Read It For the Articles

This one is for redbeanpork's withdrawl symptoms.

I can't remember if I mentioned why I'm taking a break from writing, but it's because I want to start writing a book. To help transition from writing blog posts to writing longer-form style things, I've been writing long-short stories (novellas?), and I've been playing around with Scrivener to see if it suits my workflow. It's pretty cool, since it lets you write your story as a series of plot points, and then you can go back and flesh things out.

You can also re-organise chapters really easily. It's weird, because when I was doing English at school, I hated writing outlines, as I thought it was a waste of time. I just wanted to jump right into writing, and spending 15 minutes putting together an outline felt like it was eating into my writing time. Still, I did it because I could never disobey a teacher, and even though I haven't kept up the habit when writing blog posts, I found it really helpful when starting this story.

What I think is really cool is that you can export your story into a PDF in pretty novel format.

Anyway, as the current story I'm writing is mostly an in-joke, MrMoustache challenged me to write a story, and suggested an erotic story. So in my typical course of action, I decided to do some research. Captain and I went on a journey to find a book to read for research purposes. Our first course of action was to try and find one of those famous Mills and Boon novels, so we tried one of the bookstores in the CBD. They had a romance section, that was oddly bundled with the horror section.

But we played a fun game called, "Guess whether this book is horror or romance?" based on the cover. The sad part is that even after reading the blurb, we still couldn't work out if it was horror or romance. Captain blames the Twilight series. We had no luck, and the cashier said they don't stock M&B novels. Though he did tell us that only the first three shelves have romance novels. So all the books we picked up were horror.

So we moved onto another bookstore, and there was a huge wall of romance novels. Funnily enough, it had a sign saying, "Please treat the books gently, as we are finding a lot of books with broken spines", which I'm taking to mean a lot of people will read the books and then put them back without buying them. Who wants to be see carrying a romance novel on the train, right?

Well, that inspired Captain, who challenged me to read one of these books shamelessly in the office. And so began the search for the perfect book to read. I should have taken a photo of the shelves, because it seemed like every book was a New York Times bestseller, or had a review by a NYT bestseller, so they could print the words "New York Times bestseller" somewhere on the cover. Of course, not all the books were bestsellers, some were just buy authors who were bestsellers. Anyway, Captain was dubious so he looked it up, and it seems NYT bestseller isn't really much to cry home about as there is a lot of criticism about which books make the list.

After much deliberation, and some advice from some random person who suggested I sample the first few pages, Captain and I settled on a book that looked like a romance book, but wasn't too seedy to read in the office (some of them had people making out on the cover). He then challenged me to look the cashier in the eyes with authority while buying the book. The cashier wouldn't make eye contact with me. SadFace.

It wasn't all that embarrassing reading the book. The cover isn't that conspicuous, and for the most part, it seems like a regular novel. Except every time there was a sex scene, or one of the characters was giving a physical description of one of the other characters, it felt like the only thing on the pages were four letters. Two on each page: CO-CK in giant letters, and everyone could see it and know what I was reading. I'm normally a fast reader, but I think while reading this book, my reading speed was twice what it normally is. Thankfully, I only spent one shameful lunch time with this book in my hands, as people were more interested in catching up after the break to ask me about the book I'm reading.

Blank Page

Though you started with nothing
Grew up being poor
Your artistic spirit
A boat with an oar.

You saw people and things
In a fantastical way
No matter the evil.
Only good would you say. 

Your terrible jokes,
And your outrageous tales.
Dinner conversation,
Would go off the rails. 

To portray your person
No other words will suffice
Except, "Nice to see you,
And to see you is nice"

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Today's cliché line - how do you sum up a person with a limited amount of words? When someone has a big impact on your life, no matter how much you say, it never feels like you can capture their essence. The thing that draws you to them and makes you feel happy to be around them.

Something  you often hear at funerals is, "They were a unique person." Everyone is unique in their own way, so saying that doesn't feel like it carries the impact that it should. I'm still undecided on whether calling someone "unique" is even a good thing, as I've been called "unique" a few times and it wasn't entirely clear if the person meant it as a good thing, or whether they were just trying to call me "weird" in a polite way.

The hardest part about writing is staring at a blank page. Once some words start coming out, getting the next words out is a lot easier, but finding the starting point is always hard. Strangely, I kinda wrote that poem backwards, starting with the last verse, then the second last, then the first, and finally the second. I guess that's why those brainstorming map things are such a powerful tool - you don't always think of the start at the start, and the end at the end.

MrFodder asked if I'd abandon my blog after the 365-day photo challenge is done. I think I'd definitely take an extended hiatus at least. I feel like the speed of my writing has definitely improved, but my creative reservoir feels drained, and sometimes I end up staring at a blank page with a topic I want to write about, but the words need to be painstakingly yanked out one by one. I can't remember if writing has always felt like this or not. I think I used to be able to just sit in front of a screen and record my thoughts as they come out.

I wonder how much of that is due to the fact that there are people who are reading this, and I know who they are. Am I second guessing what I write because I'm afraid of my audience thinking something bad about me? I always wanted my blog to be mostly honest, and there's another blog that I read recently that had this raw honesty that I've always wanted to be able to emulate. I've looked through some of my own past posts, and the one that I felt was the most honest was one that I didn't even remember writing, and it seems like I wrote it while drunk.

Not that I am planning to go on a major bender before every single blog post - plus, I had so many typos in that post that I'm ashamed of it! I've been thinking about all the people that I enjoy listening to, and the people that I go out of my way to spend time with. Something that they all seem to have in common is that I feel like I can be honest with them and not worry about them judging me for it - even though I know that they're probably judging me a little on the inside. Of course, it's incredibly unlikely that I'll ever be able to be 100% honest on the Internet without repercussions. Something I've written in the past will probably come back to bite me in the ass some day, and I don't even do anything particularly scandalous!

In the meantime, I guess I will strive for being mostly honest, and try to be accepting of other people's point of view. Because that's what PieFace would have done.

Pudge and Silencer at the Library

Fan-Fiction Friday! Featuring two of my favourite Dota 2 heroes: Silencer and Pudge. My goal in writing this is to channel my 15-year-old self.

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Silencer's stomach began to grumble, and he quickly silenced it through sheer force of will. He looked up to see if his master had noticed, but his master didn't even stir from his sleep. Quietly sliding on his terry-towel slippers, Silencer slowly made his way towards the hall, gently opening the door and then sliding it shut without making a sound. It wouldn't do to wake his master up this early.

Once he made it to the outer confines of the Sanctuary, he changed into his boots and ran towards the butcher shop. He was really excited to see what Mr Goldstone had on offer today, as the chef said that since it was birthday, he could pick what they'd be eating for dinner.

He walked in the door, and covered his ears in pain.

Clink, clink, clink. Someone was dragging chains around, and the loud sound was far more than he was used to.

"Stop! Please stop!" he whispered in desparation, hoping someone would end the agony.

The clinking stopped.

"CHIN CHOPPER, CHIN CHOPPER," the fat green-haired man drawled.

"Pudge, shhhh!" Mr Goldstone ran out frantically from the back. He turned to Silencer. "I'm sorry, " he whispered quietly. "This is my nephew, Pudge. Me brother wants him to learn a trade, said he likes workin' with meat."

Silencer finally took in the strange, fat creature in front of him. His hair was a disgusting shade of green -the kind of colour you'd expect to see in a toxic waste dump, or cow poop. His face looked like a truck had run over it, and then reversed so it could run over it again. His teeth struggled to stay in his mouth. His eyes looked like they were candies on a gingerbread man that had fallen off and a child had clumsily glued them back on. Did he even have a nose? It was hard to tell. Then you get to his body. It was easy to see why he was called Pudge.

