This Is How You Drift A Real Car

Why am I suddenly utterly into drum and bass? Who knows!

Maybe it is the base and primordial drive it makes in the beginning, right before the actual eponymous drums and bass lines kick in, that makes you think an explosion is about to happen and you should be there right this second.

Maybe it is because the tracks are five minutes long at the minimum and exist solely to make you want to look at pretty lasers and not think about a god damn thing.
I understand completely why people do drugs and listen to this.
Dance! to this. Play with glowsticks to this.

I'm still skeptical about the clothes and hats of fluorescent fur, and the bangles and ringpops. Those are probably more on the drugs side of things, not the music.

But color me intrigued. If you're in the mood for something, why not do it right.

I should learn to do the glowsticks-on-strings thing. It's right up my alley.

Also I should learn to do the "rolling on E" thing. Less up my alley, but, you know. I'll wait till this comes in the mail first.

The flaw in my plan, of course, is that I hate everyone involved in the subculture.
I will find a workaround about this later.

EAT LIGHTNING. SHIT THUNDER.

I mainly just like it at 1:07 with the yelling and the thoomp thooomp thoomp.

Edit: "You can make it as much a cat or a lion, vulture or eagle as you like. Whatever you think a griffin ought to look like! Many thanks"
Yayyyyyyyyyyyyy oh god it's actually going to eat me this thing is a predator

I Should Title This "Overkill". Get It? Get It? Eh, You'll Get It Later

I was going through my own Documents folder, because I'm narcissistic like that, and because I know past-me sometimes hides gems in notepad files titled "fhdaskfdas" or "that thursday".

This is because I have zero memory of my past writings.
Dirty secret? When I'm bored with no reading material, I read this blog's old posts. Not only can I rediscover great music I forgot about, I am genuinely entertained by my own past entries. Some of them are quite good.


This is from this summer, apparently. Who knew?

Dear J.K. Rowling

Due to the nature of this letter, I want to get a few things out in the open as quickly as possible in case meaning is obscured by tone.
I have followed your books for a decade. I grew up with them. I, along with your 50 million other fans, fell deeply into your wonderful world ten years ago. Your work has been critically and publically adored, neither the numbers nor awards lie, and I can add little else other than my personal heartfelt thanks and admiration for a job masterfully done.

However, I have words of…not complaint, but of confusion. Compassion. Bereavement.
Today I read your final book, the Deathly Hallows, for the second time. For the other books my bragging “count” is higher, but I can only claim to have read this seventh book once (voraciously, in one sitting, the night it came out). I was forced to part with it soon after; when you are packing your belongings according to weight instead of importance you learn to sacrifice a 750-page book and its friends. Only after I finished it again did I realize today is in fact the two-year anniversary of its release, which seemed fitting.

As I read today (and tonight), I was continually reminded of forgotten memories, emotions, and reactions I had felt that night two years ago. My recollection of that night is blurry at best, charged as I was with adrenaline, excitement, apprehension, and (eventually) an overpowering sense of loss.
Much more so than the previous installments, due to the finality of it all.
I suspect you probably know the feeling.

Therein lies the problem. Now, I make no claim of comprehending your thinking or writing process. I can, however, construct a rough idea of what it must be like – purely by looking at the final result; the books themselves. I can’t imagine the feeling of having your story skyrocket into fame, but I assume it is accompanied by an overwhelming pressure.

You above all people knew the importance, the responsibility, of ending this right. After a certain point your world developed enough weight and force to continue on its own – your task was just to guide it to its inevitable conclusion. And again, I acknowledge I can’t comprehend what it must have been like. The story was yours.

And yet.

You took it too far. I think you got caught up in your efforts to draw every thread to the end, to tie everything. I think you got careless with your characters, each of which you spent seventeen years filling with life.

