he simply wanted to see Joseph Kavinsky. Every time he saw him though, it was getting harder and harder to deny the way he affected Ronan.

Kavinsky reminded him of lightening;  bright, violent, alive, and impossible to contain. It was more than just that though, Kavinsky was loud. There was an air to him that told Ronan that there was no possible universe where Kavinsky wasn’t a king. Here, he may have been the king of the damned, but he could have made himself a king of any situation.He was something other, something ethereal. 

Kavinsky seemed to only get harder to understand the more Ronan tried. Unfortunately, the reverse didn’t seem true. Even through his obnoxious glasses, Ronan could feel Kavinsky’s piercing gaze.

Kavinsky understood things about Ronan that no one else did. He saw through Ronan; he had taken him apart and put him back together again in just a few encounters. Yet Ronan only knew enough about Kavinsky to know which pieces were the most artificial. He knew more than most, probably because no one else cared enough to try, but that was the problem. Ronan cared. Ronan cared about Joseph Kavinsky.

And anyone who knew anything about anything knew there was nothing more futile than caring about Kavinsky. It was like re-watching a sad movie, knowing what was going to happen, and hoping, against all odds, that it wouldn’t. Kavinsky was a train crash waiting to happen: hard to look at, harder to look away from. Most everyone knew this; it was fairly obvious Kavinsky was mentally unstable, perhaps even deranged, but that was part of the appeal to them. They wanted a show. They wanted the spectacle that was the rumor of Kavinsky. No one cared that the drugs and booze were poorly-disguised, self-destructive, coping mechanisms.

No one but Ronan that was. And even then, Ronan resented the fact. It was useless to care about someone who couldn’t be saved and Kavinsky was king of the damned for a reason. 

Ronan knew all this but, sometimes, he needed the visceral reminder that was Kavinsky in the flesh. He finally broke his vow of stubborn apathy and looked over at Kavinsky.

He was leaning against Proko’s golf, surrounded by his pack and some people Ronan didn’t know (he doubted Kavinsky knew them either). The party-goers seemed to orient themselves towards Kavinsky even when he wasn’t doing much of anything. Kavinsky, however, decided to face Ronan.    

His smirk seemed to grow when he realized he Ronan was looking back. “You here to party Lynch or are you just creeping?”

Ronan rolled his eyes but didn’t respond.

Kavinsky then patted the hood of the car he was leaning against, as if beckoning a loyal dog.

When Ronan scowled and flipped him off, Kavinsky changed tactics. He leaned down towards to cooler at his feet, grabbed a bottle of beer, and waved it in offering. He was offering a way for Ronan to do what he’d requested without forfeiting his pride.

Ronan could have gotten a beer himself. He could have ignored the offer and walked away. Better yet, he could have gotten back in his car and left the party all together. 

He did none of those things. 

Instead he walked over to the car, the crowd parting for the ‘guest of honor’, and took the beer.

Kavinsky’s started shit talking as soon as Ronan leaned against the car. “Dick know his pet’s out for a walk?”

Ronan started standing up to leave, but Kavinsky held out his arm to stop him, silently agreeing to stop the Gansey comments, at least temporarily. He then patted Ronan’s chest and made a tsking sound. “So sensitive.”

That didn’t even receive an eyeroll from Ronan, but Kavinsky persisted. He pulled a baggie of designer silver pills out of his pocket and offered one to Ronan. Ronan shook his head but Kavinsky didn’t quit. “What the fuck are you doing at my substance party then?”

That was a question Ronan couldn’t answer, but he knew what to say to get Kavinsky to drop the subject. “I can leave.”

Pursing his lips and sighing, Kavinsky took a pill for himself, and put the bag away.

They both knew this game.

Kavinsky knew Ronan would have taken the pill had they been alone. And Ronan knew Kavinsky didn’t want Ronan to leave. It was a precarious balance that, more often than not, ended poorly for everyone involved. That never stopped them though.

The party went on, unconcerned with their hard-won balance. Unfamiliar music rocked the car, people came up to Kavinsky to exchange substances and money or favors. No one talked to Ronan, and Kavinsky was occupied with other people, but Ronan would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t enjoying himself.