"LOOK AT ALL THAT MEAT JUST WAITING TO BE CARVED" Pudge yelled, proudly.

Silencer covered his ears in pain again, and saw Mr Goldstone saying something to Pudge, but couldn't make out the words. Once Pudge's mouth stopped moving, he hesitantly uncovered his ears.

"What would you like today, Mr Silencer?"

"The chef said I could have whatever I wanted for dinner tonight, because it's my birthday!"

"We just got some fresh lamb from the farm up near Top Tower. Reckon it'd go great with some rosemary. Pop it in the oven with some potatoes."

"Sounds delicious. And the usual order for everyone else, thanks."

Mr Goldstone whispered something into Pudge's ear, and the boy / man / creature's eyes perked up. He picked up the butcher's knife from the block, and with a speed that seemed unbelievable given the thing's side, he quickly carved out the choice pieces from a large lamb hanging from a hook and wrapped it up. Silencer watched him in awe, his movements were mesmerising.

After packaging the lamb, he set to work on the other carcasses, laughing softly to himself and repeating, "Fresh meat", over and over again. His apron was covered in blood, but he didn't seem to care, happily slashing away.

Mr Goldstone tapped Silencer on the shoulder. "I hope you don't mind, but Brody is sick today, so I've asked Pudge to help carry the meat back to the Sanctuary. He moves slowly, but he's really strong. Between the two of you, it should be an easy trip. I've told him that you lot like it quiet up there."

Silencer was reminded of the noisy brute he saw this morning. Maybe he could get him to wait outside while he slowly ferried the meat into the kitchen.

"Bit of a hack-job, that." Pudge said, toning down his voice at least 30 decibels, as he began packing the wrapped bundles of meat into a box. Silencer grabbed the smaller of the boxes, and the two of them headed towards the Sanctuary. Fortunately, it seemed Pudge was not much of a talker, so the journey was quiet.

They approached the Sanctuary, and Pudge's eyes lit up once again as he saw all the animals in the yard.

"PUDGE IS HERE!" he declared, loudly.

Silencer dropped the box and covered his ears, too incapacitated to stop Pudge from running into the Sanctuary. His eyes opened in panic, as he feared what would happen.

Pudge happily ran about, his large body knocking vases and causing the ground to shake. Book shelves were falling over. Books that had been precariously balanced in sorted stacks topped over.

"SO MUCH MEAT, SO LITTLE TIME!" He crashed through the fence towards the animals.

"YOU'LL LOOK GOOD WITH AN APPLE IN YET MOUTH!"

Silencer looked on in horror, as Pudge continued making his way towards the animals, who had sensed that something was up.

"NICE BIT O' CREEP FILET."

So much noise, too much noise. Silencer couldn't think properly.

The other librarians had filed out of the other rooms, coming to see what the commotion was. They were shocked at all the noise.

Silencer started to panic. They would know he was the one who had brought Pudge into the Sanctuary. He'd be the one to blame. He had to stop him somehow. But how?! He was going to get kicked out.

"SILENCE!" he screamed, as loud as he could.

Suddenly, it was quiet.

....

...

And that's how he learned his Ultimate.


----------

I'm sorry for the crappy story, ran out of time!

Our Stories

It's no secret that I love games, in particular Dota 2. It's also no secret that I enjoy writing, and now film-making.

Eggmond linked this podcast: http://gamehugs.com/episode-52-katie-stegs-lumi-consulting/, and he said there have been others in this series that go into different jobs in the game industry. He mentioned that he has been inspired to think about different aspects of the games industry that people who aren't developers or professional players can get into.

I've been thinking about how I can contribute. It does make me sad that eSports isn't as big in Australia as it is in some other countries, and for a while, I wanted to go down the path of forming an eSports Federation. One of the issues that can come up is the problem of money. There have been a few famous incidents of tournaments that have been organised, and people have run off with the money. Or organisations that sign-on players, but then don't pay them their winnings. Some players will have contracts, but not all, and it's hard to know what's fair, or what is the industry standard, especially if you're new. There's no accountability - if something doesn't happen, the player may speak out, or the organisation, but it turns into a he said, she said kind of situation.

I had envisioned some sort of central entity, a bit like KeSPA, but I didn't want it to be some crazed, rules-based, you can't talk in game except to say "gg" kind of thing. I just wanted a central place to organise competitions, keep track of player / organisation contracts / obligations, things like that. Well, I have no experience in management, or law, so that never really got off the ground, but there are other skills I do have.

I think my favourite part of the large Dota 2 tournaments is the player videos. I can't remember when they started, but lately, at all the major Valve tournaments, they have short videos going into the lives of some of the players. When you have a game like Dota 2, which is free-to-play, and is on the lower end of hardware requirements (at least I think so), you get such a variety of players, and so it's really fascinating to look at their stories. (By the way, if you haven't already, check out the documentary Valve made called Free to Play which looks at three of the players who ended up at The International.)

Why do we need to wait for a large tournament to find out about the lives of the players? I think every player, and every game probably has a story behind it. There are thousands of games that are played every week, and there are funny things that happen all the time. There are teams who will probably never make it to the international stage, but who have poured a lot of time and effort into mastering the art of Dota, and they also have a story to tell.

I don't know if I'll still be interested in Dota at the end of the year (I probably will), and when I don't have this blog to write in every day, maybe I can go out and find some of those stories. I have been working on my interview skills through work, finding out more about the people I work with, so maybe I can use that to try and get some of those stories.

Making the News

I got home too late yesterday and wasn't able to get the photo I wanted to get on the way home, so Lazy Fiction Friday has become Slothful Story Saturday.

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Samantha rested against the tree trunk, glad she managed to secure such a good vantage point - easy to see anyone approaching, but concealed enough that nobody should see her. She forced herself to stay still, just in case her movements gave away her position.

The South Square Stabber had been all over the news for the past six weeks. There were only three deaths so far, over a period of about seven months, but with the last death being the son-in-law of prominent media mogul Johan Poklowski, every edition of the Morning Post had featured at least two pages dedicated to the ongoing investigation, much to the consternation of the local police force.

Samantha herself had followed the coverage eagerly, in an almost sadistic way. You're not supposed to be curious about this kind of stuff, but Matthew Poklowski was notorious for being an asshole. Every journalism student in the city had had a brush with him at some point, and he revelled in the fact that he could have his pick of the eager, young female journalism students. Schadenfreude. That was the word she was thinking of. Pleasure from someone else's pain.

The police are yet to arrest anyone, and if the newspapers are to be believed, they're too busy trying to find their own feet to even consider looking for the killer. But Samantha new better than to read the papers. There were many online forums where people were speculating on the killer's motives. The three victims didn't have much in common.

Katerina Montoya, 58, mother of two children. Her husband was an accountant, and she had stayed at home to raise the children. She had a lot of spare time now that her children had left home, so one of them had convinced her to start a food blog, detailing how to cook the traditional South American dishes that had enriched their childhood. Her death had shocked the local Latino community, and her the readers of her somewhat popular blog, but in a couple of weeks, had faded away.

The second victim, Tim Michaelson, 23, was an arts student, studying part time, and working part time on his YouTube channel, where he uploaded videos of himself playing various video games. His death was considered odd at the time, as his friends and fans found it strange that he would be out at South Square on the day of the release of Darkness Rises 3, the sequel that had been in production for more than seven years, but the constant anonymous tips from his fans led to the police releasing an official statement saying they were looking into it.

