Stomp'em Before they stomp you         Blog by Pitas Past Brad Mei Razzy Mel Tessa Philly Sunday, April 21, 2002 Nin: oh god. Nin: I'm watching Gackt sing "Silent Night" with some chick. Nin: *ROFL* Philly: >.> XD that was hilarious! Nin: XD "Sheperds QUACK" Philly: XD the girl looks all passionate about her singing too and I'm like cracking up at the Engrish Nin: XD Hai Nin: XD Gackt is giving a pretty good show of grabbing his heart, too Philly: o.O and what the hell is Gackt wearing in that? It's like red saran wrap Nin: Uhm. Nin: That's red leather <.< Philly: *sweatdrops* it looks horrible Nin: That's a red leather coat if I'm not totally mistaken Nin Nachtfalter: No kidding XD Philly: I hope he didn't actually pay money for that Nin: XD I like Gackt better with black hair, anyway Nin: <.< You would have to pay me to wear it. Philly: haven't seen him with black hair Philly: *snickers* Philly: It looks almost like a butchered version of Vash's coat from Trigun Nin: *_* There is one photo of him that I adore Nin: He has white hair in that one, cut short, and looks like Farf minus the scars XD Philly: o.O XD Farfgackt Philly: Fackt Philly: Garf Nin: O_O Nin: XD Nin: *ROFL* Philly: XD GARF! Nin: XD Nin: *laughing tears* Nin: XD XD Nin: Oh look, it's a Garf! Nin: XD Philly: *is screaming out GARF like a moron* Nin: *is too* Nin: XD Philly: Garfamon Nin: XD *WHAP* Philly: Horrible fashion sense attack! Nin: XD Hai Philly: *SPLATS into the wall* Garf! Nin: XD It sounds like BARF Philly: XD hai Philly: o.o I think it's odd the way he sits Nin: O_o Or Arf! Nin: XD Odie's arfing Philly: or Narf, like pinkie from Pinkie and the Brain This random moment brought to you by two seriously deranged individuals while watching a random Gackt video. /{..}\ Saturday, April 20, 2002 Yeehaa...after spending most of yesterday puking my guts up, and finally falling into bed sometime around after Mei had called me, I swear my next course of action shall be to send the local McDonalds a bomb threat. Either I've developed an allergy to their stuff over the years, or something is really wrong with it. Everytime I eat something from them, I end up puking. Nice. NOT. My stomach is normally not that sensitive...hell, I've eaten stuff most people would probably cringe at. Haven't you heard yet? I'm the master of the "anything goes" cuisine. If it boils in water, you can eat it. Well, maybe not, but that's how I live. And so far, no one has yet died from what I've conjured up, soooo...the others are still standing. Might as well it it. Anyway. It's been raining off and on here, and I for one have finally once again embarked on writing DD. Shall be on most of the day...if not - writing. 'ta! /{..}\ Friday, April 19, 2002 Do you know how much it hurts to go to a supposed friend with something you don't even consider a problem, and the only response you're getting is "If you do something stupid just because of that, I'll piss on your grave"? The subject in question is England. Only a few people know what I did there, and I'm not going to spread it out here where anyone can read it. Well, I'm planning to go back there this year. I already have flights scheduled, in fact. No, I'm not stupid. No, I'm not going to take any risks. No, I'm not going to risk my life. I want to get into contact again with some of my friends up there, and there's nothing that will stop me from doing that short of the plane crashing into the canal. I owe them. We've gone through a lot of shit together, more than I'll ever tell anyone about. I'd trust them with my life. Have, in fact. They're people who don't turn around and stab you in the back. They tell you plain and open when something bugs them. They call you up in the middle of the night and tell them their girlfriend is pregnant and they want to share the good news. You can call them up in the middle of the night and talk about things. They don't get mad at you if you don't call for a week because they know what life's like. How it sucks at times. There aren't that many out there. So naturally I'm willing to risk some things for them. It's not "just because of that". It's because of people I've known for years, people who matter more to me than those 'risks'. Maybe my priorities are wrong, but eh, meeting them or staying here like a good little coward? I've made my decision. /{..}\ Thursday, April 18, 2002 And now for one of the most in-depth anime reviews of this century. Our subject shall be a flick called Level-C, which, in my humble opinion, must be the Asian equivalent of Western B-movies. Let me sum up the action in...a few words. Boy A meets Man B, they have sex, some chick steps in, Man B saves Boy A, and they fuck like crazed ferrets after our knight in shining armor has rescued Boy A from the evil claws of womanhood. The end. Let's take a quick look at the usual points: Animation: the bed moved. Aesthetics: Why, I knew what part of their bodies was the head at least. Guess that counts for something. Story: see above. Music: Yes, with a lot of imagination, this soapy stuff duddling around in the background might be called music. Sequel(s): I pray to whatever deity watches over yaoi fangirls that whoever made that movie has already bitten the dust. My summary? They fuzzed out the good parts to boot. I spent half the 'movie' wondering how on earth a supposedly around 20 year old man can make sounds like 'Mizuki'. Let's not go to the subject of clothing. Baby-blue suits look odd, especially if paired with eyes that take up half a face and a nose I could stab someone with. Final words? Ugh. /{..