With Kavinsky being less obnoxious than usual, Ronan was forced to acknowledge his charm. He watched him strike deals and manage the party effortlessly and couldn’t help but appreciate his sharp wit and silver tongue. And, even Gansey would have had to admit, Kavinsky wasn’t hard to look at.

When the crowd died down Kavinsky caught Ronan staring. He had been planning to say something lewd and insulting but he was stopped by the look in Ronan’s eyes.

The spark there captured Kavinsky; he was temporarily frozen, trapped by the electricity between them.

Kavinsky felt vulnerable and exposed. Even so, had they been alone, he probably would have acted on it. But they weren’t, so he took a swig of vodka and tried to brush it off. He paid no mind to Ronan as he climbed on the hood of the car and made an announcement. “Who’s ready to fucking go?!”

The crowd, drunk and high, cheered at the vague statement.

Kavinsky then jumped off the car, motioned to Jiang, and walked over to one of the many white Mitsubishis without looking back at Ronan. Ronan saw Jiang nod and get in his own car. 

People moved closer to the edges of the dirt road, vying to get a better view as they placed bets on the race. Ronan abstained, choosing to move to the top of the golf and watch silently instead.

He wasn’t hurt by Kavinsky’s reaction. Ronan understood and he was, quite honestly, grateful Kavinsky had killed the moment. It wouldn’t have ended well for either of them if he hadn’t. Ronan had been acting stupidly. There was no happily ever after for them, and there never would be.

Still, Ronan couldn’t help but fantasize about a different universe. One where Kavinsky wasn’t as broken as he was. A world where his sharp edges weren’t quite as sharp and didn’t cut as deeply. In that world, a world where Kavinsky could get better, Ronan thought they could have worked. But it was a futile, reckless, thought and Ronan tried to quash it right away. He decided to blame his stupidity on the alcohol and turned his attention to the race. 

Kavinsky was slightly ahead of Jiang but, when they rounded the corner, he veered off the track. He drove his car head first into a tree without slowing down. It was as if he hadn’t even attempted to correct his course at all, and all Ronan could think was that it hadn’t been an accident.

He jumped off the car and moved towards the crash site. No one else moved. Possibly, no one else knew what to do when the commander could no longer command. More likely, they thought it was all part of the show.  

Giving up all pretense of emotional detachment, Ronan started running towards the wreckage. Apparently, his concern was contagious, because someone finally decided to call 911. The call, and the knowledge that the police were en route, killed the party and Ronan heard people heading out.

Soon enough the the sounds of the rapidly departing party-goers died down and the fair grounds were silent except for the ticking of the dying engine and the arguing of the core members of Kavinsky posse. When Kavinsky hadn’t open the car door they’d joined Ronan in rushing over. 

Ronan, in an uncharitable moment of bitterness, was genuinely surprised they cared.

He pushed these thoughts asside as he arrived at the car. He couldn’t see much over the smoking engine but thankfully the driver’s side door wasn’t completely trashed. He was able to pry it open and Kavinsky, having forgone his seat belt, fell out onto the unforgiving red dirt. 

Ronan pulled him the rest of the way out of the smoldering vehicle and kneeled next to his head. He was conscious, but just barely.

The only thing Ronan could think to say was, “the ambulance is on its way.”  

Kavinsky groaned and managed to glare at Ronan. He cursed in Bulgarian. Ronan’s confused stare seemed to remind Kavinsky of his company. 

He translated his cursing in a strained voice. “Fucking ass face.” The anger in his eyes matched the venom in his voice. “I don’t need a god damn hospital.”

Raising his eyebrows skeptically, Ronan replied. “Yes. You do you idiot. You could have fucking died.”

Kavinsky laughed, slightly manically. “That’s sort of the fucking point dick.” His laughter was cut off by a pained groan and a cough.

Ronan went from worried and confused to furious. His next words were spoken through clenched teeth. “You might still get your fucking wish.”

Kavinsky turned his head to the side to cough out blood before snorting and letting his eyes close, apparently too tired to keep responding.

By this point, the remaining few had congregated around the pair. They remained silent and Ronan ignored their presence completely.