The only thing linking the three victims was the location and the MO: all three bodies had been found in South Square Park, a single slash against their necks, and then three stabs in the chest, left, right and centre. The nuttier of the conspiracy theorists began to guess that the attacks were related to religion: the father, the son and the holy spirit, ignoring the fact that the neck was slashed, not the face.

Samantha continued waiting. South Square Park was closed off in the month following the death of Poklowski, but the day after it re-opened, there were tents set-up with kids camping out in the park. #survivedSouthSquare started trending on Instagram. Samantha rolled her eyes in disgust. Parents petitioned for protection from the local police, but after a couple of weeks without anything happening, people figured that there was safety in numbers. The crowds had died down, but there were still people camping out. Idiots.

Photos of the crime scene had been posted online to the different forums, and Samantha had picked up on one of the more frequent posters: izElectro. A browse through his posting history revealed that he had a Twitter account where he reported on the events of the local sporting clubs. Though Sam felt that the word "reporting" was too strong for what he did. In her opinion, Twitter, blogs and Instagram were the writing tools for those who couldn't write. They relied on being the first ones with the news, and it didn't matter that the content had poor grammar, spelling or even form. It was just a matter of putting it out there, adding some photos of girls in skimpy clothing, slapping on a stupid title like, "Things the government doesn't want you to know!" and you could call yourself a writer.

Meanwhile, actual writers, like herself, were struggling to find work as newspapers and magazines were moving online, and those easy-to-read, shallow articles were a lot more popular than the real hard-hitting news. Click here to read about 5 ways the journalism industry is dying!!!

She knew izElectro would be out here again tonight. He seemed to know more about the killings than anything else listed in the investigation. Perhaps he shared her morbid fascination with the events. She had gleaned from his online presence that he lived alone, was roughly in his late twenties or early thirties, worked in the central business district, in the financial industry. He had made a post detailing his theory that the kills weren't even in South Square Park, but happened elsewhere and the bodies were moved. None of the other media sources had suggested anything like that, but it could be that the police had figured that out, and withheld that information to try and separate a real lead from a false one.

He wasn't going to be in a tent with the idiot teens, as she knew he wouldn't be able to stay out too late since he had to get up for work the next day. She had found a picture of him from a FINSIA conference five years ago, so she had a vague idea of what he looked like. So she continued to wait.

It was quarter to ten when she finally spotted him. He was scarily close to her position, snapping photos of the nearby trees and the grass. Just how much did he know?

She shifted from her resting position and crept towards him. "izElectro?"

He jumped up in shock and turned around to the sound of the voice. "Umm... hi. Who are you?"

"'SS_Hunter' I know, probably not the best name, but all the good names were taken." she chuckled.

"Oh! I love reading your posts. What do you think about my theory about the kill site?"

"I think you might be on to something. I've actually been looking around, and I think I might have a potential location. Want to see?"

"Sure!"

She led him out of a park, to a nearby warehouse. The dirty windows were like pockmarks on the walls, ruining the smooth facade, and making it look even more eerie in the moonlight.. "I was thinking this is probably it. There used to be be an abattoir here, but the factory moved. Perfect place to kill people. The blood stays hidden."

"Good thinking." he said as he turned towards her.

"So how did you figure out the kill site wasn't in the park? Do you have an inside source in the police force?"

He laughed. "No, it's probably just too many episodes of CSI." He retrieved his phone from his pocket and began to take some photos of the exterior.

Sam was surprised at the feeling of disappointment. For a moment, she had been hopeful of finding a kindred spirit. "The place isn't even locked. Let's take a look inside!"

The two of them walked through the unlocked entrance and Sam switched on her torch, panning the light around the interior. Her investigative partner gasped. "Wow, this place is huge! It looked so small from the outside." He headed towards one of the bloodstained walls and began taking photos. "This seems too fresh to have been from when this was an abattoir."

"Really? How can you tell?" Sam's head perked up again.

"Oh, I have no idea, it just sounds like something they'd say on TV." And again, her hopes were dashed. The two of them wandered around the warehouse in silence, the only sounds were their footsteps and the quiet camera shutter sound of the phone.

One more chance, she thought to herself.

"You would think they would have painted over the bloodstains when this was converted into a warehouse." he said. "I can't imagine coming into work and seeing this every day."

He's getting warmer.

"You're right." she nodded in agreement.

He suddenly stopped. "That's weird. These are offices. But the bloodstains continue."

Sam shined her torch on the walls and bent over for a closer look.  I don't remember this being here... She spun around quickly. Her "partner" held a large chef's knife in his hand, the torchlight reflected against it and made shadows against the wall as he rotated it side-to-side.

"Part time chef?" she asked, coolly.

"South Square Stabber." came the response.

"No. You're not."

"I'm not.... But I could be."

Sam face wrinkled in confusion. "I don't understand."

"You were sloppy with Poklowski. If I was able to find this place, then it won't be long before the police do, if they haven't already."

"So what do you want?"

"We kill again. More accurately, I kill again, when you have a clear alibi."

"And why do you want to do this?"

"I'm never getting promoted. My boss isn't going to retire for years, and he's never getting promoted either."

"Are you kidding? This isn't some Agatha Christie novel. How do I know I can trust you?"

"I can probably stab you right now before you get your own knife out of your bag. But I won't. You need me as much as I need you."

"So what's the plan? You kill someone while I'm overseas, and in return, I kill your boss?"

"Something like that, yes."

"OK. Well, I guess I don't really have a choice. I have my next target in mind. Meet me at the McDonald's near the Ikon building at 3PM tomorrow, and we'll go somewhere and exchange details. Don't write anything down. Don't record anything in your phone. Delete the photos you took of this place."

"No. Those photos are my back-up, in case you don't hold up your side of the bargain. They've all been backed up to Google Photos, and I have them synching to another account, so even if you delete them from my phone, you won't delete them from that account."

"Makes sense."

"Also, I think it would be best if you kill my boss first, as an act of faith."

"Makes sense." she repeated.

"I'm glad we could come to an agreement."

She could see the greed in his face, he was already picturing his promotion. She gestured for him to leave. "I have the torch, you go ahead."

"OK. I'll see you tomorrow, at the McDonald's." He put the knife away, and turned to walk out, Sam following close behind. As they left the office section, she switched off the torch.

"What's going on?" he asked, panicked.

"I think the battery died."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to serve as a makeshift torch, just in time to see Sam slash at his throat with her knife. He felt blood dripping down his throat, and he tried to scream, but he wasn't even sure if he did, the pain was overwhelming. She stabbed at him again, and his mind was yelling at him to defend himself, but he felt his body moving far too slowly in response. He struggled to stay conscious, but his mind was shutting down to block out the pain. He didn't even feel the second or third stab.

"Sorry, I'm not hiring."

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I'm not particularly happy with how this one turned out. I wanted to try and get into the mind of a psychopath, since I've often wondered if I am one, but I guess the fact that I couldn't is a good sign?

But the story definitely feels badly executed. I read so many thriller novels, but I couldn't seem to capture the same suspense.

The Lost Umbrella

It'a lazy Fiction Friday again!

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Evan scrubbed at the stubborn mustard stain, which had been left by one of the café's messiest eaters. The owner, Mr Smyth, spent a lot of money on the ornate wooden tables that were scattered haphazardly around the cafe, but refused to spend more money on tablecloths of any kind, which meant spills would often get caught between the cracks in the wood. Yet he insisted that the tables be kept pristine, which meant it was the job of whoever was closing to clean it all up.

A couple more swipes at the stain did the job and Evan sighed. He just had the outdoor area to pack up and then he shut the doors and head home. Luckily, it had been raining, so there weren't many customers sitting outside that day. It should be pretty quick: towelling off the furniture and stacking it against the wall. His mind had already wandered off into weekend-mode when he noticed the umbrella hanging on the back of one of the chairs.

It's kinda cute, he thought to himself. The last customer had long since left, so he put the umbrella away under the cash register, carried in the furniture, and locked the door.

~~~~~~

"Hey, did you leave your umbrella here on Friday? It's cute." Marnie asked, as Evan walked through the door.

"Not mine. One of the customers left it here." Evan replied.

"Well, it's already lunch time, and nobody has come in to pick it up. I wonder who it belongs to."

"Probably some little kid."

"Nah, it's too big to be a kid's umbrella, I'd guess a woman."

"Think she's hot?"

Marnie laughed. "No idea. If I had to guess, I'd say... medium height, slim, blonde, one of those annoyingly cheerful people. Urgh." She shuddered.

"It has doughnuts on it. Nobody who likes doughnuts is going to be slim or annoyingly cheerful. Besides, that's such a cliché description."

"That's a bit of a harsh judgement! So what do you think she looks like?"

Evan titled his head, thinking. "Hmmm. I don't know what she looks like, but I'd guess she's childish. Maybe she's in the food industry. She could even work at a café!"

Marnie rolled her eyes. "Typical! Criticise my guess, but dodge the question yourself!"

The sound of the door opening made both Evan and Marnie turn their heads. "What are you two arguing about now?"

Marnie smiled and showed her the umbrella while Evan began preparing her regular skinny latte and orange and poppy-seed muffin. "Good morning, Agatha. Is this yours?"

Agatha shook her head, her tight, grey bun bobbing a bit with the motion. "No."

"We were trying to guess what the owner looks like."

"Oh, dear. I'd have no idea, sorry." Agatha said, as she returned the umbrella to Marnie who put it back beneath the counter.

A cold rush of air blew in. For the next two hours, the umbrella lay forgotten as the morning rush of caffeine deprived office workers began pouring in to the café. The two of them expertly juggled the grill, coffee machine and sandwich press as they prepared the orders, silently doing what needed to be done to make the morning go smoothly.

As the morning rush began to thin out, Marnie turned to Evan and asked, "So, have you decided where you're going to go for your holiday?"

"Not yet." Evan said. "It's down to Hong Kong or San Francisco."

"Both of those sound amazing. I wish I had the money to travel." Marnie sighed, wistfully.

Evan nudged her playfully, "You would if you didn't spend all of your money on clothes and make-up.!"

Marnie broke into a pose and pouted. "Looking this good ain't cheap!"

Evan's face broke into a confused smile. "I don't know if you're complimenting or insulting yourself." The response he received was a piece of toast tossed at his head, which he caught and began to cover with strawberry jam.

Laura and Kevin arrived shortly after 10:30AM to help prepare the sandwich bar for the lunch rush. Marnie showed them both the umbrella. "What kind of person do you think the owner is?"

"Probably a little kid." Kevin suggested.

"That's what I said!" Evan interjected.

"Look how long it is though. Plus, how many kids have you seen at the café?" Laura asked.

"Hmm, that's a good point." Kevin said, thoughtful. "OK, I take it back. The pink doughnuts make me think it definitely belongs to a girl though."

"Yeah." Laura agreed.

"What do you think she looks like?" Evan asked, repeating Marnie's question from earlier.

"I think she's a hipster. Hipsters love doughnuts, don't they? She probably has frizzy hair, big glasses, and messy hair, and carries around a dog-eared copy of 1964." Kevin guessed.

"No, I think she might be the opposite. She's a mother of three children. Has a boring job in one of the offices around here. In her mid-forties. Boring, black outfits every day. She got this umbrella as a mother's day present and it's probably the only colourful thing in her otherwise boring life." said Laura.

Evan laughed, looking at Laura's black tank top, over black skinny jeans with black shoes, but chose not to comment. "She'll probably come in today and we'll find out later."

The lunch rush began to pick up, and the four of the busied themselves with serving and preparing. As the rush began to die down, a large, stocky man with tattoos down his arms approached the counter.

"Hi, I think I might have left my umbrella here yesterday." he said in a deep voice.

The four of them looked at each other in surprise.

"What does it look like?" Evan asked, still in shock that this could be the owner of the umbrella.

"Light blue, with doughnuts on it."

Marnie grabbed it from under the counter and handed it to him. "Oh, I'm so glad it's still here. Thanks!"

"No problems!" she shot back. "Have a nice day!"

The grateful man left the café.

"Well. That's not what I was expecting." Kevin and Laura said at the same time, once they were sure he was out of earshot.

"Me, neither." Evan said. "Oh well. You're on closing shift today, Kevin? Mind if I head off now?"

"Yeah, It's looking pretty dead now, so I'm going to head off, too." said Marnie.

"Sure, go ahead. Laura and I can tidy up. See you both tomorrow!"

-------------------------------------------

The background behind this story:

I bought that umbrella during our first trip to Japan (Jan 2011). It's my favourite as it's both my favourite colour and it has doughnuts on it. I also really like how it's see-through, so I can still see the sky when it's raining, but it is starting to wear out, so I might have to toss it soon. Not bad for a 1000 yen umbrella though! I have a terrible habit of leaving my umbrella behind at restaurants and shops. Fortunately, I've managed to get it back so far, but every time I leave it behind, I wonder if the people at the store wonder what kind of person would have a weird-looking umbrella like that.

I always imagine they picture me as a muscly black guy who works as an accountant and I know they're disappointed when they actually see me.

The Girl on the Train

Patrick ran for the train, annoyed at himself for being unable to push back on the extra work heaped on him by his boss who didn't seem to understand that now was not a good time to be taking on new clients.

3:14.

Each breath felt like it was being dragged along a bed of coals. He tried to focus his mind on moving one foot in front of the other. The station had come into view, only a little bit left to go. As he passed by the news kiosk, he saw that the train was already there, waiting at the platform.

Second carriage from the back. Third last row of seats on the left-hand side.

The thought of seeing her again pushed him harder and he dug his train pass out of his bag with one hand as he deftly swiped it against the validator and hopped onto the platform. Sweat dripped unnoticed from his forehead onto his shoe as he made his way to the second last carriage. A quick glance inside showed that his favourite seat was free. He propped himself up against the window and waited.

3:19.

Did something happen to her? Why wasn't she on the train yet? Patrick thought to himself. Through the window, he watched the people on the platform, unable to see the telltale ponytail of auburn hair that was the highlight of his day.

3:20.

He looked at his watch, trying to fight back a feeling of disappointment. What would his wife say if she saw him like this? He peered anxiously out of the window again and spotted her making her way through the ticket barrier. He could pick her out of a crowd instantly. She raced towards the train, but the doors began to beep, indicating that the train was about to depart. Patrick leaped out of his seat and jammed his foot between the closing doors.

"Thanks," she panted, her lips parting in that familiar smile. The crinkle in the corner was out of place, but it gave her an adorable lopsidedness that made his heart feel heavy. He searched her face for a hint of recognition, but was both relieved and sad to see none. "Are those flowers for me?" she joked, her eyes looking mischievous.

Patrick froze, unable to think of a suitable response. Yes. Wait, no, don't say that, that's creepy! 

"I'm just kidding," she laughed, as she went to sit down. Patrick returned to his seat.

Maria.

Her mother insisted on that name, as The Sound of Music was her favourite movie. Whenever Maria was called into detention for yet another high school prank, she could often be heard singing:

How do you solve a problem like Maria?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?

Patrick always found it funny thought he never said so out loud. He wished his parents had been as casual when he was in detention.