}\ Thursday, April 18, 2002 He couldn’t pinpoint the exact time when it happened, but somewhere near the end of their dream, he began to feel old and used. Maybe it was the heritage of too many nights spent out in the city, maybe it were the endless reruns of procedure that had long since acquired the fine dust of boredom, and most likely he was just fed up with everything. Each day that passed brought them one step closer to the fulfillment of what Nagi had fittingly termed ‘dream’ – and that it was, nothing more but a dream wishing to be brought to fruition by four young men who, by definition, should have been denied the ability to dream. They had ended so many others. But life was a wise woman busily reproducing offspring, leaving the judging of that what left her loins to those who cared. Life was also a bitch, but people conveniently overlooked that fact. When he had something to do, it was all good and fine; then he could concentrate on the task at hand and forget that they were running toward their own doom with open eyes and spread arms. It had begun to stop being of importance where and how he was running, so as long as he was running; staying still meant looking at what his life was and coming to the conclusion that he was a fool, a liar, and generally a bastard with a capital ‘B’ with a life expectancy that currently equaled zero. When he was out on a task with Farfarello, he almost felt alive again. The Irishman had a taste for blood and trouble that at times rivaled his own; if Schuldig was a bastard with a capital ‘B’ then Farfarello was trouble with a capital ‘T’. He would pick random victims and hunt them, twisting their thoughts around until they didn’t know anymore which way was up and which was down, waiting for the sweet moment when their agony and pain sang in his mind like an astral voice fleeing all definition, striking them down like a snake hiding in the high grass before the moment dulled and he was left with the ruins of excitement. Then, and only then, did he feel like he was something, someone with a purpose in life. That his purpose generally brought the life expectancy of others down a few notches meant little to him – Schuldig judged others freely and expected them to do the same, and so far, no judgment had been passed, other than a comment, a scream, or a thought condemning him to hell and back when he stepped away and left a hapless victim to Farfarello’s sadistic urges. Hell was boredom paired with the knowledge that, when everything was done and he was still alive, he would most likely fall into a deep pit and drink himself to death. His mother had ended that way, his father had ended that way, Schuldig would end that way. Out of the optional choices he had, it was still the most appealing. Sometimes he wondered if the others felt the same. Most times, he didn’t care, leaving them to their own little hells that seemed as insubstantial as his own. Nagi didn’t seem to care either way, the youth had lost something the day that girl died, taking with her a glow that had lightened midnight blue eyes before; he spent most of his time perched at his desk, fingers flying over the keys of his computer. Crawford never changed, never lost that confident smile that cut deeper than a knife ever could, never faltered, unerringly working toward their dream. The relationship between Schuldig and Crawford had cooled considerably after the Ouka incident, which had brought them into a world of trouble with their then-boss Reiji Takatori and Schuldig into a world of pain as said boss took a golf club to the telepath and Farfarello, breaking Schuldig’s jaw and putting a dent in Schuldig’s pride, which hurt far more than the broken bone. Farfarello was a slave of echoes with a few moments of lucidity that allowed Schuldig to talk to him as one would talk to a friend, but overall, Farfarello lived in a world of muted whispers from a past he had created himself, and everything else but the Irishman’s precious and much-hated God was secondary. When it came crashing down, it came down hard, leaving them beaten and bruised and none the wiser. But that was fine, at least for Schuldig. He hadn’t believed it would work, anyway. They broke apart after that, as people who have no purpose together anymore usually do. Five years later, Schuldig had forgotten all about the dream, about Tokyo, and about Schwarz in general. Five years later, he was in Rio de Janeiro, celebrating the arrival of 2002 in the arms of a dark-skinned beauty whose eyes glowed as hotly as the fire in her loins. Someone to fuck, and then get rid off in the morning. Come to think of it, most humans could be treated that way. The morning of January 1st, 2002, brought Brad Crawford and one hell of a headache. Beginning of that drasted fic that won't leave me alone ><; /{..