Yo. I love you. Not in an I�m-dying-and-these-are-my-last-sentiments kind of way, it�s simply been too long since I woke up beside you and whispered those words in your ear.
Wow, that�s a bizarre way to start. Welp, stream of consciousness introduction, no swimming upstream.
Gosh dang, blogging has really fallen by the wayside of my mind and on a road already much overgrown with weeds, that�s a dangerous place to lie. Regardless, here we are and, oh look, like the intruder who enters through a broken window only to dance brazenly naked amongst the glass on your kitchen floor, we�re joined by December. Really strange thought locomotive today. Let�s reel �er into the station. Why has the bloggalogging scurried off to the background? What have I been filling the void of my life with? Well, let me tell you.
printf("Why Are You Doing This to Us?");
I think I mentioned this before, but by the butter cookies of Denmark, I love writing code. I�ve only been doing so, uh, not professionally since I�m still in school, but masochistically for the last two years, not counting the infantile squalling of Game Maker, so I don�t know, maybe my crushing cynicism is in the mail, but it�s a riot. That said, more than anything, I can�t help but see how much I don�t know and how much I still have to learn. I look at lines I wrote a week ago and think about how crude they are. A second synapse fires, and I think about how much better my new lines could surely be.
So, like everybody else, I�m working on a game and the biggest hurdle, barring the nest of scorpions I introduced into my room in an effort to �keep myself sharp,� is motivation, plain and simple. Actually writing is easy. Getting to the point where I�m ready to write is not. And I know I�m not alone in procrastination � raise your hand if you�ve ever done that before, y�know, when you get around to it � but I can�t help kicking myself knowing my biggest impediment is that I can�t get off my behind. And hell, it�s programming � I don�t even need to get off my behind to do it.
But on the good days, when the fingers fly, they punch out a tune on the well-tuned piano of existence and the world sings. Writing is beautiful. It�s pristine. It�s the purest application of thought. Given a problem, all you need do is describe an answer. That�s all any language is, syntax to describe the thesis of solution, of creation. To write code is to cleave castles from the clouds, to be the architect of accomplishment. I couldn�t imagine doing anything else.
I�m taking real pains to comment my code this time around. Commenting code is like including citations on Wikipedia. It�s great when it happens, but it�s really more of a surprise than anything. Actually, programmers who don�t comment are more like the trolls of the code-writing world. They tend to leave those looking at their work either scratching their heads or heaving up chunky rage. Anyway, reading someone�s comments is a nice bit of insight into their heads. You get to see how they think and what they envision. Reviewing my own script has been, well, revealing. Knowing that I�m probably the only one who will ever read it has relaxed my normal careful refinement.
Some of it, to be fair, has been earnest and helpful.
You should see the stuff I wrote in my level creator. If virtual worlds were built on vitriolic words � well, no, that�s the nature of most of the internet anyway, so never mind. Ugh. Looking back, was this code stuff as boring as it seemed in review? Man, it�s hard to really communicate the goodness. It�s like trying to pass Cinnamon Toast Crunch by way of telephone. How can you see the cinnamon swirls?
My Facial Hair is Indicative of Quality, Not Quantity, Thank You
� Poets of the Fall is like if Treasure Planet was a band. Familiar, but refreshing. Grandiose, but there�s something like the musical equivalent of 90�s-era haircuts in the air. This, I firmly believe, is positive.
� Yesterday I made my own pizza from scratch. By the accounts of the assorted emergency teams that assembled, it was something of a disaster. Still, this is, on a personal level, on par with the Mesopotamians inventing agriculture. I am pleased.
� Mesopotamians? I don�t know. Without Wikipedia, the only fact-checker I have is my gut. World, beware the intuition of my intestines.
� Dimmujed is back! Hurrah!
� His avatar is pleasingly proportioned! Double hurrah!
� Chris Bradshaw makes vlogs! Bu-wha?
� Not a knock against our Mr. Bradshaw, but I haven�t really been listening to his jibber-jabber. No, good or bad, doesn�t matter to me. I will concede that I have glanced at his vlogs, though my intent was admiring his wardrobe. Go on, check it out.
� Speaking of videos and nonsense rambling, Gunsage makes like his hobo forefathers proud while yammering away in this video
. It�s a game just made for family vagabonding time.
� Vlog. Vlog
is an awful word. Vlog is the sound a sea cucumber makes while coughing up the last of the night�s pepto bismol binge.
� While I�ve Dtoiders on the brain, last week RenegadePanda commented on my blog. That�s all the segue I need to launch into rumination. Of all the terrors of my mind that have found their way to the internet to haunt my waking life, Panda has probably the most stupefying gamerscore. Go on, check that out too.
� A couple of weeks ago I started watching Doctor Who. I�ve just finished the fourth season and I�m already dreading the loss of David Tennat as The Doctor.
� It�s an odd show. Enjoyable, sure, but I feel as though the plot is only getting in the way of what I�m really after. I want to see The Doctor be quirky and, occasionally, haunted, while he runs around the universe poking things with his screwy flashlight and enunciating funny alien words. Everything else is mostly a distraction.
� I need a trench coat. And a pair of converse. This idea has only been reinforced, not sewn.
� The season of present receiving approaches and I am at a luss. My list is a lonely three albums, two games, and a partridge, yadda, yadda. Hell, I only want of the CDs so I can complain about what a letdown it is. What kind of celebration can I have ahead of me without the gift of gifts?
LOOK WHO CAME: