Yo. I love you. Not in an Iím-dying-and-these-are-my-last-sentiments kind of way, itís simply been too long since I woke up beside you and whispered those words in your ear.
Wow, thatís 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, thatís 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, weíre joined by December. Really strange thought locomotive today. Letís reel Ďer 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. Iíve only been doing so, uh, not professionally since Iím still in school, but masochistically for the last two years, not counting the infantile squalling of Game Maker, so I donít know, maybe my crushing cynicism is in the mail, but itís a riot. That said, more than anything, I canít help but see how much I donít 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, Iím working on a game and the biggest hurdle, barring the nest of scorpions I introduced into my room in an effort to ďkeep myself sharp,Ē is motivation, plain and simple. Actually writing is easy. Getting to the point where Iím ready to write is not. And I know Iím not alone in procrastination Ė raise your hand if youíve ever done that before, yíknow, when you get around to it Ė but I canít help kicking myself knowing my biggest impediment is that I canít get off my behind. And hell, itís programming Ė I donít 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. Itís pristine. Itís the purest application of thought. Given a problem, all you need do is describe an answer. Thatís 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 couldnít imagine doing anything else.
Iím taking real pains to comment my code this time around. Commenting code is like including citations on Wikipedia. Itís great when it happens, but itís really more of a surprise than anything. Actually, programmers who donít 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 someoneís 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 Iím 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.
Most of it is about what one might expect from me.
And a handful of it is downright worrying.
You should see the stuff I wrote in my level creator. If virtual worlds were built on vitriolic words Ė well, no, thatís 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, itís hard to really communicate the goodness. Itís 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
ē Poets of the Fall is like if Treasure Planet was a band. Familiar, but refreshing. Grandiose, but thereís something like the musical equivalent of 90ís-era haircuts in the air. This, I firmly believe, is positive.
ē 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.
ē Mesopotamians? I donít know. Without Wikipedia, the only fact-checker I have is my gut. World, beware the intuition of my intestines.
ē Dimmujed is back! Hurrah!
ē His avatar is pleasingly proportioned! Double hurrah!
ē Chris Bradshaw makes vlogs! Bu-wha?
ē Not a knock against our Mr. Bradshaw, but I havenít really been listening to his jibber-jabber. No, good or bad, doesnít 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.
ē Speaking of videos and nonsense rambling, Gunsage makes like his hobo forefathers proud while yammering away in this video
. Itís a game just made for family vagabonding time.
ē Vlog. Vlog
is an awful word. Vlog is the sound a sea cucumber makes while coughing up the last of the nightís pepto bismol binge.
ē While Iíve Dtoiders on the brain, last week RenegadePanda commented on my blog. Thatís 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.
ē A couple of weeks ago I started watching Doctor Who. Iíve just finished the fourth season and Iím already dreading the loss of David Tennat as The Doctor.
ē Itís an odd show. Enjoyable, sure, but I feel as though the plot is only getting in the way of what Iím 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.
ē I need a trench coat. And a pair of converse. This idea has only been reinforced, not sewn.
ē 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: