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I couldn't tell you what's going on, but I like it.


This was supposed to be a disclaimer or warm up to whatever it is that I am parading as a blog below, but seriously if it can't stand to being read on its own, then I just don't know if I should be putting it up in the first place. I will anyway, but come on. I spent a couple of minutes in between cat napping and looking for people to troll writing this. It has to be good, right? Oh, and you can always just hit the play button on the embedded song below that I was going to suggest listening to while reading this and instead read something else. The option is there. I regret writing this already. There's no good reason for you to regret reading it.

I thought that this would be easier. It all seemed to fit in my head, and once it left there it started to unravel. As long as it was a daydream, fantasy, or played out in an environment where I made the rules or could change them to my liking, it remained safe and comfortable, but I know that if I am truly ever going to affect anything, anyone, anywhere in reality that all of my garish, technicolor imaginings are going to have to wake up and put their pants on, unless I can stomach the consequences of running on vapors and drooped drawers.

The concept is frightening. My preferred method of coping is escapism. I don't know what the world holds, and I'm pretty content most of the time to know as little as possible at it and make up the rest. When I do have to learn something new I hope to God that it's not important or intrusive enough to make me rationalize things any further than I have.

Did reality ask me to be part of it? Did it ask me to be self-aware, yet feel so shamefully and helplessly insignificant? I don't think it did, but if you're not me and you have to put up with someone like me saying this, then aren't you playing the tiniest violin and hoping that I'll cut through the existential melodrama and get out with something meaningful? Or are you like me and afraid that it won't help you justify anything, and possibly even unseat your nerves?

All of this is vague, and it seems rightfully so to me. Applying a finite value to raw thought and its fathomless potential is frightening. At times it is like holding a chisel in hand while standing at the foot of a mountain. I know can't climb it, and to carve the whole of it I would have to. Even though it seems as though I could have with the tool to shape it in my hand, do I have the ambition or energy to use what I do have? I suppose I could etch my initials in the side of it, but a couple months of weathering will remove that and I'll feel like I've just signed God's cast.

How does any of this relate to video games? You should have asked this question already, or I should have before fumbling in the dark towards answering it. I should asked it before this train began chugging out of the darkened tunnels of my subconcious through the tidal shores of awareness, and into the meandering hills of my inner monologue. I didn't, yet it still existed without a name or identity known to me, and it appeared as I was looking out into the distance and watching its form emerge slowly while I called back to you and the rest of these things of solid shapes and strong ideas.

But its outline didn't coalesce, and what I have to tell is disconcertingly difficult to me because even though it has no name, no face, and no shape, there is no doubt that it has an identity. It screams it at me in a myriad of tongues and paints it on illusionary surfaces in milky, wisp-like trails. What it is showing me I cannot say to you. I cannot repeat this in the language of dreams. What I write now hasn't that ability.

This isn't about video games, but rather one of their more charming characteristics. They are concrete. I see their parts, but the best of them speak to me in ways that I cannot explain. Of course, you're thinking that I am wrong, and if I were talking about distinct characteristic of the game and not emotional turns, subtle nuances, and a bunch of other vague pretentious shit that I felt while wasting away my free time, you'd have me dead to rights. You don't though.

At any given moment I can get lost in a game, whether it is through concentrating on game play or simply disconnecting from my real world surroundings, and then I am there. I am on that mountaintop, spyglass in hand, staring in the distance at the unknowable. I'm yelling back to you that I see it. I see something beautiful, but the hollow wind that whips above that surreal watchpost will drown out my words until they are inaudible and my mouthing of them merely looks as though I am gasping for breath. It's joy to be in this place, but I can't take you there, and I'll never be able to show you what I've seen.
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About falsenippleone of us since 7:51 PM on 04.15.2010

I can't think of a good reason why I blog here, and honestly I think its only because I lack the self-control not to. In the past I have wasted way too much time socializing online simply because I liked the anonymity and all the stupid trolling that entailed.

Of course, this is a different place, you're all respectable people, and I am an adult who has grown into his three inch penis and the inferiority complex that accompanies it.

Hi, my name is J/Jordan/falsenipple, but you can call me whatever you like, or summarily ignore me if that better suits your fancy. I'm nearing on being old enough to be dead, from Chicago, and have been gaming since I was 6, which was awhile ago.

I have yet to mature since then, nor have I become skilled enough to beat Megaman 2, although it hasn't stopped me from soundly losing until I have won every other game.

None of the previously mentioned things actually mean much to me though. Frankly, as any good troll is, I am more interested in other people, which is why I don't talk about myself too often. I've got a mouthful of feet and a throat full of Achilles' heels. So making this introduction is more than awkward for me.

Most of the time I just stalk people around until they assume that I'm their friend, or a friend of their friend, who unassumingly has been shadowing the lot of them and pocketing scraps of their hair to make dolls out of.

Forget that you read that last bit. Also forget that I've ended multiple sentences with propositions. The devil made me do it.

I guess I should keep at whatever it is I am doing here.



1. Are you a gamer?

No, but I've passed the Turing Test, so I can't rightfully be called a game anymore.

2. What?

Just go with it.

3. Seriously?


4. Are you going to continue asking yourself questions in the third person?

I didn't ask for schizophrenia, but I'll sure as shit not be sassed by my own psychosis. NEXT QUESTION PLEASE~!

5. What games are you currently playing or would like to play in the future?

Battlefield 3, Dark Souls, Magic: The Gathering, Bioshock Infinite, and a bunch of other garbage. It's a lot easier just to stalk people online through their gamertag and psn tag than actually answer something like this.

You could look at mine (GT:OMGhotdogs, PSN:jsapper), but I don't exactly like most people enough to to game with them, let alone accept friend requests. I'm kind of a misanthrope, and spend most of my time mumbling to myself and hiding in dark places within online shooters hoping to ambush someone and steal their wallet and possibly ask them how punctuation works. You know, so I can type up readable things instead of things like this.

6. Are you alright?


7. Stop staring at me.

That's not a question.

8. You're not making this any easier.

Funnel Cake?