I understand that death was an important element of this story. I know it is integral to themes of growth and loss, courage and the inevitable. For the most part it was handled remarkably well, serving to further the darkening tone of the series book by book as more and more people were lost. Cedric. Sirius. Dumbledore. Necessary, functional, climactic, terrible, all of them. They were felt by the readers.
And we knew that the worst was not to come until the final confrontation, and we were fearful for our favorites, and still I as I re-read I remembered being shocked. Aghast, as central characters were claimed by the war.

It would not have been as bad, I suspect, if each death had been given respective weight, but the toll rose so steadily – relentlessly - that I began to write down names just to remember them all.
Before the first had time to truly sink in, we were confronted with another – which could have been a powerful literary technique, but it was done at such a pace as to cause disbelief.

Because of this, these characters were lost. They became defined by their last instance, their confusing and untimely death, and so their original selves were forgotten – or rather, glazed over.

(Muggle Studies Professor)
Hedwig
Mad-Eye Moody
- George loses ear -
Scrimgoeur
Gregorovitch
Bathilda Bagshot
Ted Tonks & travelling companion
- Hermione tortured -
Wormtail
Dobby
Crabbe
Fred
Lavender Brown?
Snape
Remus Lupin
Tonks
Colin Creevey
Voldemort

To let the dead blur together into nothing but a sense of death itself, especially for such rich characters as existed in your series, was a tragedy compounded of other tragedies.
This was a loss. Let us not let ourselves forget that.

Griffin Weston Prioritizes

Massive Botany Test tomorrow. Massive Botany Homework Packet due tomorrow.

Old faithful readers, you all know what that means.

It means Griffin is freaking out. How does Griffin freak out?

Not by studying, that's for fucking sure. Griffin freaks out by acting a little suaver than usual, a little more friendly, more creative, more willing to help solve your problems.

Not here, though. Here is my pedestal, where it is all me all the day long, and I can be as self-centered and selfish as I like.

Which is a lot, in case you had forgotten.

So: Me.

I am a being composed entirely of fleeting, insubstantial - indeed, nonexistent- relationships with girls.

"Now, wait", I hear you say, "You sit at your computer and play videogames and don't lift nearly enough weights to be made of women, oh Griffin Weston."

I have been on a saying-my-own-name kick as of late. This may be directly relevant to the topic at hand.

That's true. I admit, I was being poetic.

Here is what it looks like without glamor:

The only people who's opinions about me I think are worth a damn are pretty† girls.
That is to say, I don't care. At. All. What any male thinks of me. Friend, foe, sibling, stranger.
Unappealing girl? Same thing.
They only matter when they have influence on the thoughts of the aforementioned pretty girls who, alone, determine my every movement/thought/action.

They are the ones I look to first and last in every conversation, the ones I calculate for, the ones who have power over me, the ones with 德.

Perhaps I lapse into hyperbole. None of you are acting very surprised.
I have been called observant. This is short of the truth.
Scenario: I carry ice cream cone. I drop ice cream cone in public place. I plaster convincing facade of lighthearted lamentation on face while simultaneously screaming bloodcurdling murder-howls in back of brain and scanning surrounded area for pretty girls.
Should there be none, I relax. Well, rather, I move one notch down on my brain-ladder.
Should there be some, I then and only then look at everything else to check upon their influence on said girl's world (which, in my brain, consists solely of includes me).

I am observant for purely selfish reasons. My keen eyes are byproducts of a keen ego.

Edit: Which gives us the conclusion that, when inside the range of a pretty† girl, I am concurrently at my highest operating potential and my most neurotic. Discuss.

So: Me.

I've gotten back into my DS thanks to Scribblenauts teaching me I can solve all of life's problems with a pegasus and a grapple gun.
Unfortunately, it spawns the sort of problem you'd expect to have on the eve of a prime Botany exam:
How do I pull off playing a DS in a public college campus?

It is influenced by Player, Location, Level of Interest, and Visibility.
I have to be a specific person playing a DS, here. I can't be full nerd, heaven forbid. Which means I can't wear my nerdiest XKCD shirt while playing. Ever.
I have to counter the DS with an equal and opposite amount of cool.

