So, okay, I'm in the South.
So, Mrs. A_ leave out the book she's reading on the countertop at the hotel room:
The Help
Yeah.
Well, everybody's nice and Southern polite here.
And there's a clear distinction between Black and White. There's the receptionists and managers at the hotel, and the janitors and maids.
Guess which color is which.
It's really more out in the open down here.
But it's really out in the open anywhere.
I was online with some friends of mine Maia and black00thought, and one of them mentioned where he lives, in Boston, he was at a pizza place, and he offered to pack the left-overs from the meal, only to have his guest reply: 'Nah, that's what black people do.'
He was stunned into silence.
I could go on a tirade here, but Maia's response is better than one I could muster:
"When you're a racist, every pronouncement you make is stupid."
I mean: how can you argue with what bigots, racists, prejudiced people say? You can't.
"Black people pack up their left-overs"? Um, so do a bunch of other people, including poor little Irish me, but no, you can't say that to them. They saw, one time, somebody who is black packing up their meal at a restaurant, and from there on after, that's what black people do, and you can't say dick to shake their belief.
You know what the opposite of racism/bigotry/prejudiced people?
It's not tolerance.
It's intolerance.
Really.
A prejudiced person sees a person they've labeled or they hate, and they see them doing something, and they are like: 'Oh, that's how they are,' and hate them, and accept them as that. Prejudiced people are among the most tolerant people in the world: they label a person and they stick them into that box, and forever allow a person of that color or creed to do what they are doing, because 'that's how they are.'
What we need in this world is not more people to tolerate/accept/allow how things are: we need more people who say: you know, that's how you see it, but I'm not going to stand for that.
You know: like MLKjr, like Ghandi, like Mother Teresa.
She said, 'the poorest of the poor are like that'?
No: everybody else said that. She said: this person is a child of God and has an innate dignity, and I will die, respecting this person as a person, not as an untouchable.
You want to be tolerant?
Go right ahead: the world is as it is, because of your tacit 'acceptance.'
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Heart
Oz never did give nothin' to the Tin Man,
That he didn't, didn't already have.
And 'cause' never was reason for believin'
Or the Tropic of Sir Galahad.
America, "Tin Man"
— `phfina's thoughts:
Oz gave the Tin Man a heart, so that he could love.
Oz can't give me that. I don't have a heart. I don't have a soul. I don't have dreams, nor hope. I have nothing. I am nothing.
So, funny, we all think at times, that so much is written and sung about a pumping vessel, a valve, that it has so much meaning to so many, and all it does is sustain life, and, funny, again, that it actually defines, life, or, more accurately, when it stops, it defines Death.
I wish I even had Death, I don't have that. But it will have me. Very soon, today even. There will come a time when time is no more for me, and then what? Then the charade is over, the curtain falls, not to rise again, like everybody else will, on the Last Day. I'm not even Left Behind; I'm not even a Forgotten One, the old Elder God that nobody remembers the names to or even that they existed ... Melissa is my name, and nobody remembers her, the most powerful goddess of Crete, now gone, at least she had her time, and her prominence, ... I have neither. I am neither. I am neither this nor that, neither quid nor haec, neither noumenon nor phenomenon, just nothing, and not even that.
Oz never gave nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn't, he didn't already have.
Oz can't give me a heart, either, it's not that I don't have it. It's that there's no 'I' to give it to.
That he didn't, didn't already have.
And 'cause' never was reason for believin'
Or the Tropic of Sir Galahad.
America, "Tin Man"
— `phfina's thoughts:
Oz gave the Tin Man a heart, so that he could love.
Oz can't give me that. I don't have a heart. I don't have a soul. I don't have dreams, nor hope. I have nothing. I am nothing.
So, funny, we all think at times, that so much is written and sung about a pumping vessel, a valve, that it has so much meaning to so many, and all it does is sustain life, and, funny, again, that it actually defines, life, or, more accurately, when it stops, it defines Death.
I wish I even had Death, I don't have that. But it will have me. Very soon, today even. There will come a time when time is no more for me, and then what? Then the charade is over, the curtain falls, not to rise again, like everybody else will, on the Last Day. I'm not even Left Behind; I'm not even a Forgotten One, the old Elder God that nobody remembers the names to or even that they existed ... Melissa is my name, and nobody remembers her, the most powerful goddess of Crete, now gone, at least she had her time, and her prominence, ... I have neither. I am neither. I am neither this nor that, neither quid nor haec, neither noumenon nor phenomenon, just nothing, and not even that.
Oz never gave nothing to the Tin Man, that he didn't, he didn't already have.
Oz can't give me a heart, either, it's not that I don't have it. It's that there's no 'I' to give it to.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Gratitude
Fuck, I hate this.
Why ...
Okay, here's my beef. My last two posts were on Love and Sadness, two words that are older than Latin, reaching back to their Aryan roots.
I mean look at it. You can say: "I feel amiable." Or "I love you."
You can say: "I have melancholy." or you can say "I'm sad."
Which phrases express the feelings more powerfully?
So this post was going to be titled "Friend."
Because you can be somebody's 'companion' or you can be their 'friend.'
Which is truer? Which runs deeper?
Language. The latin language is all expression, but only at the surface. The greek language is all description, but only from the intellect. ... Okay, Sappho hit on something that nobody else has touch for another 2,600 years ... But if you want to get to the heart (not cor, or core, but heart) you have to use a language that speaks directly to what is.
What is scarier? A dog? or a wolf? It isn't the 'puppy' from Hell, folks, it's the Hound from Hell.
We in our descriptions and expressions and analysis have lost touch with what is.
So, no, this post isn't about Friend-ship, as much as I regret it not being so, and it isn't about that other primitive word: Not 'mortality' but 'Death' or 'Tod' (same word, both from the Elder FUTHARK) but about Gratitude, a fucking wimpy Latin word meaning ...
Well, meaning absolutely nothing, so let's call gratitude what it is, not what you want it to be.
Okay, this is what gratitude actually is, coming from most people in this day and age, and, in fact, if you read your histories, in any day and age.
Gratitude is this: sincerity. And sincerity is this: "Oh, I expressed sympathetic feeling, and I 'promised' to do good, so, now, I'm good."
That's it. They're done with you. "Oh, I'm grateful for all that hard work you did."
They are done with you.
You want proof? Collect on the gratitude.
I have. I do.
But not like you.
Gratitude from most people, today, and any day, last anywhere from two seconds to two days (maximum). So, when I'm told, "Oh, we'll comp you your time when we get out of this squeeze" ... what I hear is absolutely nothing.
Because why? Because 'this squeeze' ALWAYS leads to the next squeeze. Or something else, anything else, happens.
So, when I'm offered comp, I say, "Remember yesterday the extra 6 hours I worked through the night to get the report out? I'm taking today off as comp."
Do you know how much guilt-shit I get for that?
Do you know why I get that guilt-shit? Because now I have them under the gun of their promise and I'm collecting on it, unlike you, who never will.
But so they have to live with eating their words, or being a liar, and getting fucking sued because of the witnesses.
THAT is fucking gratitude, you idiots.
Because try collecting on that a week later? a month later?
'Loan' out your lawn mower to your neighbor ... do you ever get it back? and if you do, is after how much nagging from you and with a surly look and a gas tank filled with water from it being left out in the rain week after week, month after month?