He picked this seat because it allowed him to watch her in the reflection of the window under the guise of staring as the city flew by. Always a creature of habit, she always picked the same seat. Leaning against the window, with her legs sprawled out on the second seat, she would pull out her sketchbook, her pencil moving smoothly across the page to create whatever had captured her imagination that day. Her shoes bobbed up and down to the beat of the song spilling out of her headphones, but it wasn't loud enough for him to catch what it was.

He remembered that Maria had loved to draw and paint as a kid. Art class was her favourite, despite the fact that she struggled to pay attention and never drew what the teacher asked her to draw. He had asked her about it at the time, and she said that she couldn't help but draw the pictures in her head, and that drawing fruit bowls was boring.

After school was his favourite. They would meet behind the shed a block away from the school, and cycle home together. He understood that it was too embarrassing for her to be seen with him. Even now, 14 years later, the memory of her smiling as she walked her bike up to him brought a fresh wave of pain to his heart. She was always talkative, telling him about her day. If she had a lot she wanted to talk about, she'd ask if it was OK if they just walked. He secretly enjoyed those days the most, as it meant he got to spend twice as much time with her.

The memory haunted him. 10 years since he had last spoken to Maria. Her angry insistence that he couldn't tell her what to do, followed by him screaming that she was making a huge mistake. She drove off saying that she never wanted to speak to him again. If there was one thing she was good at, it was keeping her word.

A lock of hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and she absentmindedly tucked it behind her ear as she erased some lines. He wondered if she posted any of her drawings online. Would that be creepy of him to search for them? Last week, he had walked around a bit, pretending he needed to stretch his legs, and caught a glimpse of one of her drawings - a grandiose castle with a fire princess standing on a balcony. He rarely saw her with coloured pencils, so seeing the colourful array of pencils she had lying at her feet made him curious.

He felt his phone buzz, and he knew it was a message from his wife, but he couldn't bring himself to read it right now. Not while she was here. He only had a few more minutes until her stop. His thoughts were drawn back to that day. After she had driven off, he had stewed at home. He had done so much for her, and she just wanted to throw it all away for some stupid guy!

The train slowed to a stop, and she quickly packed up her sketchbook and went to stand by the door. Patrick was tempted to follow her, but his wife was waiting, and he couldn't think of a good explanation for being late. Not today.

His stop was next, and he stared wistfully at the now vacant seat as he stood up to leave. His wife was waiting at the platform. The sight of her puffy eyes filled him with guilt.

"You saw her again today, didn't you?" she said, accusingly, as they walked out of the station.

"I can't help that we catch the same train!" Patrick responded, defensively.

"We've talked about this. The therapist says it's not healthy. How can you move on if you keep putting yourself in that situation?"

"What situation? It's a girl on a train. One in a sea of hundreds."

"You know what I'm talking about, it's not just any girl. It's her."

"It's not as bad as you think."

"Urgh!" his wife sighed, in exasperation. "I can't deal with this right now. Not today." She stormed ahead and Patrick followed her silently. They followed a familiar path, bodies moving slowly, as though they were robots marching into battle.

His wife broke into a sob. "It's been 10 years."

"I know." Patrick replied sadly, as he put his arm around her. The tears began pouring out in earnest. "Maybe you should come and see her some time." Patrick offered.

"It's weird!"

"I know, but she really does look just like her, and she's the same age Maria would have been. It's a bit peaceful, seeing her. Thinking about what could have been."

His words hung in the air as he lay the flowers down at the gravestone.

Here lies Maria Abernathy.
Beloved daughter
The cloud that could never be pinned down
1989-2007

---------------------------

I've gotten a bit sick of writing about my own life, so I thought I'd try more fiction. So today is Fiction Friday! Though I doubt it'll be a regular thing, and it'll be more like Fiction Whenever I Feel Like It Day!

Epic Quest

Tell me, O muse, of the ingenious heroine who travelled far and wide after graduating from university. Many methods did she write, and many were the design patterns with whose contents and use she was acquainted; moreover she suffered much by C, while trying to malloc her own memory, and the memory of the processes around her, but do what she might, she could not overcome the kernel security, and so they perished. Tell me about all her adventures, O daughter of Linus, from whatsoever source you may know them.

--------------------------------------------------------

It is customary for the acolytes of the Couchicus-to-10Kysus to rise before the sun and begin the Ritual of the Run Really Far And Get Really Tired, and so it was today, for the heroine Foddysseus, with the quiet whispers of the Androidicus nymphs, "Start running for 10 minutes. You are on run one of four."

With the Running God appeased, Foddysseus returns to her abode to clean up and prepare for the day, as the Programmers' Guild stipulates that a guild representative must maintain high standards of hygiene at all times. The squid ink begins to fade from the sky, a signal from the Gods that it is time for our heroine to begin the journey to The Office.

It is a dangerous journey, and there are not many who have tried it and lived to tell the tale. I shall spare you the details, lest it cause you to lose sleep at night, but fear not, as our brave heroine arrives in one piece, still possessing her wallet, and more importantly, her breakfast.

"Top o' the morning to ya," says Lennistos, second in command of the Kleisthenes Development Team. Foddysseus regards him strangely. For some reason he is Irish today, and she can't work out why. She files away this mystery as something to be solved later. She accompanies Lennistos to their work station and eats breakfast while reading the overnight messenger pigeons. There is a message from the Business Analysts' Guild. She saves this nice, plump pigeon for lunch.

Just before she is able to begin work, she is approached by her rival, Apollo. He taunts her about the last battle they had together, a musical challenge, at which she lost dismally. Then reminds her of their upcoming battle, a defense of the ancient gods, focusing his icy blue eyes boring into her. "I hope you are prepared to lose again." Foddysseus remains silent, as she is unsure of what to say. He takes this as a sign of submission, and continues the onslaught of taunts. However, none of this perturbs her, as she is of the Programmers' Guild, and as everyone knows, programmers are part machine and have no emotions. Eventually, Apollo gives up and returns to his lair.

The Prophet of Kleisthenes had assigned Foddysseus the task of automating the import of trade data from the Dwarves of Mount Olympus. The materials for the second step of the sacrifice had been prepared, there was only one step left. Unfortunately for Foddysseus, the instructions for this step were written by the Temple of Kleisthenes, which meant they were virtually unintelligible.

Lennistos directed Foddysseus towards the writings of Nikostratos - gems of code sprinkled throughout the repository, that the great scribes have strived to maintain. She poured through lines and lines of perfect code, but when she tried to reproduce it for herself, she received NullPointerExceptionicus after NullPointerExceptionicus. The Priests of Kleisthenes were unable to offer assistance, as they were preparing to sell the next Big Upgrade.

Thus she prepared for the great voyage to see Elder Nevonis.

You must understand that the journey to see Elder Nevonis was filled with peril. One may not simply approach Elder Nevonis for advice. Some say the ever-wise Nikostratos himself descended from the heavens to impart the knowledge of Kleisthenes development to Elder Nevonis, and so only the most worthy of questions were allowed to reach his attention. A series of trials were in place to filter out the uninitiated.

Firstly, the trial of the crusader. One must debate, in front of a forum of philosophers, whether spaces or tabs are the better choice.

Secondly, the trial of the rapids. One must tail the application log file and identify all of the erroneous incoming messages on the first pass.

Lastly, the trial of the binding. One must merge long-running feature branch into master and solve all merge conflicts without a diff tool.

Exhausted by her time in the Library of Nikostratos, Foddysseus sought some reprieve at the local inn to recover her spirits before the Great Journey. She ordered a dish of bland chicken and broccoli from Chef Microwavus and sat down.

"WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?!" Foddysseus looked up to see Sir Tomas of the Business Analysts' Guild. He was looking at a large, brown cardboard box, his perfectly coifed hair framing a perplexed look. It was unusual to see a Business Analyst look puzzled by something, but there's a first time for everything.

"It appears to be a cupcake, " she stated, after a preliminary examination.

"CUPCAKE? PRAY TELL, IS IT FREE OF GLUTEN?" he asked.

"I am uncertain, but it is not likely." she replied.

"WELL GOOD. I SHALL RETURN AND WE CAN DISCUSS THIS CUPCAKE FURTHER." Sir Tomas spun around on his perfectly polished black boot and left the inn, without a single hair on his head shifting.

Foddysseus finished her hot meal when she was struck by inspiration. Elder Nevonis had a particular preference for sweet foods, perhaps a cupcake would put him in a good enough mood to skip the three trials. She raced up the rocky mountain, glad for all the Couchicus-to-10Kysus training, and reached inside the cardboard box. She recoiled in horror as she found that the box was empty.

"AH, FODDYSSEUS, YOU ARE HERE. SHALL WE INVESTIGATE THE GLUTEN CONTENT OF THIS CUPCAKE FURTHER?"

"Alas no, Sir Tomas. The cupcake is gone!"

For the first time in the history of The Office, one of Sir Tomas' hairs slipped out of place. "GONE, YOU SAY? FODDYSSEUS, YOU MUST FIND OUT WHO TOOK IT."

Foddysseus was an avid student of the policing arts, and had read extensively on the science of fingerprinting and DNA analysis. She divided the village into a grid and began her search, searching for the telltale signs of purple icing. She interrogated the villagers, most of them intimidated by her raw determination to find the missing cupcake. She had narrowed her search down to two suspects.

However, she was reminded that the Programmers' Guild did not like their representatives dabbling in the arts of detection, and that she should probably return to her duties. Sadly, she agreed that it must be so, but the case of the missing cupcake was not forgotten.

She still needed the help of Elder Nevonis, but opted to resort to bribing him with a chocolate reindeer instead. She described her problem to him, and he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"NullPointerExceptionicus, hmmm?" he mused. "I encountered the same thing back in the Battle of the Fire Oxen. If I recall correctly, the solution is to become the oxen."

Foddysseus began to meditate over the Riddle of Elder Nevonis. It was a task made more difficult by the sound of Elder Nevonis munching on the chocolate reindeer and chuckling to himself. "I jest, young Foddysseus. Here is what you should do." Elder Nevonis began to part the sea of knowledge and the two of them crossed together, Foddysseus with her mouth open in awe at his power.

With the three sacrifices prepared, all that was left was assembling them and beginning the ritual, which would have to wait for sunrise the next day. So Foddysseus decided to call it a day and begin the trek home, eager to work on the case of the missing cupcake.

During the journey, she encountered a djinn. "What is it you seek, young programmer?" he asked.

"I seek knowledge," she responded, both curious and distrustful.

His green eyes twinkled with mischief. "I can help you gain knowledge. But in exchange, you must write about your day." Foddysseus sighed with relief, finally something easy to do. "But you must write it in the style of an epic."

"But, but, but-" she stammered.

"One who is afraid to look for knowledge will never find it." he says mysteriously, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Upon reaching home, there was a messenger pigeon awaiting her, informing her that the daily practice for ancient defense would be underway soon. She quickly acquired sustenance, debated the finer points of endorphins with Seleukos, and sat down to practice, images of Apollo's cocky stare fuelling her desire to win.

The first battle featured a strong warrior, whose abilities allowed him to grow stronger with each enemy soul harvested. Unfortunately, the enemy magi were far stronger, killing Foddysseus many times to reclaim the harvested souls.

The second battle featured a master of alternate dimensions, who could steal the intelligence of enemies. Carried forward by her allies Pharmicus and redbeanporkles, she managed to not die as much as she did in the first battle, and Pharmicus and redbeanporkles managed to secure a victory.

Foddysseus stumbles into bed with the knowledge that her chances of defeating Apollo are not as high as she thought, and there is a long way to go.

---------------------------------------------------

Another attempt at something different, redbeanpork had asked me to describe what it is I do at work exactly, and I didn't want to write about a day where I was busy filming videos, so I wanted to wait a bit. Michael gave me the challenge of a different writing style, and I tried to emulate Homer's Odyssey, but I don't think I quite pulled it off, as there really was no sense of danger, no sense of adventure.

Maybe it's because my life is pretty boring, but if I do ever want to write a novel, I need to include some kind of conflict - otherwise it's just people doing stuff. I guess there's the Dota 2 challenge against D, which seems to be scheduled for Friday, but that's probably the closest thing to a challenge I have in my life right now. Perhaps I should have waiting for a more exciting day.

I still want to know who took the last cupcake though. It wasn't stolen, as food left in the kitchen is fair game, but I'm curious, and I don't like unsolved mysteries.

Perhaps I should try this style again, but with a different story, not my own life.

I would like to add that Nev is lovely, and is always super willing to help out, no matter how stupid the question I ask him. I really don't know why Lenny became Irish in this story.

2016 in review, part 3

You may have noticed the abundance of photos in my last couple of posts. Intern Peter told me about the 365 day photo challenge. The actual challenge itself doesn't seem to be clearly defined, but I'm going to try and use it as the basis for yet another attempt at writing a blog post every day for a year, which is going to be my New Year's Resolution for 2017. But rather than taking a photo every day, I'm going to slightly expand the topic. 

• It doesn't have to be a photo, but has to be an image of some sort, so it can be a screenshot, or a motivational poster. It must be something I've created myself though
• I don't have to use a picture created that day, but it must be one created within a week of posting.

Hopefully I can beat my last record of 120 days in a row!

---------------------------------------

Unfortunately, it seems like there won't be a Wordpress annual review this year. It seems that it took a team all of December to generate those reports, which is pretty intense, so that makes sense. I guess I will have to make my own.

My blog was viewed 3260 times, by 2011 visitors. 

It was a pretty quiet year for me, with only 30 posts.

My most popular post was last year's post on the Java Certification Exam... which was 625 of my views.

Most of my views were from Australia (1239), with the second highest being India (663) followed closely by the United States (514).

The End

Phew, last post for NaBloPoMo 2010! I'm starting it at 10:40PM, will I make it in time?!

In order to come around a full circle, I thought I'd link my failed attempt at NaNo 2010. I've learned a lot about what I like to read based on what I wrote. I'm not a big fan of paragraphs spent describing the surrounding area, nor even descriptions of the people themselves. Most of my focus is on the dialogue, rather than actions between people. As I mentioned before, my dialogue is quite stilted and unnatural, so that is the thing I would like to work on the most before trying NaNo again.

The main character was really bland. He wanted to become a mage, but that was pretty much his only character trait. He didn't seem to have any interesting relationships with anyone else, and was a bit of a loner. He did have friends, but I didn't really know what I was going to do with them, so they also ended up being quite two-dimensional.

So the basic plot would have been that a mage came to take Jarrod away for use as a conduit. She was a light/time mage, and quite famous for her work in the war. She explains that while shd did medical magic during the war, it wasn't because she condones the war, but because people were hurt. She tries to tell Jarrod that there are more important things that becoming a mage and fighting in the war.

It turns out that she is his mother (while she didn't give birth to him, she developed a technique to transfer his unborn body into his birth mother - who ended up marrying his father - as she didn't want him), which he figures is the reason he was never able to become a fire mage - or any mage at all. He learns a lot about the different schools of magic as the two of them travel together, but at night he constantly has dreams leading him to a specific place (he can't remember what happened when he went to see the spirits, but they are able to send him messages in his dreams). He finds that he is a very capable conduit for light, time and fire magics, but because of his extensive study at the academy, he is fairly adept at the other elements.