He didn’t shout at, the possibly unconscious, Kavinsky, but it was a near thing. “You selfish asshole!” Ronan took a deep breath in an, unsuccessful, attempt at calming down, before continuing.  “I finally start fucking caring and you - you  try to fucking off yourself?!” When Kavinsky just coughed Ronan kept going. “You’re a God Damn coward Kavinsky.”

Kavinsky sighed and weakly patted Ronan’s thigh. Ronan was suddenly drained of his anger, more exhausted and worried than anything else. 

He lowered his voice and spoke in quiet desperation. “You’re going to make it.” He close his eyes briefly. “Just stay awake.”

Ronan opened his eyes in time to see Kavinsky crack one of his own open. He tugged roughly on Ronan’s bracelets then closed his eyes and struggled to speak. “Fucking … hypocrite.”

There was nothing Ronan could say in response, but he knew better than to let Kavinsky fall asleep, so he slapped Kavinsky across the face. It worked, but only enough to make Kavinsky glare at Ronan as he spoke through coughs. “just … let me die … fucker”

Kavinsky’s eyes closed again but Ronan could hear the ambulance approaching. It drew nearer, the noise increased, and Ronan felt secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be heard over the sirens. “I swear to God, if you survive, I will fucking make this work.”

Ronan’s voice cracked and he fought the tears gathering in his eyes. “Drag your dumb ass to rehab or some shit.” He couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t care about the broken boy, dying in his lap. 

His desperation reached a crescendo and even Ronan couldn’t tell if he was addressing Kavinsky or God. “Just give me a fucking chance!”

Before anyone could respond to Ronan’s request, the paramedics took Kavinsky away. Then Kavinsky’s pack scattered and Ronan was left alone, kneeling in the dirt, covered in a dying king’s blood.

Eventually he’d clean himself up and drive to the hospital. But, for now, he waited. He waited until the sirens were only a distant echo and even then, he didn’t move. After an unquantifiable period of time of this, waiting for nothing, he stood up and walked slowly back to his car. 

He’d head to the hospital, visit Kavinsky, see if he lived, and go from there.

It may have been an awful, pointless, decision but Ronan had said he would try and Ronan Lynch was everything but a liar.  

[extraterrestrialmasquerade]

Xogue’s Letter

Transmission Sent from Pyronian Homeworld to C’rululian Homeworld.

Hello C’Etherax,

I imagine I should be telling you this in person.  But I don’t know when that will be and well…as you know I can’t leave things undone.  I’ve never been one to wait.

First off, I am sorry for racing the night before the mission.  It was stupid of me, I know.  If I had gotten hurt then that would have prevented me from providing psionic back up during the raid, and I am aware that the Major may have chosen to just cancel the mission instead of doing a last minute switch.  It was stupid.  I know.

I am not upset that you yelled at me.  I am upset that you insinuated that I am a part of the Empire’s StarForce solely for the adrenalin.  It’s not true.   And well…I guess the best way to start is at the beginning.   When I was four years old I first started manifesting what my people call Silver Fever.  On Pyronia it is believed that to be born under a triple full moon is bad luck.  Or to be conceived under a triple full moon.  Or to have your first in utero kick under a triple full moon.  Or to sneeze under a….okay I am making the last one up.  Anyhow Silver Fever is so named because it is believed to be caused by lunar interference.  I know its hard for you, who were born and raised in the Empire, to understand that.  But on Pyronia…education levels are low.  People think differently.  

I remember when I was four I was always buzzing around in at the Meeting of the Youth.  I hated standing still.  I also loved textures.  I had to touch everything.  Smooth.  Rough.  Heavy.  Light.  Slimy.  Dry.  Sticky.  Smooth.  They all fascinated me.  Then randomly on certain days I couldn’t stand to touch anything.  And, well, on the order and honor loving culture I was born in, this could cause…conflicts.  One of the Youth Trainers beat me.  I got kicked out of one Meeting for fighting.  I wasn’t trying to be violent.  I just got caught up in running and jumping and was so well..caught in the moment I couldn’t tell that the child I was roughhousing with wasn’t having fun with me. My reversals on wanting to touch everything one day and nothing the next were seen as insubordination.

  I remember Uncle Zar coming over to my families house and I would be told “Run Xogue-re and play with your sister.”  “-re” is is a term of endearment on our world, but when its said with a certain tone by your parents you know you are clandestinely being given an order.

