So much for server uptime. Breaking a dry spell is like rebooting after a Windows update; it’s not completely necessary, but sometimes it’s better to do it sooner than when it’s too late and one ends up with a dead hooker in the apartment.

When intimidation is a good thing…that’s attraction.

I wanted to thank you for changing my life.

Then I realized that you didn’t do anything. You were completely selfish, completely inconsiderate. I picked myself up and made the best of what you left me as. Loving you was the important part, not anything that you had ever done.

I realized that it wasn’t you who changed my life. It was the experience. It was the conscious effort to turn my life around.

It was me.

Holy fuck, I just found Wizo … Kopfschuss in one of my directories. I haven’t heard this song in more than three years. It’s always in a volume of miscellaneous songs, and I must have skipped over it every time I made my punk playlist. I had totally forgotten about it, and now remember how much of a kicking fucking song it is. It brings me back to second year, being at Iain’s place, using Slackware for the first time.

It’s odd to hear a song, almost for the first time because it’s been so long, but still know all the notes as they come. It’s like The Bourne Identity where he has no idea how he knows all this random shit.

The premiere of Dashboard Jesus, here to absolve all who used the lord’s name in vain while playing Enemy Territory.

Aaron has his thing for the snowboarding girls, the ones with the pigtails on the mountain who support the Canadian gear companies like West 49, Nick has his for longboarding girls, Jeff for the hockey girls, and Trolley for the…girls. I think the whole idea is hilarious, and chuckle to myself when I read about people like Alexandra Kosteniuk, the attractive Russian girl who became Grandmaster at the age of 13, in the papers. I always imagine chess dorks swooning over some spectacular move she makes that’s beyond my comprehension.

Then I saw Biba Golic face someone in the 2003 Killerspin competition, and realized that I’m just a table tennis dork. It’s not so much the fact that she’s a professional table tennis player, but the fact that she plays aggressively, almost unconservatively. It’s like Jonathan and his thing for drummer girls who play with an aggro-ape stance, instead of the dainty, elbows-raised posture that so many female drummers seem to have. There’s something about a girl who plays like a guy, whether it’s table tennis, drums, or even games. This is going on the updated list soon.

Table tennis dorks. I wonder if I’m the first.

I usually have to be in a very specific mood to watch Ghost World, but something about it is striking a chord with me right now, and this time it’s not just SJs sullen voice. The humour is drier than Rushmore, which says something about the skills of Terry Zwigoff’s as a director. The risk of unsaturated humour is that it very easily goes unrecognized, especially without a laugh track. The last time I watched Ghost World was before I ever saw Mr. Show, so it’s only now that I can really appreciate David Cross’s cameo performance.

Seymour is my god, cause it’s obviously him and he doesn’t care.

I started off the day with my Breathe mix, an energetic collection of songs that makes me think of deep inhalations against a rush of music.

Friday afternoon. I was tempted to leave work early, but held on until 4:15. I put my headphones on, and as I stepped out of the building, Honour (Juno Mix) by VNV nation was the first thing to come on. It just floored me. I mean, that song is what I based my Breathe mix on.

Hearing the words, “Notify ground troops”, is the best way to step into freedom.

6 bagels : 8 oz tub of cream cheese.

Beth. Mysterions. Scratches, beats, drum rolls.

It’s funny. Sometimes I read confessions on group hug and someone will be going on about how they have this problem, but they can’t tell anyone because no one would understand. Almost every time, no matter what it is, my first reaction is to roll my eyes and think to myself, “Trust me, you probably know someone who understands”.

And then I realize that this isn’t true, because it isn’t true for me. There are quite a few things that I feel like I can’t tell my friends. Not because I’d be afraid of losing them over it, but because none of them have had the same experiences as me, thus rendering unable to help.

John is usually the first person I’ll tell my problems to because I’m most comfortable with him. I’ve known him for more than half my life, and he’s as fallible as me. I also have a lot more shit on him than he does on me (how do I keep John loyal…blackmail, hah). But generally I don’t want to tell him about my problems because he doesn’t think like me at all.

Pat is the person I’d most want to tell things to, simply because he has too much good in his heart and knows me well enough that I couldn’t possibly say or do anything to make him angry. Yet he’s the last person I end up going to for help or advice, just because he’s so busy. Sometimes I’ll tell Aaron and Trolley, but I don’t linger on things too long for fear of boring them.

