Your home’s a promise long forgotten…

…it is the birthplace of your dreams.

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I know I’m weak.

I’m fully aware of it. And I know I made that mistake with you. And we both paid dearly and suffered for it. You more than I did.

 

 

I’m not making that mistake a second time. Not again. Not this time.

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I wish I was fucking heartless.

That way I could treat people like shit the way I’ve been treated myself and wouldn’t feel guilty about it.

Or I could stop caring so fucking much about shit that doesn’t concern me just to try and help, which would probably stop me getting into so much fucking trouble.

Fuck this shit, I need to get this high out of my system.

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…And apparently I never do learn.

I need to leave the fucking wall-punching antics out of my office. I got a scolding from my immediate superior, HR and the CEO, because I left one of the walls in the parking lot all bloody and had to have my hands and knuckles bandaged.

Fuck.

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I am a gigantic masochist.

 

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I have a feeling that you don’t have the words.

I found one for you: kissed your cheek, said bye and walked away… Don’t look back, ’cause I am crying.

 

 

I hope your dream came true… mine betrayed me.

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So after a long and grueling battle with his writing style, which can get to be really droll…

…I have finally finished reading the five main books of George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series (A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons).

Suffice it to say that the guy is an asshole for leaving SO MANY FRICKIN’ IMPORTANT PLOT LINES in the last book hanging from various cliffs. Doesn’t make him any less of an absolutely amazing writer, but still, asshole.

In other news, I think I kinda broke Risk of Rain — then again, Glass Mode is pretty much how the game should be played, haha.

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Passion.

It’s how we do what we do.

To make something beautiful.

To change the game.

It’s that draught that fuels us: The artist, the warrior, the visionary…

It doesn’t matter who you are, or how you look like: everybody can tap into it. We all speak that language.

We know what it is to look up at an impossible challenge, and push forward anyway.

You go again. You fail faster. You fail better.

You get stronger. You get smarter.

And then one day…

It finally happens.

Something breaks.

You push past what you thought your limits were.

That ceiling above you?

It isn’t real.

It never was.

And you realize: it’s not that box you came in that made you…

It’s the moment you broke free of it.

 

Rise Up.

 

Street Fighter V
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Me, in a nutshell.

Grumpy Cat
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“You see, we have something that they don’t.”

“Oh sure, they have armies, and they have armadas…”

 

 

“…but we… we have…”

 

 

“Our dragons!”

 

 

Damn good movie.

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I AM MIGHTY No. 7362!

http://www.mightyno9.com/en/user/7548

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Yay! But fuck. But yay! But fuck.

So Ultra Street Fighter IV is out on Steam now. Yay!
 
 
 
 
But fuck my piece of shit internet connection, I won’t be able to play it until tomorrow because of it.
 
 
 
 
But Capcom decided to make Valve release the game earlier. Yay!
 
 
 
 
But fuck it, this piece of shit connection is gonna drive me nuts.

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On the subject of cleanup…

I scarcely believe this needs to be said, but in addition to the fact that I am a lazy fuck, I feel very little motivation to take the time required to go back to all the old posts and fix dead links, references, and many other things that might not be working now that I’m almost on my fifth year (!) running this place.

If any of you want me to correct something specific, poke me and I’ll try. No guarantees though. :V

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Happy birthday, Jess

Because I have no other way of getting in touch with you, this is the only way to put this out there somehow.

If you read it, great — do send me an email or something, and send me your Skype name too or any other way I can have of contacting you directly. I miss our fun conversations.

Happy birthday, Nyarran!

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9 hours, 9 persons, 9 doors (2)

Motherfucking sudoku.

I refused to fucking look at a guide to solve it so it took me fucking HOURS of crunching numbers, considering it’s been years since I last worked on one.

Zero, you fucking bitch.

[End rant]

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Housekeeping

Did some cleanup on the sidebar. Been a couple of years since I stopped playing SMT Imagine so most of my stuff is not only outdated but probably no longer relevant. Also, because of the closure of the western servers, some friends’ blogs and links became inactive, so took those out too. Will be rewriting some stuff and probably changing the sidebar order soon.

Also took up a cosplay photography gig. Kinda want to see how far I can get with this because the cosplay community is seriously fucking underrepresented in my country.

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For great justice!

 
 

Flame Haze Shana, Buddy Jesus and my small task force of GUNDAM Mobile Suits will protect my work computer from any intruders.

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9 hours, 9 persons, 9 doors (1)

This coffin.

This coffin is an eyesore.

This coffin. This coffin. This coffin. This coffin this coffin this coffin this coffin this coffin this coffin this coffin this coffin THIS COFFIN!!

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STOP THE SLOW LANE

 
 
 

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Stream of consciousness.

It is hard to take back the reins of your conscience when the road it’s taking isn’t even similar in the slightest to the one you had planned. The words come out on their own, flowing from mind and fingers, and plastered on something as real as it is unreal, as solid as it is nonexistent, indelible and undying. However, much worse is the sensation that remains when the storm of feelings and confessions eases off, and the dust settles after the fact, when you realize that the nakedness of the soul is much more shaming and humilliating than any lack of physical clothes.

There’s a million things I want to do right at this moment, and the tears fight amongst themselves trying to reach beyond the borders of my eyelids, but I’m not letting them — I’m in the middle of my goddamn office, supposed to be working. Nevertheless, sheer sadness and the feeling of despair for no apparent reason or motive becomes almost too tough to restrain. As much as it’s been hours of attempting to prevent this, I can feel them, one after the other, the droplets of rage against myself streaming barely down to my nose, as I’m not intending to give them the chance to reach any further, for it puts me at risk of someone in my cubicle noticing that I’m not entirely in control of myself today.

Venting and relieving the weight of accumulated feelings in a heart chock full of inferiority complexes, powerlessness against my own incompetence and pain and rage towards myself is an experience that idealists would probably call liberating, but for me it’s nothing but devastating and depressing. Maybe it’s a necessary evil, maybe it’s not. I don’t regret doing it, however. But the sheer internal destruction this entails is a deep and very painful wound, one that will not scar easily, and that when it does scar, it is one more mark, permanent, eternal, in an already heavily pockmarked surface barely capable of holding one more.

Damn loneliness. Damn destroyed heart. But most of all, damn myself and my own damn weakness.

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