I also have to remain somewhat conspicuous. That is, I can't ever play it holed up in the library, or in a corner of the café in case I was seen and they assumed I had gone there specifically to play, privately.
But I can't just do it in the middle of a busy area in case they see what game I'm actually playing.
This is relevant because I intend to play the fuck out of Pokemon - but I obviously can't do it while anyone is in a 45 degree arc behind me within visible range of the screen.

I also have to play games that aren't stylus-intensive so I don't appear too engrossed in my task. It needs to be a lazy distraction. Oh, have I run out of Popular Book? Are none of my compatriots texting me with hilarious We-Must-Tell-Gatbsy-Of-This-Day tales? I suppose I'll just PLAYSOMEFUCKINPOKEMANZ.


Now. Now wait. Get this. At the same time as I'm thinking all of this, I'd be fucking overjoyed to see a pretty girl playing a DS, regardless of outfit, location, or enthusiasm.
Because these rules only apply to me. That's how self-centered I am.

This crops up more often than I'd like because I keep getting false positives with all these bitches texting on their flip-phones that look an awful lot like a game system. Cut that out. Stop getting my hopes up.

And disregard the fact that the logical strikeout-text Dark Prince side of my brain is reminding me that anyone who would negatively judge a person for playing a DS would never be a prospective mate person of interest in the first place.


Simultaneous Edit: Am I late to the Owl City party? Has everyone been listening to this while I had bananas in my ears? Regardless. Owl City!


(†)To be defined in a later entry

Anorexiorocketdontstop

My mind is so blown. Just wait till a minute in.

Edit: How....did I miss this song? It's from her first album, which I have, and I've never heard it before. Which is a shame, because it's pretty much her, distilled into an espresso shot.


Other musical interludes include: Bjork. Wait, wait, stick with me.

This is an entirely a cappella track. Bjork, a backing choir, and this guy on beats.
And effects, of course. Bjork is like a River Tam that doesn't kick ass.

DJ Vadim. Of One Self and a million other things. Here is an accompanying video.

The world is shrinking. The blank edges of the map filled in.

I'm going to tell you why Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest is the best of the trilogy, nay, perhaps one of the greatest pirate movies of all time.

It's fucking brilliant from start to finish, marred not by any of the usual black marks of second films.

In short, it peaks. Perfectly. Like a wave, or egg whites. It is brought to wonderful fruition and takes the perfect shape.
The music is marvelous. The characters are refined, but not yet too far. The first film was a wonderful surprise, a fantastic and adventurous gift begat from a Disney ride. Unexpected.

The second could have been bad. Trite. Strained. Forced. The fact that it wasn't may add somewhat to its brilliance.

All characters in the first film were one dimensional, even Jack. The motives they had were pure - that is to say, perhaps not good, but untainted. Whole. William wanted Elizabeth. Elizabeth wanted Will. Norrington took for granted Elizabeth, and wanted Fame. Barbossa wanted to lift the Curse. Jack wanted the Pearl.
This was sorted out wonderfully - indeed, sealed up so tightly a sequel was unwarranted.

In the second film, complexity was the theme. New characters were introduced, and none failed to dissapoint. Tia Dalma is mysterious; eerie as shit with ulterior motives. Beckett is an imperious twat with ulterior motives. Norrington returns, an order of magnitude more badass, sour, and sodden with liquor. With ulterior motives. Davy Jones is brilliantly portrayed and personified. Believable. The dialogue is hilarious and subtle.

And William wants Elizabeth, but also to save his Father. And Fame. Elizabeth wants Will. Then Jack. Then Will. Then feels sorry for Norrington. Norrington wants Elizabeth and hates Will. And Jack. And Elizabeth too. And wants his life back.

Jack wants the Pearl. And Elizabeth. And Fame. And Rum.