}\ Wednesday, April 17, 2002 You're just a spoiled brat, nothing more. You have everything. You get everything. People forgive you. So what the FUCK are you whining about? Grow a spine. Grow up. Learn that the world doesn't evolve around you. Learn that there's consequences to what you do. We all learned that somewhere along the road. I'm through with you. /{..}\ Wednesday, April 17, 2002 It was fun going back to work, not only because that means I'm finally rid of that blasted infection, but also because I missed the people there. Abritti actually greeted me with "YOU! Finally! Now I can go back to watching TV at home at last." Uhm, yeah. :) Whatever. I made them waffles. They're still standing. Karsten and Abritti, I mean, not the waffles. Of course it had to rain cats and dogs on my first night back, so I came back home soaked to the bone and Karsten whining at me to take a hot shower as soon as I step inside. Did that. Good thing it's not that cold anymore. Hugs to the family and my sis. Over and out. /{..}\ Saturday, May 11, 2002 So yeah, I've been odd-ish today. Why? Because my mind and my 'heart' are telling me two different things. In case you haven't guessed it yet, I'm talking about the Void. Do I regret closing it down? Yes and no. No, because it was dying anyway. No, because we've lost so many people to this board and let it tear holes into friendships. Yes, because by closing it down, I've hurt people who are close to me. For that, I am sorry. What I'm not sorry for is for finally closing it down. Yeah, I did surprise people with that, I suppose. It's like Mel said - watching a puppy you helped raise from scratch hurting dying, then coming home to find your parents put it down while you were at school. I'm not trying to justify myself here. I'm thinking that in the long run, it was the better decision to give it a clean kill instead of going through endless re-runs of head counts and trying to act as medium between people who won't see reason. And fact is, the only people there who were able to see reason are Mel and Brad. Mei, while he was there. Philly too. The rest? Bunch of overflowing egoes. Maybe I should count myself among these overflowing egoes, too, but I harbour the faint hope that I'm not as stuck up as people sometimes make me feel. I would have just loved to see anyone try and sit through a whole week of trying to figure out those egoes when the crap with the DG players happened. Or how it felt to kick half the cast off for Jean back when she was still on the board and later finding out that all you get from that is being fucked over as soon as you start seeing things differently and act differently. Or how it felt to watch the people I care for being submitted to this shit over and over again. I know I'm holding this up like a shield to protect my decision, but really - anyone wanna try? Finally, it was just a game. It was also 'my baby'. I guess it was a lot of people's 'baby'. But I'd rather kill something than let it turn into a monster again and again. Thus ends the justification for my closing down the Void. In other news, my fever's down. I'm going back to work next Monday. Screw what the doctor says. If I can sit 17 hours at the comp I can walk the perimeter. /{..}\ Sunday, May 5, 2002 Seltsame Träume heute Nacht. Der erste, ich weiss nicht wo er beginnt und wo er endet, aber er handelte von mir und, komischerweise, Sybille und einem ihrer Kinder. Da war ein Hund, vor dem alle davonrannten, und eine Trollfrau, die ermordet wurde. Sie hatte grünliche Haut und lange, lockige braune Haare. Da war eine Szene, in der...Sybille war es, glaube ich, den Kopf der Trollfrau wusch. Der Kopf war vom Rumpf abgetrennt worden. Die Augen waren halb-offen, und sahen doch nichts. Eine Szene ist mir besonders in Erinnerung geblieben - in der Küche, am Tisch, das Baby in einer Art Schüssel zwischen mir und Sybille. Da war noch ein Kind, ein Junge den ich nicht erkenne. Das Baby war am...Summen. Es war noch sehr klein, aber es war am Summen, und Sybille rief ihren Mann herbei, der sich darüber sehr freute. Dann, der Hund. Ein wahres Monster. Wir verschlossen die Türen, und ich erinnere mich daran, Angst zu haben. Der zweite Traum, sehr viel profaner. Ich und einer meiner besten Freunde beim Sex. Das seltsame an der ganzen Sache war, da waren überall Bildschirme und Spiegel, auf denen und in denen ich mich gespiegelt sah. Und er sagte mir die ganze Zeit über, ich sollte sanfter sein. Ich weiss nicht, ob ich ihm wirklich wehgetan habe. Es ist kalt draußen heute. Die Sonne scheint, aber es ist kalt. Meine Finger schmerzen beim Tippen. Tee hilft nicht. Ich war Einkaufen, nichts wirklich Essbares, nur Kleinigkeiten. Macht alles noch Sinn? Ich weiss es nicht mehr. Ich stelle keine Fragen mehr. /{..}\ Wednesday, April 3, 2002 Fertig. Fertig mit euch, fertig mit der Welt, fertig mit den Lügen, den Intrigen, den immer wiederkehrenden Gleichnissen und Geschichten, die sowieso keinen Sinn mehr machen. Krank. Von mir selbst, den Leuten, den Wegen, der Welt. Von Arbeit, nicht dasein, alles fallen lassen. Einfach nur fertig mit der Welt. /{..}\