I mean, what’s the point of telling someone who doesn’t think the same way or hasn’t been in the same situation? It’s not like they don’t care, they just actually don’t understand, so what could they possibly do to help (aside from direct involvement if the option is there, but if the option is there it wouldn’t be a problem). Sometimes, the most that a friend can do is lend an ear.

Sometimes it’s enough. Otherwise, there’s this.

My own, personal group hug.

I think I’m coming up to my one-year dry spell mark, but to be honest, I’m not sure. I used to tease Trolley about his dry spells, but now, well, yeah…heh.

I’m aiming for four. We were watching a dating show on the Life Network once, and they were trying to set up this guy who had a full out four-year dry spell. On his actual date, he couldn’t stop talking about how his family had an intervention concerning the amount of time he spent on the internet. He kept going on and on about how his parents wanted less than two hours a day but he was adamant on keeping at least four. My theory is that anything past three years does damage to the brain. I want to be able to document every disintegrating part of my intellect Charlie Gordon style. I’m dying to find out if it’ll be a gradual process, or I’ll just suddenly wake up one day without my sanity.

I got the idea from Dave, a guy on the floor in res in first year. He was in the reserves, so he always told us these crazy stories about when he was serving. One time he had to stay awake for three days, doing nothing but eating and defending/digging a trench. After the 30th hour he started started hallucinating. After that, Pita and I made a pact to pull a simultaneous three-nighter, just to see if we’d start to go insane, but I keeled over in my room at about the 23rd hour. I had never pulled an all-nighter before then.

This time though, I’ve had a bit of practice. Not three years practice, but practice. I want to go for as long as possible, sort of like server uptime.

I was on gaming hiatus for a few months (my longest yet), but now I’m back into the old swing of things with Soul Calibur 2. I didn’t play much of it before because I didn’t know anyone else who played it, but Aaron and Jessie have been addicted since the beginning of the month. Now I actually feel like I can invest some time into training a character and learning their fighting dynamics. The game is so deep and involved that I can practice for weeks and weeks and still be considered a beginner. I mean, Virtual Fighter 4 had a pretty involved system, but SC2 extends past the “basic” guard>attack>throw>guard with added sidestep>vertical attack>horizontal attack>sidestep, and mid-guard>high/mid attack and low-guard>low/high attack, not to mention the options that open up with soul charging and unblockables.

The problem is that SC2 has so many cool characters that I want to use. There’s something about using a character that matches the personality. It’s like a projection of the self in a fantasy world. Whenever I do RPGs, I usually create a character that’s like me (although with height modifier +6 when the option is there). That’s why I never use the “evil” characters in fighting games.

I started SC2 with Kilik since he had the most recognizable traditional Shaolin fighting style (my favourite), although Xianghua’s and Yunsung’s moves have fairly obvious Chinese roots as well. Kilik ended up being too boring for me (no personality, predictable moves), so I switched to Yoshimitsu, cause he’s really cool and sneaky, but his moves ended up being too awkward. I realize that this is how Yoshimitsu is supposed to be played (with off-timing balance), but the character didn’t click for me.

Right now I’m using Raphael, who happens to be the most interesting character move-wise, but also the biggest pansy out of all of them. He can go in and out of stances easily, with several attacking options in each stance, making him an offensive, but difficult-to-master, character. He has amazingly variable combos, and in between hits, his foil guard-impacts, just like a fencer. He’s unlike any other character in the game, and I have to applaud Namco for coming up with the idea and making him so realistic.

My nerdyness is coming back. The same nerdyness that used to say, “Why make out with you when I could be playing a game?”.

On a side note, I’m also back into big breakfasts with bacon, sausages, and milk tea on the weekends. My arteries hate them, but I forgive them and love them all the same.

What is it about mosquito bites that makes them so damn satisfying to scratch? It’s like a higher form of itching, which turns into a higher form of scratching. I’ve always had bad reactions to insect bites; when I was young, I had one that was almost the size of my head. It covered up all of my kneecap and I decided to get medical help when I couldn’t walk without feeling like I had an extra 27 layers of skin bunching up on the joint. I know I shouldn’t touch them, and I’ve since gained the self-control, but something just makes me want to jab my fingers in them and claw them until they bleed.

The new me doesn’t please you, and the old me didn’t care.

Not everyone gets what they want.

I woke up this morning, and the sun was hidden behind the dismal morning sky, like a post-apocalyptic calm in the atmosphere. It all felt numb, and I put on a bittersweet mix, hoping to awaken my torpid senses. Every song hit me for a few bars, then faded into the background.

Heavy thoughts on a heavy morning. Heavy music for heavy rain.