Here's what you do when somebody says, 'Oh, I'm grateful.'
You fucking collect on it, right fucking now.
'Oh, I'll buy you a TV.'
Sit the fuck down, right fucking there, open up your laptop, take his fucking credit card and order the TV from Amazon or bestbuy or wherever. If you don't do it right fucking then, then fucking forget he said it, because that promised TV? It's gone, baby, gone.
'Oh, I'll make that up to you.'
Get in your fucking car, follow him to his house, let him get his checkbook, and fucking don't take a check from him, no: follow him to the fucking bank and have him make out a certified check in your name right there.
Because 'oh, I'll make that up to you.' becomes 'Who are you again? And get off my property or I'll call the police' next week, even it was your former best friend.
What does that mean for you, dear reader, reading this entry?
You. And your word. Is shit.
You've made promise after promise to, now, hundreds of people in your life, and you now have absolutely no intention of ever lifting your little finger to fulfilling even one of them.
Do you know how many people in your life you have damaged? Do you know nearly everyone in your life is looking at you with a hurt inside themselves that they will never tell you nor acknowledge to themselves even, but they remember, and they always will remember, that time you promised them that $5 back, and you've never repaid them, and they are still hurting, over a lousy $5 because that's $5 they couldn't let go of. Or that doll, or that TV set, or that time you said you'd come to bed and you stayed up all night, or ...
You go on with that list. You know it as well, and even better, than I do.
But that's not what it means to you. It does mean that, but here's something you can take away from this illuminating little conversation on a Latin word that means nothing to nobody.
The second you open your mouth to speak to your-fucking-self or to, o God save us, another person, another soul you are going fucking crush with your empty fucking promises ... then ...
Then you have a choice. You can shut your fucking mouth right fucking now.
Primus non nocere
OR, you can do what you've done, and what everybody else has done for your whole fucking entire life and say something and not do a thing about it, but since it's been done to you so many times, it's o-fucking-kay to perpetuate on this innocent person you're taking your shit out on. Have at it, asshole.
OR, hm, try something new. You open your fucking pie hole, you fucking better be already moving to fulfill what your mouth is saying. 'I really should work out.' you say to yourself. Do you have your keys in your hand to get into your car to go to the community swimming pool right fucking now? You'd better. 'Hey, thanks for lunch, I'll get you next time.' Well, 'next time' better be supper or tomorrow's lunch, because they'll remember. Or, 'let's go to the movies.' Take out your calendar or iPhone with them right in front of you, and pick the date, the hour and the movie.
You are your word.
And you are other people's word, too, you know. If you've got a promise from somebody else, but you don't ask for that, you hurt them and you hurt yourself. Get it the fuck off your chest and ask them, point blank, 'hey, I'm hungry, let's do that lunch you owe me.' You are doing them a favor. And if they say, 'Not today, I'm busy/don't have cash/it's raining/what-fucking-ever.' then you take out your calendar or iPhone, and say, 'okay, can we do it tomorrow then?' and with their yes, pencil it in right in front of them. People respect people who keep their word and keep their appointment, even if the appointment is the one they promised.
And if they say 'eh' you have two options, hold them to account with the above 'by what date?' strat above, or ...
Or ... let it go. Get it the fuck off your chest AND theirs. How you do that is up to you. Just know that more guilt is ADDING to the burden, NOT relieving it. So, a 'yeah, whatever, you promised, but you're a shit, so forget it' is not a getting off your chest and theirs. They aren't honoring their word. They never will.
Can you live with that? Or you gonna wear that around your neck, and theirs, dragging you both down to Sheol?
There's something about forgiveness here for some people to ponder. (You, if you fucking haven't figured it out yet, dumbass)
But for me, I'm done with this post for now. I'm going to breathe in, then breathe out, and walk away from writing more and get on with my life elsewhere.
Buh-bai!
Why ...
Okay, here's my beef. My last two posts were on Love and Sadness, two words that are older than Latin, reaching back to their Aryan roots.
I mean look at it. You can say: "I feel amiable." Or "I love you."
You can say: "I have melancholy." or you can say "I'm sad."
Which phrases express the feelings more powerfully?
So this post was going to be titled "Friend."
Because you can be somebody's 'companion' or you can be their 'friend.'
Which is truer? Which runs deeper?
Language. The latin language is all expression, but only at the surface. The greek language is all description, but only from the intellect. ... Okay, Sappho hit on something that nobody else has touch for another 2,600 years ... But if you want to get to the heart (not cor, or core, but heart) you have to use a language that speaks directly to what is.
What is scarier? A dog? or a wolf? It isn't the 'puppy' from Hell, folks, it's the Hound from Hell.
We in our descriptions and expressions and analysis have lost touch with what is.
So, no, this post isn't about Friend-ship, as much as I regret it not being so, and it isn't about that other primitive word: Not 'mortality' but 'Death' or 'Tod' (same word, both from the Elder FUTHARK) but about Gratitude, a fucking wimpy Latin word meaning ...
Well, meaning absolutely nothing, so let's call gratitude what it is, not what you want it to be.
Okay, this is what gratitude actually is, coming from most people in this day and age, and, in fact, if you read your histories, in any day and age.
Gratitude is this: sincerity. And sincerity is this: "Oh, I expressed sympathetic feeling, and I 'promised' to do good, so, now, I'm good."
That's it. They're done with you. "Oh, I'm grateful for all that hard work you did."
They are done with you.
You want proof? Collect on the gratitude.
I have. I do.
But not like you.
Gratitude from most people, today, and any day, last anywhere from two seconds to two days (maximum). So, when I'm told, "Oh, we'll comp you your time when we get out of this squeeze" ... what I hear is absolutely nothing.
Because why? Because 'this squeeze' ALWAYS leads to the next squeeze. Or something else, anything else, happens.
So, when I'm offered comp, I say, "Remember yesterday the extra 6 hours I worked through the night to get the report out? I'm taking today off as comp."
Do you know how much guilt-shit I get for that?
Do you know why I get that guilt-shit? Because now I have them under the gun of their promise and I'm collecting on it, unlike you, who never will.
But so they have to live with eating their words, or being a liar, and getting fucking sued because of the witnesses.
THAT is fucking gratitude, you idiots.
Because try collecting on that a week later? a month later?
'Loan' out your lawn mower to your neighbor ... do you ever get it back? and if you do, is after how much nagging from you and with a surly look and a gas tank filled with water from it being left out in the rain week after week, month after month?
Here's what you do when somebody says, 'Oh, I'm grateful.'
You fucking collect on it, right fucking now.
'Oh, I'll buy you a TV.'
Sit the fuck down, right fucking there, open up your laptop, take his fucking credit card and order the TV from Amazon or bestbuy or wherever. If you don't do it right fucking then, then fucking forget he said it, because that promised TV? It's gone, baby, gone.
'Oh, I'll make that up to you.'
Get in your fucking car, follow him to his house, let him get his checkbook, and fucking don't take a check from him, no: follow him to the fucking bank and have him make out a certified check in your name right there.
Because 'oh, I'll make that up to you.' becomes 'Who are you again? And get off my property or I'll call the police' next week, even it was your former best friend.
What does that mean for you, dear reader, reading this entry?
You. And your word. Is shit.
