[Greg Has a Book] No U Turns, Except Wednesdays

by **Stitch** on May 7th, 2011, 9:39 pm

I have always thought he was funny and loving on Skype.

Maybe he just loves me more than he loves you, Pain. Kelpie. <333

by **Kelpie** on May 7th, 2011, 9:44 pm

I'm sure that's your dream come true, Stitch. <333333

by **Stitch** on May 7th, 2011, 9:48 pm

Mike is in that dream too. <333333333333333333333333333

by **Kelpie** on May 7th, 2011, 9:50 pm

YOU LAY OFF MY MAN.

Unless it's fossil Mike then go ahead and take him. He's all yours.

by **Stitch** on May 7th, 2011, 10:05 pm

Yes, fossil Mike. I walked into an antique store a few days ago, saw him on the shelf, and bought him for my own. <3

Your Mike is gross.

by **Rhuryc** on May 7th, 2011, 10:08 pm

Stop spamming my scrapbook and take your affair back to pms -_-

by **Rhuryc** on May 24th, 2011, 3:13 am

We Can Rebuild Him

There's about three minutes left until the clock strikes another half an hour, that of which will mark the 4th consecutive set of thirty minutes that I have been unable write anything worthwhile. Sounds like time for a scrapbook post.

My sixty days were up a few hours back. What does that mean? Reapplication for a Story Telling position, of course. If you don't know - you being that lovely human being taking a moment from their schedule to peruse my rampant ramblings - I was once a DS of a little ol' place called Sunberth. Which is why whenever anyone asks who Hatter was/is I lance into an ages old soliloquy on how much I hate the fellow. It's funny. Laugh with me, reader, laugh. Digressing, I'm unsure as to whether or not I should make that Help Desk ticket. I'm a horrid Story Teller. I have a habit of saying "Fooshooie!" to rules in unintentional endeavors and am far too involved in my own head to bend over myself for the common player base. Top that with a layer of laziness and healthy dose of quarter life crisis and you've got yourself a recipe for Greg a la Flake. To decipher that past Pretentious Asshole Speak it means, simply: GREG DISAPPEAR AGAIN. I have no intention of doing so, but then again, no one ever does.

This year has sucked so far. People died. My best friend moved away. I gained twenty pounds. Got evicted. Still poor. And to top it off I'm heavily doubting the path that I chose to spend a metric asston of student loans and credit on. Pity fest aside, all of the above has altered my daily state of mind to be slightly off kilter. Or entirely, I'm not too sure which is more accurate. Do I think I'm responsible enough to take on a position for a hobby site that I more-or-less spend a constant portion of my day on? Yes. Do I think I have the will to enact said responsibility? Hell no. Undoubtedly, the first time someone eggs me on I'll lose my proverbial cool and unleash a torrent of hellfire so biting that it will sting like the force of ten-thousand massage needles applied with expert precision to avoid any sense of discomfort. Passion and creativity aside, my ability to handle people is legendary in its absence, so what does all of this make for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's a mass of spiraling misconceptions and misgivings that swirl about my own mind in an unyielding quest for appreciation and acknowledgement.

Uh oh. Take a step back now, that was in danger of becoming deep. Anyway. I still don't believe I have a feel for this world, or this site, or even the people on it. I'd always rather do my own thing and add my own stuff. Between my own characters its been a chore just to respond to all the threads on backlog, an addition to that may or may not force my head to explode. And while I possess a queer fascination for spontaneous human combustion I retain a fondness for my head that far outweighs my more peculiar interests. Bitch, nag, complain, whine, all I really need to do is grow a set and man up. Maybe even do the dishes. In the meantime, though, I think I'll return to staring at my monitor in the hopes of divine inspiration striking my from on high. Or low. At this point I might just make a visit to ye old crossroads.

Extra Credit :

"Why did Shakespeare write? For the money."

by **Rhuryc** on May 26th, 2011, 2:45 am

Can't write. Going to take a break for an undetermined amount of time. Ciao for now.

by **Rhuryc** on July 1st, 2011, 5:20 pm

by **Rhuryc** on November 2nd, 2011, 6:43 am

Show for the Afterglow

Did you know you can cut lines of coke with Drano?

Some things you learn from experience, some (most) from Wikipedia, but what I know now is that getting me to come back to Mizahar was easier than getting that pair of drunk women to make out at the Halloween party the other night. That I instigated. Digression, I should make a heartfelt statement filled with a myriad of pretty things and deep emotions, but watching my roommate tear things apart on the giant TV in my face inspires little more than violent drudgery. The real meat of the returning festival is all the new faces you have to learn. Friends you have to make. There are certainly some folks I recognize, some I never lost contact with, but having to figure out who is an ass, who is awesome, and who I want to strangle with a live snake is a chore all in itself. It's not that I don't care, I just don't care. I'm glad to be back into a site where I can pursue my creative obsession with a bit of history, but I don't think I want to do all of that. Again. For a third time. I can spew witty anecdotes and smile at people I'd just as soon stab and - when all is written in its hypocrisy - I will, of course, fall into the same bullshit, I'd rather just beat my head against my keyboard until some sort of story comes out.

God I love streaming my consciousness all over a public forum. You must too, otherwise you are Captain fucking Magic for getting this far. I can clout this post with all sorts of fun bits. Whether it's an evolving life style that has never really changed, moving across a country, or hurling the entire course of my life down a separate, far less successful path, none of it would get the detail it deserves. And hey, this opening up stuff has never really been my thing. Really. Anyway. I'm not going to apologize this time. I don't rightly believe anyone gives a damn and I certainly feel no guilt over it, so instead of weepy exchanges I'll dive right back into half-cocked story lines and sub-par adventures.

And there's a thought. Does anyone "important" even care? You're always curious about your reputation, what everyone thinks of you, what they wanted to think of you when you left. Does it matter? To a point, for sure, my ego won't let it not matter, but the thing about matter is that it is awfully volatile. You never know when it's going to right up explode. Maybe it's better not to know. Then again, knowing is half the battle. Whatever battle that is. I imagine it has lots of men in clean uniforms chasing their own tails around a beach condominium.

Silliness and cocaine, funny stories and dumb ideas, damn good relationships and wasted break ups, perhaps even a little bit of humor and a happy ending, one of these days I'll be able to sum it all up in a grandiose tale of insidious intent. So until next time favored reader, stay strong, live long, and have plenty of sex.

Extra Credit :

"Why in pluperfect hell would you piss on a corpse?"