Feeling Something Right?

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Time is wasting, youth is fleeting, you’re dying. No really. You. Are. Dying. Every second you waste reading this sentence is another you will never get back. You may laugh now, scoff, make humorous gestures, but the truth is you know, and you fear it just as much as me. You’re going to die very soon, your youth, which once seemed an endless consistency in a world that spilt out of a firmly smiling mouth has begun to crumble and will soon be gone forever. Spent, wasted, dead.

What the fuck should we do then? Fuck if I know, seriously. I expect people to feel the same way I do, hold the same beliefs I do, yet I do nothing to advocate or support either of them. I arrogantly assume that simply believing in them is enough. That old adage, we all know, if you don’t film it, it didn’t happen, has a sort of profound relevance here. If you didn’t preach it, you didn’t feel it. So yeah, no matter how many hammer and sickle pins I stick on my designer jacket I’ll never crush the mighty bourgeois.

The last year’s been pretty drastic for me and I think it’s made me a far more confident but ultimately fragile person. Despite a few successful and unsuccessful forays into the dating scene I still found intimacy a deeply difficult challenge. I think I took The Cars song, Just What I Needed, a little too literally. Because I really do sometimes feel like I need someone to love to validate myself. I think that one made me very awkward in a lot of cases, that and the confused mix of booze and oxycontin led to many bumbling nights of exploring shaking hands and LED lights flickering like we were running the sesh life.

One particularly attractive Austrian girl appeared in my Kitchen one evening and after consuming an entire bottle of fireball to myself, yes every last drop. I began mocking her home then proceeded to black out. I woke up and she was in my bed with me, although we didn’t have sex she just stayed over. Apparently, though I had been performing the Nazi salute while telling her to shut up and help her Führer undress. Which she did but only because I had vomited on myself. Yeah, it was a good evening…

I think I quite immaturely I let my insecurities dictate my understanding most of the time and instead of maybe being a bit more confident and seeing it through I chicken out. I mean… It feels like I chickened out…

I think it’s been quite dangerous for me because I’ve been in physically abusive relationships just to feel it. In those moments you don’t want to not believe the person doesn’t love you.

I don’t know I don’t really know what to do with this blog anymore. It was a tool that filtered my life at a very different time. It was something for me to focus on when I had nothing and no one else too. I’ve spent a long time trying to find the right thing to post, I’m not sure this is it, but either way I’m writing it so I guess it doesn’t matter if it’s right or not. I guess my point is that the words I write on this blog don’t help me anymore. They are someone else’s now. Maybe they’ll help or do something for the person that might happen, by some awful mistake stumble upon them. All I can ask from this place is that it keeps its promise, and my life is never like it was before. I don’t need you anymore, and I never want to again.

 

Thanks for the bruises.

-PB

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So it’s been awhile, another month by the looks of things, I guess that’s my scheduled now. I never intend to leave this blog barren, after all why else would I bother paying for the terrible domain name? In all actuality I’ve suffered from a case of block that I’ve been treating with a large dose of procrastination, (to be taken twice daily).

I’ve been tackling with myself over what I want to do with this space. A part of me dreads the clinical regurgitation of uninteresting news that I seem to offer yet another part of myself knows that I have little time for anything more.

This all came about when I wanted to have a little look at Arcanum. I wanted to start this diary like novel playthrough thingy ma-jiggy. The premise being that the main character, who was once a intelligent upstanding gentleman is now crippled by an idiocy he suffered after devastating blow to his head, leaving his ability to communicate cogently completely shattered. The diary would be from his perspective, as he not only struggled with what the world demanded from him, but also his companions who merely saw him as nothing more than a bumbling fool.

It was designed to show the options and great schemes of player influence that the game allows, I.E having a low IQ makes you dumb, and everyone around you will see you as such. It’s a simple concept on paper but if you follow the game through with this method in mind you might realise the great depths of the games choices.

It was perhaps too grand a project for me to undertake given my current circumstances, and perhaps I realised this. I drifted away from the concept in favor for more, starchy, filler ideas.

Then I wanted to get all intellectual and talk about Protagonist in video games, define the line between a protagonist and the player themselves. Explore the crossover and value their flaws and favors. Yet that divulged into a rambling against the white male protagonist, as if we haven’t raged about that enough already?

Despite all this what can you expect? Well let me tell you, more opinionated riff raff! I’m finding my own style at the moment and having drifted along some different concepts I think I’ve found a more favorable taste that suits me. Stick around if you would and join me for the upcoming weeks will be far, far more populated.

P.S: Sorry for the whining.

-PB