You've made promise after promise to, now, hundreds of people in your life, and you now have absolutely no intention of ever lifting your little finger to fulfilling even one of them.
Do you know how many people in your life you have damaged? Do you know nearly everyone in your life is looking at you with a hurt inside themselves that they will never tell you nor acknowledge to themselves even, but they remember, and they always will remember, that time you promised them that $5 back, and you've never repaid them, and they are still hurting, over a lousy $5 because that's $5 they couldn't let go of. Or that doll, or that TV set, or that time you said you'd come to bed and you stayed up all night, or ...
You go on with that list. You know it as well, and even better, than I do.
But that's not what it means to you. It does mean that, but here's something you can take away from this illuminating little conversation on a Latin word that means nothing to nobody.
The second you open your mouth to speak to your-fucking-self or to, o God save us, another person, another soul you are going fucking crush with your empty fucking promises ... then ...
Then you have a choice. You can shut your fucking mouth right fucking now.
Primus non nocere
OR, you can do what you've done, and what everybody else has done for your whole fucking entire life and say something and not do a thing about it, but since it's been done to you so many times, it's o-fucking-kay to perpetuate on this innocent person you're taking your shit out on. Have at it, asshole.
OR, hm, try something new. You open your fucking pie hole, you fucking better be already moving to fulfill what your mouth is saying. 'I really should work out.' you say to yourself. Do you have your keys in your hand to get into your car to go to the community swimming pool right fucking now? You'd better. 'Hey, thanks for lunch, I'll get you next time.' Well, 'next time' better be supper or tomorrow's lunch, because they'll remember. Or, 'let's go to the movies.' Take out your calendar or iPhone with them right in front of you, and pick the date, the hour and the movie.
You are your word.
And you are other people's word, too, you know. If you've got a promise from somebody else, but you don't ask for that, you hurt them and you hurt yourself. Get it the fuck off your chest and ask them, point blank, 'hey, I'm hungry, let's do that lunch you owe me.' You are doing them a favor. And if they say, 'Not today, I'm busy/don't have cash/it's raining/what-fucking-ever.' then you take out your calendar or iPhone, and say, 'okay, can we do it tomorrow then?' and with their yes, pencil it in right in front of them. People respect people who keep their word and keep their appointment, even if the appointment is the one they promised.
And if they say 'eh' you have two options, hold them to account with the above 'by what date?' strat above, or ...
Or ... let it go. Get it the fuck off your chest AND theirs. How you do that is up to you. Just know that more guilt is ADDING to the burden, NOT relieving it. So, a 'yeah, whatever, you promised, but you're a shit, so forget it' is not a getting off your chest and theirs. They aren't honoring their word. They never will.
Can you live with that? Or you gonna wear that around your neck, and theirs, dragging you both down to Sheol?
There's something about forgiveness here for some people to ponder. (You, if you fucking haven't figured it out yet, dumbass)
But for me, I'm done with this post for now. I'm going to breathe in, then breathe out, and walk away from writing more and get on with my life elsewhere.
Buh-bai!
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Love
You can tell what a person is in love with by what they give their time to.
Did you know that? It's very telling to watch a person, hear what they say, then actually see what they are doing. So when they say: 'I HATE this' 'this' whatever it is, but you see them doing it over and over and over again, well, they actually love that 'this' thing whatever it is and are perpetuating it, keeping it alive and strong by giving all their time to the thing they are saying they hate.
People are such good liars... they convince even themselves with their lies.
For me, today, as with most days ... I love ... meetings. I've been in meetings all day, a wallflower, the only reason why I'm there is because I'm 'supposed' to be there, my eyes open and my mouth shut, a good little 'yessir' girl.
I also am in SO much love with the bus.
Then haloz.
And those are my loves.
And ...
And throughout today, I've been thinking of you ... what does that say about me? When I am playing haloz, I have more fun when I'm playing with my friends. I don't get much joy of playing haloz alone against and with randoms.
It's like alcohol, I suppose you can make that connection, and raise high the red flag. I drink because I don't really exist at all, except to give a place for the alcohol to live. I don't enjoy drinking, per se, but ...
but that. But I drink, not for me, but for it to live in me. I'm just a receptacle. You know: like, for alcohol, and for sperm. That's what a woman is, right? To men, and that's all that matters in this world.
I play haloz a lot, but I don't enjoy it, except for a brief second here or there, and except when I'm playing with my friends.
I thought about Saga a little, tiny bit this morning, but that was all, and now I feel a twinge of guilt and of sadness, knowing that I think of her so little and when I do, I think of her sadly, wistfully, wondering how she is, hoping she is well, and knowing that she had something special with me and she misses that and feels she can never have that again. And writing that, I wonder what you'll think when you finally wake up and come to your senses and move on, and ... looking back, say regretfully to yourself, 'oh, well, that was nice, sort of, if she weren't so fucked up in the head.'
So, when I say 'I love you,' what does that mean? I mean ... I mean ... so what? I love you, but so what? How does that translate into my feet moving in a directions, my fingers flying over the keyboard, ... what is my heart if what I say affects what I do how?
I don't say 'I love you' easily. And I do. I'm not scared to love, and to be loved, and ... I'm terrified of my own shadow.
What am I saying, if I'm saying both at once? Don't they cancel each other out? Then why say anything at all?
Why, indeed? Other than that I hopelessly hope that somewhere, somehow I can get out of what I am confining myself into.
You know: complaining about the state that I alone put myself into.
And ... to 'explain' ... I don't say, 'iloveuiloveuiloveu' like some empty-headed dumbfuck broad who'll say anything that goes into her head and then goes on an lives her selfish life exactly as she wants and fuck you and yours for getting in her way.
I say 'I love you,' and mean it, and get on with my selfish, lonely, hopeless life, and fuck me and my stupid, useless, pointless life.
Did you know that? It's very telling to watch a person, hear what they say, then actually see what they are doing. So when they say: 'I HATE this' 'this' whatever it is, but you see them doing it over and over and over again, well, they actually love that 'this' thing whatever it is and are perpetuating it, keeping it alive and strong by giving all their time to the thing they are saying they hate.
People are such good liars... they convince even themselves with their lies.
For me, today, as with most days ... I love ... meetings. I've been in meetings all day, a wallflower, the only reason why I'm there is because I'm 'supposed' to be there, my eyes open and my mouth shut, a good little 'yessir' girl.
I also am in SO much love with the bus.
Then haloz.
And those are my loves.
And ...
And throughout today, I've been thinking of you ... what does that say about me? When I am playing haloz, I have more fun when I'm playing with my friends. I don't get much joy of playing haloz alone against and with randoms.
It's like alcohol, I suppose you can make that connection, and raise high the red flag. I drink because I don't really exist at all, except to give a place for the alcohol to live. I don't enjoy drinking, per se, but ...
but that. But I drink, not for me, but for it to live in me. I'm just a receptacle. You know: like, for alcohol, and for sperm. That's what a woman is, right? To men, and that's all that matters in this world.
I play haloz a lot, but I don't enjoy it, except for a brief second here or there, and except when I'm playing with my friends.
I thought about Saga a little, tiny bit this morning, but that was all, and now I feel a twinge of guilt and of sadness, knowing that I think of her so little and when I do, I think of her sadly, wistfully, wondering how she is, hoping she is well, and knowing that she had something special with me and she misses that and feels she can never have that again. And writing that, I wonder what you'll think when you finally wake up and come to your senses and move on, and ... looking back, say regretfully to yourself, 'oh, well, that was nice, sort of, if she weren't so fucked up in the head.'