   Eventually things got so bad that they, at Uncle Zar’s prompting, were planning on doing an antennae-rectomy.  You see the biological cause of Silver Fever is an imbalance in how our antennae relate to the rest of our nervous system. The brain expects more neural input then the antennae can give.  The running, jumping texture exploring is all a way (even though we don’t realize it) to give neural feedback so that the brain feels like it is getting the stimulation we should get.

   Sometimes when you aren’t able to move/jump/ride like your body wants to do it feels like you are about to be tickled but the tickle never comes.  Other times it feels like a deep restlessness.  Sometimes it is just feels like a deep sadness.  I don’t know why it manifests the different ways it does.  In my community the sorts of over the job athleticism we want to manifest is seeing as uncouth and even a threat to the family image.   Cutting of the antennae convinces the brain that it should be receiving no input, thus correcting the problem.  The side effects are life-long imbalance, the loss of any psionic gifts and life-long head pain.  C’therax, I loved the high of climbing up the rocks over the cool mist of the ocean.  I loved jumping from the trees to the icy river.  I loved it when I snuck out on my good Uncle Rey’s motorcycle and felt the wind in my antennae…that was life for me.  And the thought of that sharp blade cutting me, that I could only be a part of the community if part of my being was compromised…that was too much.  So I ran out.  And I even left a small prank ooze bomb behind in my room.  I was young and angry.  I guess I just wanted to leave one last invective behind at the family who hated me.  

I lived as a lone wolf.  I would take odd jobs.  And even a few…undignified…ones.  I would steel occasionally.  I would participate frequently in illegal street races.  I had a strong track record.  It gave me some cash to live on.  And then one day a competitor switched out the oil in my engine.  It was a clever formula.  For half the race my motorcycle ran just fine.  Then half way through I could smell the burning and it smelled like a cross between vomit and roadkill.  For my extrasensory senses it broke my concentration.  When the engine gave out I didn’t have the wits to handle the out of control machine.  I slid and crashed into the window of an apartment building and the bike landed on a man there.  

I was dragged to court.  My family, dishonored by what I was didn’t show up.  Accept for my bad Uncle Zar who offered to let me off if I were to become a servant(?) (I am not sure what the word for it would be in your language) for him.  I spat in his face.  By the time a police officer drove us apart I had severely damaged one of his eyes.  Neither my Uncle nor the officer pressed charges.  The officer refrained because he saw my uncle was a repulsive creature and as for my Uncle…let’s just say he didn’t want the threat of shame if there was no…benefits shall we say?…from being involved. Besides my uncle thought I was going to rot in jail anyway.  

The victim of the accident was in critical condition at the hospital and I found out we were a blood match which for our species means we are likely to be a match as well. I volunteered on the condition, and I know this will sound weird, that my donation be anonymous.  Yes, it occurred to me that if I saved the man’s life the judge might be moved for a lighter sentence.  But I didn’t want a lighter sentence.  I hated my self.  I hated my silver fever.  I hated my life on the road.  I hated not having a family.  I wanted to suffer to, rot in prison to never see the sun set.  So I gave an organ and planed for the man never to find out that I had donated it.  

Well before my trial I saw one of the nurses walk up to him and whisper in his ear.  At the trials opening he petitioned the judge for the trial to be delayed one week.  It was the longest week of my life.  When the trial resumed the man took the stand and said he had spent the week meditation upon the Immutable and recommended that I me let off “for reasons that are my own.”

And to my shock and horror the judge granted me amnesty.  The word of my donation got out.  The newspaper reporters flooded the courthouse like vultures.  I was the topic of every social media outlet on that planet and all of its moons.  Our story was an example of forgiveness and restoration.  And oddly all this made me angry.  The world had hated me when was on the streets.  It had hated me when I was a young child struggling to understand the gift and curse of silver fever.  But now after I had fallen to my lowest point, it wanted to parade me online next to the videos of cute animals and cheap DIY projects.  It wanted to be inspired by me provided that I had no needs in return and just smiled and said the things the reporters wanted to hear.  

