Tits amighty, I love a good whiteboard. The only thing more heady than the tremendous potential for illustrated imagination are the sweet vapours of the purple dry erase marker. It's taken me an exorbitant amount of time, but I've finally got my grubby hands on my own white whale, whiteboards for my living space. It's the most wondrous thing in the world. Hours whirl by like bubbles on a playful breeze as I wrestle my ideas into hieroglyphic submission on the melamine
Of course, seldom do the idea progress beyond
that, so every day I wake up to a brightly coloured monolith that stands in stark tribute to my perpetual procrastination, an all-pervasive talisman of my own self-defeat in bright pastels, but hey, at least the doodling is a good time.
"Tits amighty?" Is that too livid? Ah well, stay true, dear reader, that's hardly the worst your eyes will see today.
Tomorrow, I'm hopin' to make the weekly pilgrimage to Fat Burger
on the way to the Game Dev Club meetup. It's impossible for me not to, in a large way, resent that establish. It has entirely too much personality
. The d馗or is that of a 50's diner. Classic rock anthems pour like syrup through the radio. On request for the eponymous Fat Burger
, the order is actually shouted across to the cooks, who shout it back. I am not a man who deals well with humanity
as a concept, so suffice it so say, I'm looking forward to the day where our meals are a nutrient-rich paste delivered door-to-door. That said, I'm jonesing for this burger, man, you don't even know.
My printer's dead in the water which is, obviously, a bad place for a printer to be, what with the soggy paper and all.
God, that's just, that hurt. Somewhere, an angsty middle schooler in skinny black jeans is off writing a melodramatic poem about how much that sentence wounded him. Anyway, I guess this next one has paper for arms? The worst part of me wants to drop "Scyther" and name him "Toner." Let me tell you though, I sure miss that printer. Here, I wrote a poem about it.
I've been meaning to brush up on my calculus. It's just, it's nice, as far as math goes. Like, calculus makes sense. Set theory? Set theory is nails-on-sea-serpents-made-of-chalkboard. And don't get me started on chalkboards. Chalkboards are whiteboards for souless derelicts, mocking shells of people who, wriggling in their gleeful unwork, smother the good in the world with chalk dust. Anyway, it's Metapod with Newton's hair, so see what that does for you.
Heaven help me, I need a haircut. I don't have good hair. Hell, I don't have a good head
, let alone the stuff the grows off it. I think perhaps the reason I try to frequent the barber so often is that, at least with a haircut, I have a scapegoat for my physical unattractiveness. "Oh yeah, no, it's just the hair, when it grows in again, I won't look like a muppet made of sandwiches, trust me." As the length comes back, so too does the awful, inescapable truth that my appearance is the stuff of children's terrors.
The guy below might look like the people's favourite Tangela, but in reality, it is a grisly self-portrait.
I'm playing through Mass Effect 2
again in preparation for the point some months in the future where I get around to picking up the end of the trilogy. I'm having a tough time playing games these days, but when I can sit myself down and grind out a few minutes, it's lovely to get back to those characters. My only complaint it, really, the combat. Not because it's poorly structured - heck, especially compared to the first game, it's cream on silk - but I have no passion for it. All I'm after is the space broship. The lengths I have to go through to get that are almost as painful for me as they are the goons I'm nuking with my astro-magic. I guess what I'm trying to say is, here's Blastoise as Wrex.
Oh, Kraid did a blog
? That's neat.
Okay gang, that's all I've got. It's well past my bed time, so I'll leave this gem particularly unpolished. Still, as ever, it's lovely to see you.