Poll: Other then Gaming, what else occupies most of your brain matter?
- Thread starter lonercs
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Manga, Anime, Fanfiction (the good ones, obviously. After many years of reading fanfiction, I can very easily decern the crap from the awesome), reading, and convincing Fanfiction authors to do crazy crossovers, like "Hokuto no Ken" and "Zero no Tsukaima" with a 15-6 year old OC (or possibly, not an OC) as the master of Hokuto Shinken. Still trying to get someone to do that story.
And college. College actually takes up most of my time.
And college. College actually takes up most of my time.
writing and swimming.
im good at the former, and at the latter i am quite terribly indeed.
this is some of the stuff that i like to write.
if you've read this before its probably because this is the only website where i post any of my stories...some are good and some are meh.
and i like movies too but writing preoccupies most of my free time.
im good at the former, and at the latter i am quite terribly indeed.
this is some of the stuff that i like to write.
His head hurt?no, his head fucking throbbed. The slightly enlarged artery in the back of his head was causing an immense amount of pain every time he moved his eyes, and every noise was humanly unrecognizable. He winced as he put on jogging cloths to go outside in the sunny day. He was going to have a massive brain embolism and die in half an hour but if you would have told him that he truly wouldn?t have believed you. He was so sure it was a regular headache, or at worst a migraine. He popped two Advil and ran outside with a grimaced smile. So with that same grimaced smile he stepped out into the fresh air one last time and met his fate.
?Oh fuck? dot, dot, dot. Those were the first words that his father ever spoke to his mother. ?Oh fuck? dot, dot, dot. Almost romantic aint it? Well he was conceived the way thousand of bastard children are every year, with one handsome drunk teenager flashing a smile at another intoxicated minor? then magic?.then childbirth. He was born before his mother was nineteen and he never met his father. His father who was a drunk and a constant partier. His father who had drove a DeLorean and was born naturally handsome but still insisted on dying his hair. His father who also would of died of a massive brain embolism if he hadn?t gotten a .45 lobotomy by a police officer who was tired of seeing drunken morons paint on walls and try to run. Coincidentally his last words would be ?oh fuck? as he died. As he lay bleeding with the top of his head removed, the officer decided he would finish the job and fired a second round into his pale, splotchy throat and seal his fate.
He grew up poor but happy, vowing to never touch alcohol mainly because his mother called it ?her biggest mistake?. However ?her biggest mistake? would be walking home from work and crossing the street by a bar late at night. At the age of 28 she cried out one last ?oh fuck? before being plowed over by a drunk truck driver in the same spot as where her lover had been shot. At the age of 10 he was parentless and yet somehow he grew up as a good man. He lived by a moral code, something most of us couldn?t say truthfully, even if it wasn?t supremely noble. However those words were burned into his memory, those final words of his parents.
So it wasn?t too wild of a thought that his last words as an artery in his brain erupted were ?oh fuck?. As his feet slipped under him his last sight was the old bar where his parents had met. He cried and fell face forward. A ?oh fuck? and his head crashed into the concrete. He died there that moment with a look of surprise still in his painfully grimaced face. His was the third chalk line in that spot.
?Oh fuck? dot, dot, dot. Those were the first words that his father ever spoke to his mother. ?Oh fuck? dot, dot, dot. Almost romantic aint it? Well he was conceived the way thousand of bastard children are every year, with one handsome drunk teenager flashing a smile at another intoxicated minor? then magic?.then childbirth. He was born before his mother was nineteen and he never met his father. His father who was a drunk and a constant partier. His father who had drove a DeLorean and was born naturally handsome but still insisted on dying his hair. His father who also would of died of a massive brain embolism if he hadn?t gotten a .45 lobotomy by a police officer who was tired of seeing drunken morons paint on walls and try to run. Coincidentally his last words would be ?oh fuck? as he died. As he lay bleeding with the top of his head removed, the officer decided he would finish the job and fired a second round into his pale, splotchy throat and seal his fate.
He grew up poor but happy, vowing to never touch alcohol mainly because his mother called it ?her biggest mistake?. However ?her biggest mistake? would be walking home from work and crossing the street by a bar late at night. At the age of 28 she cried out one last ?oh fuck? before being plowed over by a drunk truck driver in the same spot as where her lover had been shot. At the age of 10 he was parentless and yet somehow he grew up as a good man. He lived by a moral code, something most of us couldn?t say truthfully, even if it wasn?t supremely noble. However those words were burned into his memory, those final words of his parents.
So it wasn?t too wild of a thought that his last words as an artery in his brain erupted were ?oh fuck?. As his feet slipped under him his last sight was the old bar where his parents had met. He cried and fell face forward. A ?oh fuck? and his head crashed into the concrete. He died there that moment with a look of surprise still in his painfully grimaced face. His was the third chalk line in that spot.
I generally try not to be pressing but
?why are the walls trying to eat me?
There seems to be no logical explanation for which the walls should be attempting to consume me on this particular day. In fact there seems to be no logical explanation for me to be in this god-forsaken room. This room which seems to have a stage and nothing more, no walls or windows ever made by humane hands.