I guess I should thank them though.  There is a military base of the Empire’s StarForce near that courthouse.  And one of the captains had Silver Fever.  He came to me and offered me a life that would be anonymous (should I wish) and give me a chance to get away and start again and even to do some good.  So I wrote a letter to the man who had let me off, thanking him and entered into the squad.  After fighting for four years and rising rapidly through the ranks I chose to be a public bounty hunter.  That brought fame yes, but it is a fame that I earned, not the result of feeling like I am in a zoo.  And I always tell the story of how my antennae were almost cut off.  Had that happened I would have lost my psionic powers and my sense of balance.  My whole career would not have been possible.  The reason why I race, why I crave the death defying stunts is not solely for fame and adrenalin C’Therax.  I can’t deny that the adrenalin makes the pain I still feel go away.  But I also know that there are Pyronian kids out there like me.  Who need to run constantly.  Who need push their psionics farther then other kids feel the need to.  Who crave adrenalin, who are addicted to it and who want to know if they are just freaks or if there personality profile can be channeled into something good.  So I collect bounties for the military and I run races.  I want to show the world that Silver Fever is not something to be ashamed of, that it can be controlled.  That it can, if used properly, be a force for good.

I am writing this to you because I believe that you will be the person to make the final decision on whether I am on the scouting mission to Earth.  I know I can be a loose canon C’therax but so can you.  And I want you to know that I serve this military with honor, and I would be honored to fight along side you on this most historic of missions.  This is who I am C’therax.  Whether you believe this letter is reason to accept or deny me, at least I can say that I said my piece.  

[alengthyread]

