Started gaming in kindergarten, when the most advanced piece of hardware I could get my hands on was a black plastic handle and an orange button attached to a brick. I used it to blow up little squares on a black and white television screen. A couple years later, I was molested by the girl next door after beating her copy of The Legend of Zelda. I have mixed feelings about the experience.
Unfortunately, over the years, my ability to maintain a passion for games has waned (as in being able to play through them start-to-finish). This is due to various reasons and issues that would be too emo to get into at this juncture. But suffice to say, though my passion has waned, my interest in them has not, as evidenced by my being here.
Nihil (or Nils) is the pseudonym I currently use for writing and gaming on the internet. I came across the Destructoid website by searching for information on Way of the Samurai 3. Tubatic pretty much has the most comprehensive coverage on it I've seen anywhere. And for that, and the other thing, I thank him.
Well this seems easy enough. Less lurking, more typing.
10. Tomorrow is going to suck because I will be a student again. It might not suck. It's just one community college intro class, and there is no arithmetic involved (not yet anyway), but it has been statistically proven over the past 20 years that academics and I don't mix. Very similar to pig and elephant DNA, in fact.
I thought I'd be able to skirt around the bullshit last time by going to a certain university and studying a certain major that I was pre-adept at, but was fucked by the general education system yet again and acquired a respectably hefty student loan debt; something I had promised myself long ago that I
wouldn't be gulled into. But as covered in a previous post, I wasn't really in the best frame of mind at the time anyway.
I'm taking it much slower and much more carefully this time around. We'll see how it goes, I guess. Whatever.
9. I lost my Blackness Card to "Bullet with Butterfly Wings". Granted, I started losing my grasp on it to the likes of The Toadies, White Zombie, Nirvana, Bill & Ted, and... yeah, Bill & Ted did a lot of damage. But it was when I was alone in the living room, singing along to the lyrics of The Smashing Pumpkins latest hit, I remember, distinctly, the moment I made the conscious decision to toss that fucker out the window and embrace music that spoke to me as an individual, instead of what everyone else listened to; when my older sister casually walked through the room and began to ridicule me for liking white-boy music, and then made her exit upstairs with some sort of victorious smirk - as if she had taught me a lesson. She sure did. Only the effects of that lesson ended up having the opposite intended effect.
I was hurt, initially. I didn't understand why she would so easily shun what wasn't the usual hip-hip or R&B that filled the house, why she wouldn't give it a chance, and in turn, make fun of me for thinking it was good music.
Then, ironically, I became enraged.
I never lived in the ghetto long enough to fully relate to rap lyrics. I never felt like busting a cap in someone who looked at me funny, or had to hustle to survive the mean streets, or went to court to pay a bitch for child support. Never really appreciated redundant and often rehashed beats and samples under a monotone, uninspiring voice. What I could related to was feeling like I was trapped. Like I had to put on a different face when I was with my family than with friends. And I was just about fed up with the bullshit of being called out for being wrong about the material things I thought were good, music or otherwise. I wanted to yell. I wanted to break shit. And I wanted loud, crunching guitars and drums to bang my head to while doing the aforementioned yelling and breaking. And it just so happened that the lyrics were more often deeper than any rap I'd ever heard.
In those moments after my sister left the room, I said to hell with judgmental bitches and decided to embrace hard rock like a good little rebel. And thus began my downward spiral into a merciless, unrelenting identity crisis that would last for years.
8. I consciously "dumb down" my vocabulary in speaking conversations. I sometimes used to pride myself on being (or attempting to be) the smartest asshole in the room, as a youth. As an adult, I realized words like "ostensibly", "intrinsic" and "superfluous" going over most people's heads is not a thing I should be a smug dick about. But sometimes it's legitimately hard for me to explain things in simpler terms, because not only do those words encapsulate (>_>) everything you need to know in one word, it keeps me from getting bored of hearing myself saying the same shit, over and over like, well, almost everyone else... It's also partly why I suck at talking, because sometimes I can't think of the word I need, nor will I know how to explain it in layman.
It's a source of frustration.
7. Some of the most amusing/reflective memories I have are from psych wards. It's probably insensitive, but goddamn. Crazy people say and do the weirdest shit sometimes. And even if it isn't inherently odd, it becomes so because of the environment they're in. I can't really find a good way to describe it better right now. And I can't help but think that I wouldn't be able to experience these moments with "normal" people. Ever.
Wards are a very unique place, and honestly, I wouldn't mind ending back up in one; either working there or otherwise. I've never thought of myself as insane or crazy. Sick is another word I wouldn't have used (being that I don't rape or kill living things, nor desire to), but comprehending wards (good ones anyway) as a place of healing, after which spending time there I've felt revitalized, if only for a short period, the term feels very applicable.
6. I am utterly unmotivated. I mentioned to a friend once, referring to the new Muppet movie, that I'm disconnected from my inner child. They half-jokingly replied that I'm disconnected from a lot of things. And it's pretty fucking true. Some people say they treat every day like it's their last, which makes them more passionate about everything. Since I don't care about living or dying, I treat every day like my house and everything I own is gonna burn down, which makes me apathetic towards almost everything. I've realized it's more of an emotional barrier than a conscious choice - otherwise I would be able to write more and enjoy it. I think I would care more about gaming, too.
Probably something I'd need therapy to fix. Meh.
5. I used to be a Japanophile. Not so much anymore, but those were valuable days. I got [insert universally beloved, underrated, weird-as-fuck subcultural reference] out of 'em, and that ain't hey.
4. I sleep a lot. Sometimes I read books. It kinda feels like I'm making up for all the all-nighters before my gaming life died down... and it's kinda awesome. Unfortunately, I don't do much else in the way of hobbies now besides websurf random shit. However, I just finished The Mountains of Madness and am on the second book of The Dark Tower series. Also making up for lost time on that front.
3. Roman numeral 13 (XIII) is etched into my shoulder. It's pretty faded now, did it myself some time after my 19th birthday, but still very visible up close. If I ever go in for a tattoo, for whatever the fuck reason, I plan to get it modified. Probably re-scarred into a bigger, meaner version.
becus teh hardcores
I never mention it because it's not worth mentioning.
2. I have a bunch of shit I still want to give away. Games, posters, wall scrolls, replicas. It's all stuffed in the closet but I'd just as soon toss it in the garbage if I knew it would bring no one else some kind of lasting pleasure. I was hoping to get rid of the lot of it at the end of septembeard last year, but it fell by the wayside with increased time at work and unexpectedly rising social life. I'd like to put some time aside to finally do an online garage trade/sale or something. Dude's gotta eat. And toke.