So, when I say 'I love you,' what does that mean? I mean ... I mean ... so what? I love you, but so what? How does that translate into my feet moving in a directions, my fingers flying over the keyboard, ... what is my heart if what I say affects what I do how?
I don't say 'I love you' easily. And I do. I'm not scared to love, and to be loved, and ... I'm terrified of my own shadow.
What am I saying, if I'm saying both at once? Don't they cancel each other out? Then why say anything at all?
Why, indeed? Other than that I hopelessly hope that somewhere, somehow I can get out of what I am confining myself into.
You know: complaining about the state that I alone put myself into.
And ... to 'explain' ... I don't say, 'iloveuiloveuiloveu' like some empty-headed dumbfuck broad who'll say anything that goes into her head and then goes on an lives her selfish life exactly as she wants and fuck you and yours for getting in her way.
I say 'I love you,' and mean it, and get on with my selfish, lonely, hopeless life, and fuck me and my stupid, useless, pointless life.
Sad
You would think, reading my entries, that I live a bleak existence, moving from sadness to sadness.
I'm not going to comment on your thought. :p *snicker*
But I will say ...
Okay, when somebody says, 'Oh, I'm not going to say anything about that, I'm too grande (like an sbux coffee size?) to descend to your level, but I will say ...'
Didn't they, with their 'but I will say,' just do exactly what they said they weren't going to do because they're not a cunt like you are (but they didn't call you a cunt, they just thought that of you so that makes them so superior to you, see?)?
Anyway, but I will say ... @_@
So, me, C, and Max where in the matchmaking hopper, getting ready to show some bks how to play the game by killing them dead, over and over again, when C asked me how I liked the movie How to Train Your Dragon, and I said many things about how much I liked it, and one of the things I said was that I liked that they got real Vikings to sing the closing song in the credits.
Real Vikings. You know, Jónsi.
I mean, seriously! People think Vikings where like these thugs wearing helmets with horns (which the movie playfully indulged in) whacking people, stealing their goods, particularly the girls to get to their goodies.
Cause Viking men like cookies.
Who doesn't? :p
*snicker* *blush*
But, come on! They had literature, a culture, their own writing, and their own language that wasn't based off that wimpy romantic shit everybody else in Europe (a Greek word, I'll have you know, not Latin) was speaking, but came straight from the Aryans, skipping even those bed-sheet-wearing Greeks! They stole food, and womenfolk, from other people, because the latter: who wouldn't? I'd steal me some hot Irish lass, too! And the former: you ever try to grow anything in Iceland? No? Try that and see if you're not raiding the Giant food store for some Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup tomorrow!
So, anyway, real Viking runes (that didn't spell anything, I mean, where was their linguist and will they hire me? I'm looking! I'll even take the occasional ass fucking from the boss-man and agent if that ... 'facilitates' ... my ... 'entry' into that ... 'target sector') and a real Viking band playing. I liked that.
I remarked, further, that Jónsi sounds like Sigur Rós, except that Sigur Rós is 'sad' and Jónsi is 'trip-happy.'
I should have fastened my seat belt there.
Because after asking if I knew about trip-hop, ... excuse me? I invented trip-hop! I am the trip-hop-happy preteen azn girl whose feet you cannot see fluttering over the DDR mat, thank you very much, ... C said that Sigur Rós wasn't sad, per se (that is French), but was ...
But was what?
"Well," she mused, "they're ..."
"'Sad'?" I offered.
"No," she answered, "Not 'sad,' but they're ..."
"'Sad'?" I suggested.
"No," she said, annoyed, "there's a French word for it, but the American word is ..."
"'Sad'?" I recommended.
Max wasn't helping at all, with this, "Yeah, I know what you mean."
Max is a very agreeable guy.
C, the poor creature, was probably thinking of 'melancholie' which is the French word for 'sad.' Or she was thinking of 'tristesse' which is the French word for 'two people in other relationships, but fucking each other.' Because why? Because one of the guys or girls finds out, and somebody ends up dead, and after that, everybody is ... wait for it: 'sad.'
The problem here is that C was trying to convey a concept to moiself (that is CT French), and the problem with that is, well: I like dancing on tabletops ... nekkid! ... when I'm right, which I always am, and you're wrong, and I win, like I always do.
Those are the kinds of days I have.
Good times! Good times!
I'm not going to comment on your thought. :p *snicker*
But I will say ...
Okay, when somebody says, 'Oh, I'm not going to say anything about that, I'm too grande (like an sbux coffee size?) to descend to your level, but I will say ...'
Didn't they, with their 'but I will say,' just do exactly what they said they weren't going to do because they're not a cunt like you are (but they didn't call you a cunt, they just thought that of you so that makes them so superior to you, see?)?
Anyway, but I will say ... @_@
So, me, C, and Max where in the matchmaking hopper, getting ready to show some bks how to play the game by killing them dead, over and over again, when C asked me how I liked the movie How to Train Your Dragon, and I said many things about how much I liked it, and one of the things I said was that I liked that they got real Vikings to sing the closing song in the credits.
Real Vikings. You know, Jónsi.
I mean, seriously! People think Vikings where like these thugs wearing helmets with horns (which the movie playfully indulged in) whacking people, stealing their goods, particularly the girls to get to their goodies.
Cause Viking men like cookies.
Who doesn't? :p
*snicker* *blush*
But, come on! They had literature, a culture, their own writing, and their own language that wasn't based off that wimpy romantic shit everybody else in Europe (a Greek word, I'll have you know, not Latin) was speaking, but came straight from the Aryans, skipping even those bed-sheet-wearing Greeks! They stole food, and womenfolk, from other people, because the latter: who wouldn't? I'd steal me some hot Irish lass, too! And the former: you ever try to grow anything in Iceland? No? Try that and see if you're not raiding the Giant food store for some Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup tomorrow!
So, anyway, real Viking runes (that didn't spell anything, I mean, where was their linguist and will they hire me? I'm looking! I'll even take the occasional ass fucking from the boss-man and agent if that ... 'facilitates' ... my ... 'entry' into that ... 'target sector') and a real Viking band playing. I liked that.
I remarked, further, that Jónsi sounds like Sigur Rós, except that Sigur Rós is 'sad' and Jónsi is 'trip-happy.'
I should have fastened my seat belt there.
Because after asking if I knew about trip-hop, ... excuse me? I invented trip-hop! I am the trip-hop-happy preteen azn girl whose feet you cannot see fluttering over the DDR mat, thank you very much, ... C said that Sigur Rós wasn't sad, per se (that is French), but was ...
But was what?
"Well," she mused, "they're ..."
"'Sad'?" I offered.
"No," she answered, "Not 'sad,' but they're ..."
"'Sad'?" I suggested.
"No," she said, annoyed, "there's a French word for it, but the American word is ..."
"'Sad'?" I recommended.
Max wasn't helping at all, with this, "Yeah, I know what you mean."
Max is a very agreeable guy.
C, the poor creature, was probably thinking of 'melancholie' which is the French word for 'sad.' Or she was thinking of 'tristesse' which is the French word for 'two people in other relationships, but fucking each other.' Because why? Because one of the guys or girls finds out, and somebody ends up dead, and after that, everybody is ... wait for it: 'sad.'