The two of them travel to the place in his dreams, and find out a man has worked out how to use untrained magic-sensitive children as magical conduits, boosting his power to incredible proportions. He wants to use his powers to wage a new war, while the soldiers are busy fighting their current war, but he hasn't managed to find enough children. He meets Jarrod and finds him interesting. Jarrod's personality is a bit of all of the elements, and the man realises that would make him an incredibly strong conduit, as he is able to manipulate all the elements, as opposed to most conduits who specialise in one or two.

Jarrod and his mother realise that using the children as conduits leads to them being unable to attain runes, which explains why there is a magic block in the area - the spirits are having trouble communicating with the children because they are not on the path of rune acquisition. Jarrod tries to warn the man, but he doesn't listen, and so Jarrod and his mother are forced to travel back to Istvar and try to convince the king that he needs to deal with the situation. The king says that they can't spare any troops from the front lines for some unfounded story, and dismisses both of them.

Jarrod comes up with the idea of using the academy students to fight. He says that they have magic inside them, they just can't shape it properly like a mage, but if you have enough of them, then they can act as conduits for the teachers of the academy who are magi, effectively amplifying their power. Jarrod's mother points out that this is exactly what the other guy is doing, and it may lead to these children never becoming magi either. Jarrod decides that he will ask the students of the academy to volunteer for the fight, arguing that at least he's giving them a choice in whether they want to eventually become magi or not, whereas the other guy is just forcing the children into being conduits.

While they are doing this, Pietro joins them and says that he heard what was going on through the air mail, and he wants to help. He ends up recruiting people who had studied with them at the academy to fight.

Most of the older academy students decide to help out, as they want to help save the children who are being used. Jarrod decides this is the best that he's going to get, and launches an attack. During the first moments of the attack, many of the students collapse, unconscious. Jarrod and the other magi are slowly being driven back. Then all the students who had collapsed awaken with runes - as the spirits saw their demonstrations of likeness during the fight, and saw fit to grant them their first rune. This turns the tide of the battle, and eventually, they win.

Jarrod decides he wants to see more of the world, and continues his travels with his mother in order to help people.

So that's my entire NaNo story in less than 800 words!

Fodder and the City

After I started watching Sex and the City, I always wondered if I wasn't somewhat like Carrie, in the sense that after I go out and do something with my friends, I will usually come home and blog about it in order to digest my day. I'm not quite so fancy as to have a weekly column in a newspaper, but whenever I do go out with friends, I usually have something new to think about when I get home.

The problem is, Carrie's friends never complain when she writes about them, even though they do read. And Carrie's circle is enclosed enough that she can write about her friends and pretty much nobody outside that circle of friends would have any idea who she is writing about. However, when I write, though I do try to keep people's identities a secret when I feel it's appropriate, there is only so much I can say about a situation before it becomes pretty obvious who I'm talking about if you happen to know the person.

For instance, I was going to write about P and N today. How I found out that P is going overseas, and when she gets back, N is going overseas, so I'm not entirely sure why, but they decided they were going to break up. Now not everyone who knows P and N would work out who they are, but pretty much anyone who has spent more than 5 minutes with either of them in the past week would probably know who I'm talking about. I wanted to do a big dissection on their relationship, but I wonder if somehow they stumble upon my blog, would they be pissed off that I am writing what I'm about to write?

So when I first heard that they were going to break up because they were going to be on holidays away from each other for a while, my first impression was they were doing it because they wanted to try out the exotic wares while away. There's that whole postcode rule thing as mentioned in Role Models (it's not cheating if you are doing it in a different post code), and while I don't believe in it, it's what some people seem to live by.

I think that's a pretty strange reason to break up. If you pretty much know that person is going to do the dirty while they're away, and you're OK with it, why bother breaking up? Just so they can say that they haven't cheated? But if they were planning to get back together again after they both returned, then does that mean they were only separated in name, but not in spirit? If that's the case, they might as well just stay together and be in an open relationship.

Now that I think about what she said, I got the impression from P that she wasn't entirely sure that they were going to get back together after the holidays were over. She never said that they were having problems, and from what I've seen of the two of them together, it doesn't seem like they are having problems, so the break-up seems so sudden to me.

I don't really want to ask either of them what's going on, because it's really none of my business, but I hope it works out well for both of them.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

(break from stats for a bit)

Kelso: Dr Reed.
Elliot: Mr Murdoch was admitted with a COPD exacerbation, he responded well to antibiotics, bronchodialators, but he did develop a rash on his... ummm... private area.
Kelso: Sorry, on his what?
Elliot: His peepers.
Kelso: Excuse me?
Elliot: His schwing schwong.
Kelso: Dr Reed, it's bad enough that you run out on a patient in the middle of a pelvic exam, but you are a doctor and you need to be able to say simple, clinical words, like penis, or vagina, or anal.
Elliot: Anal is not a dirty word, sir.
Kelso: Tell that to my wife.
-Scrubs, My Dirty Secret

A friend of mine who suddenly has significantly more time to game with me had me wondering what the change was. He said that his usual gaming partner was busy doing something else, to which I made a few inquiries as to what said activity was, and he was pretty vague about it. I made the obligatory porn comment, and my friend replied, "He doesn't watch porn."

As an aside, I should add that it seems silly that there's an expectation that all males watch porn and all females don't. However, there are many, many females who are quite vocal about their porn watching habits and applauded for being so open, so why is it that when a guy states that he doesn't watch porn is he instantly called a liar?

Anyway, I was filled with disbelief, and asked how my friend knew his friend didn't watch porn. His reply was that his friend just didn't seem interested in sex. I asked him how he knew, and he replied that his friend just never talked about it, or mentioned it, or did anything to show that he was interested in it.

While I don't want to fall into the automatic assumption that he is watching porn because he's a guy, I don't find the reasons for him to be uninterested in sex to be enough to convince me. I think there are a lot of people who just don't want to talk about sex, maybe because it makes them feel embarrassed, or uncomfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I write about or say things that make people feel uncomfortable. I try to give people warning when I can, but I don't always get the chance. Am I being oversensitive? I know Graham would probably feed them a spoonful of cement and say, "Harden the fuck up" (ah, the fond memories of Jello ).

Personally, I have various levels of comfort when it comes to talking about sex. Like Elliot, I tend to stick with certain terms for various body parts, although I am more from the clinical school and go with penis and vagina. I was discussing writing erotic fiction for NaNo with Olek, and I mentioned how I just can't bring myself to put "cum gun" or "love stick" into a story, or even most of the stuff listed here (wtf, "Moisture and heat seeking venomous throbbing python of love"). "Cock" I could use, but it makes me feel weird.