At first, once I noticed the carnivorous walls, I thought that perhaps this monstrosity was a creation of mine own mind. But as I felt those same walls with mine hand, the pain that flashed up my arm was most defiantly of no imagination of mine.
I remember not ever being in this room before. Which has a light, menacing as can be at that, and kindly nothing more. I remember not waking from any slumber in this box only to be threatened by those very walls. I remember not how long I have stood here waiting.
So I ask again, why are the walls trying to eat me? Have I truly done something so ungodly as to garner such a fate? For as far as I can see, these demonic walls inching close, each one leering at me with that predatory grin and bloodthirsty look. I know not why this room may be so barbaric but I ask again, and quite innocently I must add, why are those walls trying to eat me?
I have never spoken a word to those walls and I have never threatened them yet they continue to haunt me. How can a wall be attempting to eat me is beyond me but I know that they will not stop. I have long peered into those shifting terrible walls and they hath showed me nothing. I only feel the hunger of those walls. The walls filled with hunger, pure and base, staring straight at me. Watching my every movement and thought, analyzing and creeping, thinking of the most delicious way to consume me.
I don?t really think I would be savory but then again I am not a wall. I do not think that I would be able to eat another person but then again I am not a wall. I don?t know why these walls want me. It seems that if they were to consume something I would be quite a unsatisfactory meal but then again I am not a wall.
I know of no such man which hath ever suffered such a terrible affliction as mine. I hath never heard of the walls attempting to make a meal out of man, but I am only a mortal who is about to be eaten by walls.
For now as I stand on the centre stage watching those walls shift I am only assured of one thing.
? Cocaine is a hell of a drug.
?why are the walls trying to eat me?
There seems to be no logical explanation for which the walls should be attempting to consume me on this particular day. In fact there seems to be no logical explanation for me to be in this god-forsaken room. This room which seems to have a stage and nothing more, no walls or windows ever made by humane hands.
At first, once I noticed the carnivorous walls, I thought that perhaps this monstrosity was a creation of mine own mind. But as I felt those same walls with mine hand, the pain that flashed up my arm was most defiantly of no imagination of mine.
I remember not ever being in this room before. Which has a light, menacing as can be at that, and kindly nothing more. I remember not waking from any slumber in this box only to be threatened by those very walls. I remember not how long I have stood here waiting.
So I ask again, why are the walls trying to eat me? Have I truly done something so ungodly as to garner such a fate? For as far as I can see, these demonic walls inching close, each one leering at me with that predatory grin and bloodthirsty look. I know not why this room may be so barbaric but I ask again, and quite innocently I must add, why are those walls trying to eat me?
I have never spoken a word to those walls and I have never threatened them yet they continue to haunt me. How can a wall be attempting to eat me is beyond me but I know that they will not stop. I have long peered into those shifting terrible walls and they hath showed me nothing. I only feel the hunger of those walls. The walls filled with hunger, pure and base, staring straight at me. Watching my every movement and thought, analyzing and creeping, thinking of the most delicious way to consume me.
I don?t really think I would be savory but then again I am not a wall. I do not think that I would be able to eat another person but then again I am not a wall. I don?t know why these walls want me. It seems that if they were to consume something I would be quite a unsatisfactory meal but then again I am not a wall.
I know of no such man which hath ever suffered such a terrible affliction as mine. I hath never heard of the walls attempting to make a meal out of man, but I am only a mortal who is about to be eaten by walls.
For now as I stand on the centre stage watching those walls shift I am only assured of one thing.
? Cocaine is a hell of a drug.
if you've read this before its probably because this is the only website where i post any of my stories...some are good and some are meh.
and i like movies too but writing preoccupies most of my free time.
Not acting my age and being a pain in the ass. Oh yeah, and the next idea I can conjure up to annoy my friends (particularly ones with cars).
My life outside, the internet, getting laid, and music. In that order.
[b\][i\]"He did walk outside, holding his lap-top whilst a young maid shagged him as he listened to AC/DC's hit song 'Big Balls'. At which point he laughed." [/i][/b]
Just another typical day in the life of: [i\]The Crowghast[/i].
[b\][i\]"He did walk outside, holding his lap-top whilst a young maid shagged him as he listened to AC/DC's hit song 'Big Balls'. At which point he laughed." [/i][/b]
Just another typical day in the life of: [i\]The Crowghast[/i].
I spent several years growing up in California which was rather ahead for anime in America at the time I was there, so I got into all of this stuff really early, like when you had to go to comic book stores to see what five manga they decided to place on their shelves because that was all you were going to find. I still remember how happy I was the first time I saw a Borders with a graphic novel section. Now Manga is its own section. I feel old.lonercs said:
This (pretty much the only intelligent forum I've found)
Friends, family, girls, all that good stuff.
Sunlight, ya'know outdoor activities.
Friends, family, girls, all that good stuff.
Sunlight, ya'know outdoor activities.