The problem here is that C was trying to convey a concept to moiself (that is CT French), and the problem with that is, well: I like dancing on tabletops ... nekkid! ... when I'm right, which I always am, and you're wrong, and I win, like I always do.
Those are the kinds of days I have.
Good times! Good times!
Unfrigginbelievable!
Okay, so what does a girl do, when she's stuck on the beach, all alone, with an alien invasion coming in to end all of it as we know it?
Well, take out 1000 aliens before they take her out first, obviously.
Okay, but what happens when, right after she gets this...
... the 'Inconceivable' medal, or 500 kills in a row, a marine, a ... and I'm sorry to say this ... a girl marine throws a grenade into the pile of dead covenant you, that girl, had just single-handedly killed and where now in the midst of them, scavenging for grenades?
Oh, I found grenades alright. They all exploded in my face. Ending my spree, that I had just spent ('wasted'?) an hour to work up to!
So, what is she to do?
Well, obviously the first thought, on respawn was for me to hunt that marine down and shove her grenade right up her ass! Pin out, and NO KY.
But no.
No. I'm a calm, mature, level-headed girl. So, no. I didn't do that.
Even though I was very sorely tempted.
No. What I did was breathe in, then breathe out, then start over. From scratch, with kill number 1.
Three hours later...
... yup, the 'unfrigginbelievable' medal, that is to say: I killed 1000 covies dead. In a row. One after the other. One by one.
Hey, if you're going to set out to do something, set out, and fucking do it! Other things will happen. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't. They don't matter. So, a marine kills me at exactly the half-way mark and I have to start over. SO WHAT? Did I say I was going to do this? Yes. Did I do it? Yes. End of story.
I work hard. I push myself hard. Yeah? So? Those are either excuses or reasons.
I'd rather have a reason to be alive. I'd rather not be a sorry excuse taking up space.
My choice, errant grenade notwithstanding.
Kay. Nighty night!
Well, take out 1000 aliens before they take her out first, obviously.
Okay, but what happens when, right after she gets this...
... the 'Inconceivable' medal, or 500 kills in a row, a marine, a ... and I'm sorry to say this ... a girl marine throws a grenade into the pile of dead covenant you, that girl, had just single-handedly killed and where now in the midst of them, scavenging for grenades?
Oh, I found grenades alright. They all exploded in my face. Ending my spree, that I had just spent ('wasted'?) an hour to work up to!
So, what is she to do?
Well, obviously the first thought, on respawn was for me to hunt that marine down and shove her grenade right up her ass! Pin out, and NO KY.
But no.
No. I'm a calm, mature, level-headed girl. So, no. I didn't do that.
Even though I was very sorely tempted.
No. What I did was breathe in, then breathe out, then start over. From scratch, with kill number 1.
Three hours later...
... yup, the 'unfrigginbelievable' medal, that is to say: I killed 1000 covies dead. In a row. One after the other. One by one.
Hey, if you're going to set out to do something, set out, and fucking do it! Other things will happen. Sometimes they do, and sometimes they don't. They don't matter. So, a marine kills me at exactly the half-way mark and I have to start over. SO WHAT? Did I say I was going to do this? Yes. Did I do it? Yes. End of story.
I work hard. I push myself hard. Yeah? So? Those are either excuses or reasons.
I'd rather have a reason to be alive. I'd rather not be a sorry excuse taking up space.
My choice, errant grenade notwithstanding.
Kay. Nighty night!
Pensée du jour
... you know, I go to Church a lot. Twice today, and then again tomorrow for Sunday Mass.
Doesn't mean anything. I can't say: 'Lord, Lord! I went to Mass a lot.'
Because you know who else does?
Satan.
At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, and when the devils cried out 'You are the son of the Living God!' ... what did Jesus say to them?
'Yeah, that's right'? or 'Hey, thanks!'
No, he rebuked them into silence, cast them into swine who then thereupon flew over a cliff's edge.
There's not one thing I can do to save myself. I can't show my attendance record. I can't ...
You know what kills me? People who say, 'Well, if X isn't in Heaven, then I want no part of it.' Saga said that. She said if I weren't in Heaven, they couldn't drag her into it.
You know what Heaven is? I do, it's right there in the Bible. It's Mass, 24/7 (in Eternity) (so the '24/7' is a very sorry joke), it's Angels and Powers falling on their faces, burning with Love, and all they can cry out is 'Holy, Holy, Holy!'
Okay. Really. Who would ever pick that?
And Hell? The path of righteousness is above, the path to hell is the path that Rocks! People today would line up to be able to get into Hell.
Hello?
And the thing is, people sold their souls to get money, power, food, luxury, ... Wales. Nowadays, the Devil doesn't need to do a thing. He doesn't need to lift a finger. People have sold out on themselves already, and they get not 'nothing' in return, what they get in return is misery and despair.
All you have to do is look at the faces on the metro, every single vacant, hopeless face, plugged into their google reader or their iPod/Pad/Phone to verify this.
Or do what I do. Look into the mirror.
My one consolation? God is good.
And that stupid movie with whats-her-name and the dumb jock. God makes a special appearance in prison and the guy's like, in a panic, crying out: 'I'm about to lose my soul! And what can I do?'
And God, patiently, explains, 'It's not your soul.'
It's not my soul. It's God's. So I hope to God that God will take it back to Himself in the end.
Doesn't mean anything. I can't say: 'Lord, Lord! I went to Mass a lot.'
Because you know who else does?
Satan.
At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, and when the devils cried out 'You are the son of the Living God!' ... what did Jesus say to them?
'Yeah, that's right'? or 'Hey, thanks!'
No, he rebuked them into silence, cast them into swine who then thereupon flew over a cliff's edge.
There's not one thing I can do to save myself. I can't show my attendance record. I can't ...
You know what kills me? People who say, 'Well, if X isn't in Heaven, then I want no part of it.' Saga said that. She said if I weren't in Heaven, they couldn't drag her into it.
You know what Heaven is? I do, it's right there in the Bible. It's Mass, 24/7 (in Eternity) (so the '24/7' is a very sorry joke), it's Angels and Powers falling on their faces, burning with Love, and all they can cry out is 'Holy, Holy, Holy!'
Okay. Really. Who would ever pick that?
And Hell? The path of righteousness is above, the path to hell is the path that Rocks! People today would line up to be able to get into Hell.
Hello?
And the thing is, people sold their souls to get money, power, food, luxury, ... Wales. Nowadays, the Devil doesn't need to do a thing. He doesn't need to lift a finger. People have sold out on themselves already, and they get not 'nothing' in return, what they get in return is misery and despair.
All you have to do is look at the faces on the metro, every single vacant, hopeless face, plugged into their google reader or their iPod/Pad/Phone to verify this.
Or do what I do. Look into the mirror.
My one consolation? God is good.
And that stupid movie with whats-her-name and the dumb jock. God makes a special appearance in prison and the guy's like, in a panic, crying out: 'I'm about to lose my soul! And what can I do?'
And God, patiently, explains, 'It's not your soul.'
It's not my soul. It's God's. So I hope to God that God will take it back to Himself in the end.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Summertime Sadness
Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best
I got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight
Got my hair up real big beauty queen style
High heels off, I'm feeling alive
Oh, my God, I feel it in the air
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
Honey I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere
Nothing scares me anymore...(2, 3, 4)...
Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best
I've got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh oh
I'm feelin' electric tonight
Cruising down the coast goin' 'bout 99
Got my bad baby by my heavenly side
I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight
"Summertime Sadness" Lana Del Rey
— `phfina commentary
We choose our fates, and we choose how we feel about our choices.
That's it.
So simple.
And I've got that Summertime Sadness, I find myself crying so hard these days, so hard my eyes are red when I wake up, looking like warmed-over death. I mean: look at Lana Del Rey! She sings songs, that, if I may be so bold, are like my stories, so disturbingly visceral, and so true. Sex, alcohol, drugs, despair.
... Life. ... or death. Doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore. What's the point? There is none, so why bother?
My choice, right?
I just attended a death anniversary Mass of a priest, a Monsignor at my church, that everybody loved. He was a hard, hard man, he smoked hard, he drank hard, he never, ever backed down from his principles. If had ever meet him, he would have probably beat the sin out of me and preformed an exorcism, just in case.
And he would have done in with Love in his heart.
And the thing is, he chose it, and he was the happiest man in the world for it, because it was never about him, he gave his life to God, and he had open-heart surgery, an appendectomy, the KKK on his church yard burning crosses calling for his death (he was THAT old) which he stood up to without fear, and when he was about to die, he didn't tell a soul, he just went around, having supper with the people he loved and cared for, and then he died, leaving thousands of people touched with a life that was never about him.
He didn't care, either, see? But still he chose: he chose God, and he chose to be happy about that choice, no matter what life threw his way.
Me, I care. I care too damn much, but about the wrong thing, about that girl in the mirror, that, really, doesn't matter at all, not at all, but I choose to try to not look bad and walk around with this chip on my shoulder seventeen times bigger than little me (all of 17 pounds?) (The merchant of Venice wouldn't get his pound of flesh from me), all wind and arrogance.
You know, I almost never, ever would've listened to Lana Del Rey. You know why? It was given to me by somebody about whom I'd already made my mind up. "Fuck, all stupid fucking romantic mushy love ballads; I can't poison my mind with more of this shit!"
That's me. I choose, but then I really don't all: I snip, snide, snicker, and look down my nose at all of you, better than all of you, because, hey, I'm self-aware, and I'm me, and I know what I like and what I don't like and if you dare to offer anything to me, well, obviously, you're wrong, and how dare you, anyway in the first place?
Monsignor Browne was like that. The Mother Superior said, "you know, Father, you really should stop smoking."
He snapped right back to her: "You know, you really should mind your own business," and finished his smoke.
He loved his smokes, he loved his drink, and he didn't give a fuck what anybody else thought, because he knew people in their hearts because he knew himself, and he knew all their darkness of their 'harmless advice' of trying to change him to be more like ... well, like them, and not like Christ.
I learned today, a protestant Church lost their minister, and they asked him to preach at their church ...
Do you know what he did?
If I put myself in a priest's shoes ... which I will never do, btw, as God wills that I don't ... I would've been like, excuse me? Convert to Catholicism, or go to hell you heretics!
That's `phfina for you, so tolerant and understanding! @_@
You know what Fr. Browne did?
He went, every Sunday, for a year, to their church, and spoke on God and Love, right from their Bible (there are differences in the rendering of the texts in the Catholic and the Protestant Bibles). And he would've done it for years more if the Diocese hadn't transferred him to a new parish across the Commonwealth (when they found out?). And, looking at the people today... today! ... with love shining in their eyes for their Father Browne, those people probably fell in love with him, too, for what? for him giving himself up to serve others with nothing other than love in his heart for the people he loved.
And look at Lana Del Rey, my foolish pride and arrogance prevented from listening to one word she sang to me every word she sings about her throwing her life away, so carefully destroying herself, over and over and over again, because why? Because she's alive and she's, yeah, because she's a woman, in the pointless, hopeless, throwaway world.
And her only hope is ... cocaine? PBR? A good hard fuck her bf, or, well, any boy within arms reach, ... and why?
And why? So she can be alive ... be alive for just one second of her worthless, pointless life where everything, all her senses are dumbed-down and dulled in this grey nothingness we all push through, posing, 'working', faking our way through, but never, ever acknowledging what really doing: which is anything possible to avoid staring Truth in the eye and calling a spade a spade.
That is: looking right in the mirror and acknowledging that what we've done with our lives, the only thing we've done with our lives, is to waste it away.
What's the point?
The point is: Fr. ... Msgnr. Browne, Lana Del Rey, they chose opposite.
But they had the guts to choose.
Msgnr. Browne chose to give his life to Christ ... to be a 'Christ'ian, to follow Christ to the end, and he was happy with that.
Lana Del Rey chose to look in the mirror, and actually sing her heart out, to give herself, completely and entirely to any and everything, to burn out, a supernova, and to fade away, but to proclaim to her very last breath her despair and agony.
Me?
A faker. A poser. Too good for anybody and everybody.
That's why, when I think of her, I'm so happy for Saga. She chose to move on with her life, and she made the right choice, to relegate me firmly to the past.
Because that's the only way I can help anybody who loves me ... to help them get over me as quickly as possible and to forget me, because I'm not a choice, I'm a failure. I fail over and over and over again to choose, but I surely have my snide commentary on everybody else and what losers they are.
And I have the gall to be self-righteous about my hypocrisy.
And then, when I have to face the nothingness of my pointless day, I stare at a bright and sparkly screen, so unlike my dull and grey life, playing video games. They have prescriptions for my 'condition,' so hey, I can always get strung out on drugs, because that's so much better, being a docile little fucktoy cumdump cog in this superinfoindustrial machine with metro rail to take us to and from the machines that we are walking ghosts in.
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best
I got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight
Got my hair up real big beauty queen style
High heels off, I'm feeling alive
Oh, my God, I feel it in the air
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
Honey I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere
Nothing scares me anymore...(2, 3, 4)...
Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best
I've got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh oh
I'm feelin' electric tonight
Cruising down the coast goin' 'bout 99
Got my bad baby by my heavenly side
I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight
"Summertime Sadness" Lana Del Rey
— `phfina commentary
We choose our fates, and we choose how we feel about our choices.
That's it.
So simple.
And I've got that Summertime Sadness, I find myself crying so hard these days, so hard my eyes are red when I wake up, looking like warmed-over death. I mean: look at Lana Del Rey! She sings songs, that, if I may be so bold, are like my stories, so disturbingly visceral, and so true. Sex, alcohol, drugs, despair.
... Life. ... or death. Doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore. What's the point? There is none, so why bother?
My choice, right?
I just attended a death anniversary Mass of a priest, a Monsignor at my church, that everybody loved. He was a hard, hard man, he smoked hard, he drank hard, he never, ever backed down from his principles. If had ever meet him, he would have probably beat the sin out of me and preformed an exorcism, just in case.
And he would have done in with Love in his heart.
And the thing is, he chose it, and he was the happiest man in the world for it, because it was never about him, he gave his life to God, and he had open-heart surgery, an appendectomy, the KKK on his church yard burning crosses calling for his death (he was THAT old) which he stood up to without fear, and when he was about to die, he didn't tell a soul, he just went around, having supper with the people he loved and cared for, and then he died, leaving thousands of people touched with a life that was never about him.