In primary school, there was one guy who would always tell me not to say "dirty" words. When I asked to borrow his rubber, he would look at me like I was crazy, and say that he didn't have any condoms. So I started using the word "eraser". When I asked to borrow his sharpener, he teased me and said I just wanted to see how big his "pencil" was. I started carefully choosing my words in order to avoid coming across words that he had marked as being bad, and sometimes I wonder if my conversation with friends growing up has suffered because of it. To think all of that happened in primary school.

I think that some people who seem uninterested in sex may not be uninterested, just unable to get over the psychological taboo of talking about it. I was definitely in that group once, and I think finding someone I could talk to about it, and blogging helped me a lot.

Go Get 'Em Tiger

Maybe I should have done this instead of NaNo (at 8.8k words right now), but I've decided I'm going to try to do NaBloPoMo as well, doing a few posts to catch up for the days I've missed. I looked at some of the prompts and they seem pretty boring, so feel free to leave a prompt in the comments and I'll try to write about that.

I've picked up WoW again, and one of my motivating factors for playing is that I want to beat Dante's brother (me). Achievements are something you get in WoW for performing certain tasks, some of which are something you'd have to go quite out of your way to do. There's no real reward other than bragging rights (although there's a feat of stength called "Over Nine Thousand" that would be nice to get...) so it really is a pointless grind. So why am I doing it? I think the biggest motivating factor for me, is because he said that I couldn't. Which in itself isn't the entire story. I just feel like he's me, but better in every way, and this is just one of the ways I would like to be better than him - and where I have an advantage, as I'm currently unemployed and he works full time, plus he is planning his wedding stuff.

There are other things though, that I wish I felt motivated to do. Leigh is always talking to me about how awesome his department at work is, and he really wants me to try to get in as well, but I'm not really sure that's what I want to do. I already feel like a bit of a sell out for going corporate. The reason I gave at my interview for wanting the job was because I said it would be able to satisfy my interest in user interface design as well as security, but if I go with Leigh, I think I'd end up doing neither - but from the sounds of things, I'd be making the big bucks.

When talking with Euan from ANZ, he said that he makes the big bucks now, but in his actual position, he never gets around do doing what he called "the geeky stuff", but he makes an effort to spend a lot of time with the geeks in his department, seeing what they're up to, so he gets his fill. So it's not like if I followed Leigh, I'd never get to touch a computer ever again.

Back to the topic of motivation, I think I respond better to personal challenges, but it helps when I have an arrogant me telling me that I can't do it. :)

Forget You

I was talking to Olek a couple of nights ago, and he said that I should try to swear more. First, let me clarify that I do swear, just not often. Not because I have a moral objection or anything, it's just that when something happens that would normally cause swear, the first word that comes to mind is usually something else. Olek says that "fuck" is such a good and versatile word, and I agree, but at the same time, I think it's also a downside. There are so many words in the English language, and yet when given the opportunity to use them, so many people just resort to using fuck. There are so many ways to insult someone's intelligence: idiot, moron, imbecile, fool, halfwit, thick-headed - but some people seem to think the list looks a lot more like this: shithead, shithead, shithead, shithead. I don't even know what that word even means. =/ (According to wikipedia: Shithead is an insulting term for a person that is ignorant, narrow minded, cruel, and/or unintelligent.)

I've had a conversation with someone at work which went something along the lines of this:

(I turn over my hand, 4 of a kind: kings)
Patron: Fuck you.
(I turn over Patron's hand, full house: kings over aces)
Me: I'm sorry, but your bet lost, I have to take it.
Patron: Fuck you.
Me: Sometimes it's hard to hit a hand.
Patron: Fuck you.
Me: Do you mind watching your language, the other patrons at this table might not appreciate it?
Patron: Fuck you.
Me: If you have a problem with me, maybe you'd like to talk to my supervisor.
(I call over my supervisor)
Supervisor: Is something wrong?
Patron: Fuck you.
Supervisor: I'd like to ask you to stop swearing.
Patron: Fuck you.
(Supervisor calls over pit boss, security escorts him out)

(One of my trainers suggested I say "It's hard to get a hand, isn't it?" when patrons get angry at a loss, it usually works, but in retrospect, that probably wasn't the right thing to say, as the guy did hit an awesome hand. Maybe I was subconsciously antagonising him - he was a bit of a shithead.)

I've just found that when you start swearing, things usually get out of hand. The person you're talking to gets defensive, you both get angry and probably end up forgetting what the original problem is, because you've both gotten so worked up. I don't know, it just seems counter-productive.

That being said, I'm starting to wonder if the story I'm writing for NaNo feels less realistic because the dialogue in it is so PG. In fact, if you take out the sex, and possibly some violence, almost everything I write (including my blogs) seems pretty boring and PG. Sure, the whole infrequent swearing thing really helps me keep calm when people get angry at me, but sometimes I think that when I'm angry, nobody even notices.

On the drive home from Paul's tonight, I spent a lot of time thinking about the way I talk and express myself, but also the way that I think. Tong commented that after I arrived, the topic of conversation at the game of 500 turned to sex, and as I've mentioned before, that seems to be somewhat of a habit of mine. Is it because it's something I think about a lot, or talk about a lot? I think I have a few friendships that are entirely based on the fact that they want a girl to talk about sex with (and potentially WoW and relationships).

Seeing as I've mentioned it a few times, maybe I should try to change this pattern. Maybe there's like some trinity of vices - sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll swearing - and if you spend too much time on one, it's to the detriment of the others. I should try out other ways of expressing myself, because maybe it'll lead to newer experiences for myself, or at least make me a better writer.

As for the title of this blog, in case I forget the reason myself, it's the title of a song by Cee Lo Green, but I believe it's just the title of the radio edit of the song, the original being "Fuck You".

(S) Two Fodders Make A Writer?

I mentioned to Super Chris that I didn't like the idea of 9-5, and we started talking about career stuff. I said that I enjoyed aspects of software engineering, but that isn't where my strengths lie. For a while now, I've been thinking about how I really enjoy writing. A personality test (LOL, personality test *scoff*) suggested "technical writer" as a possible job for me. I think that I could probably write technical documents, but it'd bore me out of my mind. After mulling it over for a while, I had a crazy idea...

... I want to take part in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Why is that so crazy? Well, for starters, it happens in November every year, which happens to be the exam period here at the wonderful University of Melbourne. It also involves writing at least 50 000 words in one month. Fifty thousand! That's as many as five ten-thousands, and that's a lot. I think it's about 1.7k words per day. I ended up writing about 1.1k words for my psych essay on Wednesday, but I was practically spent afterwards, and I don't think I could do that every single day for a month.

Still, I want to do this because I want to know if I'm cut out for this kind of thing. I know that
I could do this any time during the year, like after exams, for instance, but I think being part of NaNoWriMo will help me get over that initial hurdle of getting started. This is a story I started nearly a year ago, and although I had the plot and characters worked out in my head, I haven't touched it since I made that post. I just can't seem to start the first chapter.

The next problem is, what genre? That other story was going to be fantasy, and I figure since most of my years have been spent reading fantasy/sci-fi, I should stick with that, but lately I've found that my main interest is crime/mystery. I've also had a suggestion that I write some erotic fiction!

To try and get an idea of what I like to write (and am able to write - how on Earth can you get 50k words of erotic fiction?!), I think I'm going to start writing some short stories, and if you're feeling bored, it'd be nice if you could read over them and tell me what you think. =)