Online Problems

It’s tough when you have an entity, or an element, where it’s supposed to make your life enjoyable. Proper use is essential to literally control the amount of time you’re gonna spend on it. When I dealt with StarCraft 2, I knew that I was going to have forms of problems, because someone told me that it’s a two year commitment with literally ten thousand hours. I got over the hump, but am saying that now I have no weakness, it’s gotten to be a yoyo, and it’s really play for fun. But the thing with this computer game is that everyone @ battlel.net is trying to knock you over to the loss column. Am saying this as the entity and/or the element computer, because you can’t be blind that this has wreak havoc. There’s really no blaming, because it’s pointless to do so, it’s stupid, and that’s because it’s a market behaviour, no one can go in front of Apple in a busy mall, and say heinous stuff about it. I double checked the validity of this news with a civil war in Facebook, and am talking about internal affair of a civil war. And apparently the founder Mark Zuckerberg has social problems, and the whole company is afraid that he’ll take his matters to Congress. There’s a civil war because Facebook apparently is destroying global community. When I log in into my profile each morning, I really just focus two to three people, sometimes I may have an idea what each person is planning if I see the green, active light on Chat. I don’t know if it’s my business mind, or a lifestyle thing where I just focus on two to three people. I don’t know why, probably because it’s easier than two hundred. I just feel that Facebook is dangerous once it is abused.  It’s just that if you have to have one thousand friends, and five hundred likes on a single post, that to me is a problem. I understand it’s a fine line of judgement, maybe you do really love your friends, and that you have to have some connection on a daily basis. It’s just that if you have to have so much attention... That’s a problem. Because there’s competition here, it’s who has the best stuff from job title to material, “Who’s the hottest?” Obviously we all know that, that’s stupid, and that we all know we should walk away from it. It’s destructive.  Again, when phones were being made, it should’ve stopped at some version, because now it’s being changed into a clothing line, am saying that the flip, the innovation, and release is basically good as a Walmart product. Again you can’t cry to Apple, you can’t go to the mall and yell, “Treason!” Am never gonna solve this problem, because there’s addiction involved, there’s a health problem involved. And I think it’s only proper that Facebook has to have this civil war, let the engineers kill each other with their rulers and calculators. It’s a serious problem, I go to YouTube for hip hop music, and I see some hits/views on this site that’s over one billion. I also have an idea that other things need to be done that’s more important financially, but business can be remodelled where this become the main source of finance. I will follow the civil war. I don’t entirely research what others are going through with social media. I just kinda’ hear hindsight that it’s damaging. I write this because I did give up on society, I knew it was gonna be a problem in terms of people stuck on texting, I find it inhumane to prefer the iPhone than me in a dialogue or conversation. Deep down I know that this can’t be reverse, this is a situation where it’s cancer, I really think it’s good as dead: Stage 4. The reports of this civil war is that it’s destroying society. My only problem is that Mark Zuckerberg will go to Congress to fight for what he wants, and obviously his large sum of money. Am using WordPerfect now, and I upload this using tumblr, am not gonna promote both softwares. Am just disappointed, I wanted this thing where it could add value to individuals, but I didn’t know that it would turn out destructive. The flip became sad instantaneously, because when we have to see something, you have to depend on YouTube, or the search engine. Last night I figured out how to plumb my clogged sink, but the housing here in Solmar has two contractors ready to be submitted with house problems. And that walk of life no longer exists, am glad that I worked it with my own two hands, but that hi-hello type of dialogue is amiss, because I see some of these guys here in this small town, and we could kid around women we may encounter, but it’s a subtitle of YouTube. I could see the modern way, because outside I see the pick up trucks, and that garage doors are open, and that there’s potential activity.  Because it has a system.  Parking tickets were being issued, because that “online” registration for eighteen days maximum for a year is over. Am thinking is there another way? It would be great character not to upload this. Because I don’t like it anymore, that term Civil War alone is not comfortable. Because if Facebook should shut down then where’s the balance of what’s good, and what’s bad? But if you’ve stayed healthy then no harm. I learned that media is a tool, when I did photography my mom suggested right away to have them printed at the photo lab in Walmart, and I adhered and everything, but am like, “Facebook is easier and accessible.” It’s tough because we work hard for our photography. It’s tough when your material is not at the store. Obviously you go about your own discretion, am okay uploading my writing material, at least thus far, I’ve been doing this a long time, and it never bothered me to freely just share it. It’s tough when you’re not potentially being incomed. I understand that I can’t under estimate it, I’ve seen situations when it could’ve been over a million dollars just posting photos on Facebook. I can’t under estimate it, it’d be stupid to say that Facebook is useless, and pointless. It’s just the physical copy.  It’s different when you get it from a store. Obviously it’s digital versus physical.  When all that mp3 file came available, I went about it.  But out of artist support, I’ve gone to HMV and SunRise to buy physical copies. With pictures, I have three cameras, but eventually I went about getting a Van Gogh calendar.  And I went to an art gallery numerous times in Milton, Ontario. I know my work, I love seeing photography from other people. With blu-ray and dvd, I went about that production. What am saying is that, because I have enough albums on my profile. Am saying that I went to Erindale Park and took a picture of the grass and trees. Cool? Again, if a YouTube clip gets over one billion views. I’ll skim through my albums again, I just feel that it’s destroying the front page News Feed, because it’s becoming a waste. I really say it’s tough, because you can publish something by Ayyy, Beee, Ceee. It’s tough because you’re not going to be respected.  And I see that with myself, I know that eventually adriancudal dies. It’s different when you’re published by a book company.  I have here PUBLICAFFAIRS.  I have TOUCHSTONE.  I have Microsoft Press.  I have WILEY. No one’s God in this world, I just feel that growing up there was so much criticisms even for people who made it at the top.  I see this with Donald Trump, Donald Trump is the number one guy now in the world, and people still criticize him. The lack of understanding, the lack of knowledge.  Because we don’t really know his position.  We don’t know how he made it there. And say you make fun of Donald Trump, it’s really far fetch. But what happened with social media was make this commentary true to all kinds of nature, and the sad thing is that viewers believe it by being influenced. Let’s say gun violence is on the rise, what can you do personally to slow it down?  Because it’s easy to tweet and say all kinds of it. Ann Coulter I saw the other day tweet that the wall Trump promised hasn’t had a mile built on the border. It’s like you put down a situation when there’s no concrete evidence over statements.  You put it down, and then more people share the same idea, and ultimately Congress could have the same idea, and this happened literally wit John Mcain, I just feel that he had to vote, and he even promised, for the new health care, and he was the last one to make it a success, and he declined. And that Trump momentum was slowed down, and the thing is Trump’s spending a lot of his money on it. It’s weird, we have a great potential of turning things “Making America Great Again”, but it’s like, “America Stays the Same.” Everyone knows the financial problem. Maybe Trump has to say more of the problem, explain it...  But then at the same time the oval office is saying that jobs are up. There could be computer problems, but then in two months have them all smoothened up.