He didn't care, either, see? But still he chose: he chose God, and he chose to be happy about that choice, no matter what life threw his way.
Me, I care. I care too damn much, but about the wrong thing, about that girl in the mirror, that, really, doesn't matter at all, not at all, but I choose to try to not look bad and walk around with this chip on my shoulder seventeen times bigger than little me (all of 17 pounds?) (The merchant of Venice wouldn't get his pound of flesh from me), all wind and arrogance.
You know, I almost never, ever would've listened to Lana Del Rey. You know why? It was given to me by somebody about whom I'd already made my mind up. "Fuck, all stupid fucking romantic mushy love ballads; I can't poison my mind with more of this shit!"
That's me. I choose, but then I really don't all: I snip, snide, snicker, and look down my nose at all of you, better than all of you, because, hey, I'm self-aware, and I'm me, and I know what I like and what I don't like and if you dare to offer anything to me, well, obviously, you're wrong, and how dare you, anyway in the first place?
Monsignor Browne was like that. The Mother Superior said, "you know, Father, you really should stop smoking."
He snapped right back to her: "You know, you really should mind your own business," and finished his smoke.
He loved his smokes, he loved his drink, and he didn't give a fuck what anybody else thought, because he knew people in their hearts because he knew himself, and he knew all their darkness of their 'harmless advice' of trying to change him to be more like ... well, like them, and not like Christ.
I learned today, a protestant Church lost their minister, and they asked him to preach at their church ...
Do you know what he did?
If I put myself in a priest's shoes ... which I will never do, btw, as God wills that I don't ... I would've been like, excuse me? Convert to Catholicism, or go to hell you heretics!
That's `phfina for you, so tolerant and understanding! @_@
You know what Fr. Browne did?
He went, every Sunday, for a year, to their church, and spoke on God and Love, right from their Bible (there are differences in the rendering of the texts in the Catholic and the Protestant Bibles). And he would've done it for years more if the Diocese hadn't transferred him to a new parish across the Commonwealth (when they found out?). And, looking at the people today... today! ... with love shining in their eyes for their Father Browne, those people probably fell in love with him, too, for what? for him giving himself up to serve others with nothing other than love in his heart for the people he loved.
And look at Lana Del Rey, my foolish pride and arrogance prevented from listening to one word she sang to me every word she sings about her throwing her life away, so carefully destroying herself, over and over and over again, because why? Because she's alive and she's, yeah, because she's a woman, in the pointless, hopeless, throwaway world.
And her only hope is ... cocaine? PBR? A good hard fuck her bf, or, well, any boy within arms reach, ... and why?
And why? So she can be alive ... be alive for just one second of her worthless, pointless life where everything, all her senses are dumbed-down and dulled in this grey nothingness we all push through, posing, 'working', faking our way through, but never, ever acknowledging what really doing: which is anything possible to avoid staring Truth in the eye and calling a spade a spade.
That is: looking right in the mirror and acknowledging that what we've done with our lives, the only thing we've done with our lives, is to waste it away.
What's the point?
The point is: Fr. ... Msgnr. Browne, Lana Del Rey, they chose opposite.
But they had the guts to choose.
Msgnr. Browne chose to give his life to Christ ... to be a 'Christ'ian, to follow Christ to the end, and he was happy with that.
Lana Del Rey chose to look in the mirror, and actually sing her heart out, to give herself, completely and entirely to any and everything, to burn out, a supernova, and to fade away, but to proclaim to her very last breath her despair and agony.
Me?
A faker. A poser. Too good for anybody and everybody.
That's why, when I think of her, I'm so happy for Saga. She chose to move on with her life, and she made the right choice, to relegate me firmly to the past.
Because that's the only way I can help anybody who loves me ... to help them get over me as quickly as possible and to forget me, because I'm not a choice, I'm a failure. I fail over and over and over again to choose, but I surely have my snide commentary on everybody else and what losers they are.
And I have the gall to be self-righteous about my hypocrisy.
And then, when I have to face the nothingness of my pointless day, I stare at a bright and sparkly screen, so unlike my dull and grey life, playing video games. They have prescriptions for my 'condition,' so hey, I can always get strung out on drugs, because that's so much better, being a docile little fucktoy cumdump cog in this superinfoindustrial machine with metro rail to take us to and from the machines that we are walking ghosts in.
Skullamanjaro!
Recipe:
Take equal parts --
And what do you get?
Skullamanjaro! ... `phfina-style!
The proof is in the pudding, right? So: pr0n
Whoopsie! WRONG LINK! (and very definitely NSFW!)
I meant: game on!
:p
Just have the 'Unfriggenbelieveable' medal left to earn in multiplayer, but I'll get it one day. I know I will.
Nighty-night kisses from your little `phfina, shy, and quiet.
Take equal parts --
- A wee bit of unlucky luck followed by everybody else obligingly killing each other.
- A little girl who runs out into the middle of the fray (after the fray has, well: frayed itself out) to pick up all the skulls and then do what she does best: run and hide
- Everybody else obligingly ignoring the girl with ten skulls behind the curtain, biding her time ('biding' or 'biting her fingernails off'?) for the hill to come within sprinting distance
- And one mad dash for the hill, ignoring all-comers, who, thankfully, ... mostly ignored her
And what do you get?
Skullamanjaro! ... `phfina-style!
The proof is in the pudding, right? So: pr0n
Whoopsie! WRONG LINK! (and very definitely NSFW!)
I meant: game on!
:p
Just have the 'Unfriggenbelieveable' medal left to earn in multiplayer, but I'll get it one day. I know I will.
Nighty-night kisses from your little `phfina, shy, and quiet.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Queen of the Hill
Check this:
http://halo.xbox.com/en-us/Career/HaloReach/GameHistory#/?game=1096142126
Particular the shy and quiet girl ... IN FIRST PLACE ... `phfina is her name, in case you were confused on anything.
You see this medal?
This medal is a new one for the enphfinamistress (that is Swedish) (kinda) (sorta) I call it "Hail to the Queen" but its actual name has a slightly more male-centric bent @_@
See, I was playing with a friend ... you know what friends are, right? Good, because I didn't until a year ago ... ANYWAY! ... well I was playing with a friend, Sgt Wulfy, and he's like 'Wat da hell iz dat!' when he saw that medal on the front page.
What the hell is that, indeed!
Well, it's a very special medal. It's meaning is this: "Kill 5 opponents in a row from inside the hill before it moves."
It was a medal that I never paid any mind to, because it's a boyz medal. A medal I would never get. Why? Here's why.
(Thank you for asking)
It basically means in the whole big bad well-protected map, you stand right in the middle of a little circle and stick out your chest and say: 'C'mon, fools! I'll take you all on!' and kill all of them, all of them throwing grenades at you and shooting your head 27 times and rocketing your ass well under cover, while you stand there out in the open in a little circle that everybody wants because you are a dumbass.
Like I said, a boyz medal. Bragging rights, and shit like that.
Well, my style is, like, totally the opposite. I like hide, under cover, take potshots from a grand distance, and then, if anybody returns fire, I run home to mommy and hide behind her skirt, because that's how I roll.
That's why I would never get that medal in my Halo career.
That I just got yesterday.
How?
Well, not on the map Countdown, that's for sure ... too many unbroken lines of sight across multiple levels. It's simply suicide to walk into the center circle. No, I'm the girl shooting at people in the hill. If you see me in the hill, check your pulse, because that'd be when hell just froze over.
No, it was on Ivory Tower/Reflection. All angles, all covered spaces.
I hate that map. It's a boyz map, because of this: AMBUSH! *BOOM* YOU'RE DEAD, now let me rub my dick in your face that I just punched because that's they only way you die: sword, shotgun, rocket launcher, grenades.
BOOOOORRRRIIINNNNGGGG!
Actually, the real way to survive a firefight is to have more planning and patience and start shooting their heads off WAY before you can see the whites of their eyes because you have a scope, so why not use it?
But what do I know?
Well, it was on that surprise attack map that I got it.
And here's how.
The hill/circle is just around the corner, so what does little `phfina do? Turn the corner and get shotgunned? No, she banks a grenade off the wall, and just as her 'this little piggy went to market' toe entered the circle, the announcer gleefully intoned: 'Triple kill!'
Whoa.
Then some random was charging up to me from across the map: headshot, headshot, headshot, headshot with my DMR and boom, he's dead.
Why do boyz have to charge straight at you from across the map?
That was kill #4 with me being in the hill. Then I noticed a sword lying on the ground right by me. I picked it up just in time to have three boyz jump my bones, but first I sliced, then diced, one of them before the other two lay me low.
As my body crumpled to the ground I heard that dispassionate announcer solemnly state: 'Hail to the king!' and I saw the crown emblem that I thought I would never see by my name, but there it was.
That was my best. death. evah!
Why? (and thanks for asking) I died, but I died taking five snot-nosed boyz with me. Yup, *glow* it takes five brash boys with mad skilz to take out one scaredy cat little phfina.
And wars are fought by men, ... why, again?
Actually, wars should be fought by women, which means, not at all, because there would be a significant increase in lesbianism and there would be a whole lot of shooting and stabbing, but not with rifled carbines, oh, no: with ... other instruments, because this babe charges you screaming like a banshee, and you're like, duh-amn, she's hot, and she's like, 'Fuck this battle charge! I'll fuck you instead!'
Make love, not war, indeed!
And then, all the combatants would eventually synch up so that every month for three days hostilities of one kind would cease to deal with the more internal battles and R&R would be required with warm baths and (very gentle) massages and ice cream and chocolates
Uh, where was I?
Oh, yeah, they crowned me QUEEN (not the other thingie) of the hill and shouted: "Hail to the QUEEN" (not the other thingie).
But Queen? Ick, too ... responsible. You have to be made of iron and steel and raw determination. I see myself more as a ... well: faery princess with rainbows and winged unicorns and a harem of hand maidens with very skilful ... um: hands and very skilful ... um ... other things, and ...
Um, I have to excuse myself for a mo'
*ahem*
http://halo.xbox.com/en-us/Career/HaloReach/GameHistory#/?game=1096142126
Particular the shy and quiet girl ... IN FIRST PLACE ... `phfina is her name, in case you were confused on anything.
You see this medal?
This medal is a new one for the enphfinamistress (that is Swedish) (kinda) (sorta) I call it "Hail to the Queen" but its actual name has a slightly more male-centric bent @_@
See, I was playing with a friend ... you know what friends are, right? Good, because I didn't until a year ago ... ANYWAY! ... well I was playing with a friend, Sgt Wulfy, and he's like 'Wat da hell iz dat!' when he saw that medal on the front page.
What the hell is that, indeed!
Well, it's a very special medal. It's meaning is this: "Kill 5 opponents in a row from inside the hill before it moves."
It was a medal that I never paid any mind to, because it's a boyz medal. A medal I would never get. Why? Here's why.
(Thank you for asking)
It basically means in the whole big bad well-protected map, you stand right in the middle of a little circle and stick out your chest and say: 'C'mon, fools! I'll take you all on!' and kill all of them, all of them throwing grenades at you and shooting your head 27 times and rocketing your ass well under cover, while you stand there out in the open in a little circle that everybody wants because you are a dumbass.
Like I said, a boyz medal. Bragging rights, and shit like that.
Well, my style is, like, totally the opposite. I like hide, under cover, take potshots from a grand distance, and then, if anybody returns fire, I run home to mommy and hide behind her skirt, because that's how I roll.
That's why I would never get that medal in my Halo career.
That I just got yesterday.
How?
Well, not on the map Countdown, that's for sure ... too many unbroken lines of sight across multiple levels. It's simply suicide to walk into the center circle. No, I'm the girl shooting at people in the hill. If you see me in the hill, check your pulse, because that'd be when hell just froze over.
No, it was on Ivory Tower/Reflection. All angles, all covered spaces.
I hate that map. It's a boyz map, because of this: AMBUSH! *BOOM* YOU'RE DEAD, now let me rub my dick in your face that I just punched because that's they only way you die: sword, shotgun, rocket launcher, grenades.
BOOOOORRRRIIINNNNGGGG!
Actually, the real way to survive a firefight is to have more planning and patience and start shooting their heads off WAY before you can see the whites of their eyes because you have a scope, so why not use it?
But what do I know?
Well, it was on that surprise attack map that I got it.
And here's how.
The hill/circle is just around the corner, so what does little `phfina do? Turn the corner and get shotgunned? No, she banks a grenade off the wall, and just as her 'this little piggy went to market' toe entered the circle, the announcer gleefully intoned: 'Triple kill!'
Whoa.
Then some random was charging up to me from across the map: headshot, headshot, headshot, headshot with my DMR and boom, he's dead.
Why do boyz have to charge straight at you from across the map?
That was kill #4 with me being in the hill. Then I noticed a sword lying on the ground right by me. I picked it up just in time to have three boyz jump my bones, but first I sliced, then diced, one of them before the other two lay me low.
As my body crumpled to the ground I heard that dispassionate announcer solemnly state: 'Hail to the king!' and I saw the crown emblem that I thought I would never see by my name, but there it was.
That was my best. death. evah!
Why? (and thanks for asking) I died, but I died taking five snot-nosed boyz with me. Yup, *glow* it takes five brash boys with mad skilz to take out one scaredy cat little phfina.
And wars are fought by men, ... why, again?
Actually, wars should be fought by women, which means, not at all, because there would be a significant increase in lesbianism and there would be a whole lot of shooting and stabbing, but not with rifled carbines, oh, no: with ... other instruments, because this babe charges you screaming like a banshee, and you're like, duh-amn, she's hot, and she's like, 'Fuck this battle charge! I'll fuck you instead!'
Make love, not war, indeed!
And then, all the combatants would eventually synch up so that every month for three days hostilities of one kind would cease to deal with the more internal battles and R&R would be required with warm baths and (very gentle) massages and ice cream and chocolates
Uh, where was I?
Oh, yeah, they crowned me QUEEN (not the other thingie) of the hill and shouted: "Hail to the QUEEN" (not the other thingie).
But Queen? Ick, too ... responsible. You have to be made of iron and steel and raw determination. I see myself more as a ... well: faery princess with rainbows and winged unicorns and a harem of hand maidens with very skilful ... um: hands and very skilful ... um ... other things, and ...
Um, I have to excuse myself for a mo'
*ahem*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