And it all works, somehow. Equal time is given to all, and it comes together - several times - perfectly.

Not to mention the movie has one of the greatest swordfights of recent cinema.
Three men, three swords, one key, and a mill wheel - and it never jumps the shark; crosses the point of absurdity while at the same time another sword fight with two oafs, a woman, a chest, and two swords passed between them is conducted flawlessly and it all tumbles out into the breakwater into a massive and exquisite dance of blades and sea foam and crab-men and swinging oars and double-triple crossing and salt-encrusted greatcoats.

And it ends with a death, and a ship destroyed, and nobody is happy and everyone is still jealous and suspicious! It's fucking great! Violence and a heavy string section carry you all the way to the fucking end, and right when you're about to jump out of your chair and yell "IS THAT IT!?" and stuff your head through the tv to see the rest, Barbossa walks down the stairs and blows your fucking mind and all you can do is sit back and bite your fingers off in anticipation for the third one, the one you now know to be the one to end all ones, the one worth dressing up for, the one worth buying the sword for.

It's a brilliant fucking movie and you should go and rewatch the whole damn trilogy right goddamn now.

Because today, Johnny Depp showed up at the D23 Expo in full Sparrow regalia and announced Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides for 2011.

A Tool Designed To Inflict Pain Or Death On A Fellow Human

I think swords are neat do you think swords are neat.

I have a few. One I inherited from my brother. It is a crappy barbarian claymore. Two were gifts, a scimitar and a cane sword. They are better.

But I don't have a sword of my own, mainly because like Airbending, and Pokemon, and D&D, and everything with a class system or separately cool factions I haven't found the make and style of one that fits me, or my "fighting method".

I am willing to bet I have spoken at length on this subject previously.

I am probably going to do so later.

Swords are neat do you think swords are neat? Yes you do I don't associate with anyone who doesn't like swords I mean come on

I don't have a sword I'VE bought. I don't have one in my house currently. Makes me uncomfortable.

I'm not going to get into, like, what the essence of Me is and how that translates into a perfect weapon. I don't even claim the sword IS the perfect weapon for me.
I'm not going to go into which swords are the best out of all of them, because I've done that, and it's a horribly complex blah blah blah ANYWAY

At first I wanted an ordinary, plain as plain can be European longsword, just because I don't have one and it's something I can see myself wielding, in my head, killin' dragons. Or riding them, I guess. The daydreams are hazy.

Then I did some thinking.

Unfortunately all that thinking left me too tired to pepper you with witticisms, so I'm just going to list my top three choices.



I could probably get away with wearing a sword around town.
Is it worth it getting arrested to find out? Hah just kidding,I respect weapons too much to carry one that I don't know how to use.



EDIT: Who are we kidding of course it is going to be the middle one, I even subconsciously selected it with the positioning of the pictures and the contrast. Now I just have to work myself into a frenzied spending foaming lather. I give it a week, unless something maddeningly interesting happens and I am not counting "learning more Botany" in that category although I do find plants quite interesting in their own right.

Also did I mention it turns out I like the White Stripes I had never fully given them a listen although I had already pledged fidelity to Jack White.

Because of this guitar solo.

When Life Gives You Lemons - BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

So my first idea was to write about something I don't usually write about, because I'm a big fan of Tzeentch lately.

I was sick for a day. I managed to combat it by stuffing myself with hot food and sleeping for 18 hours. I went out and bought cumin. I read books. Read Neil Gaiman. Read some more Neil Gaiman. In fact, I read four Neil Gaiman books.

So now I'm hyperaware of fog and wary of shadows.

And more importantly, shedding mucus nasally at a prodigious rate. This is the one thing that has stuck with me, after the body aches and head full of hot cotton fade, vanquished by cumin.
And it is vexing.

Which is what I want to concentrate on.

There. There. I just did it fast, quickly, in this new stream of drunkenness style I am trying to cultivate without the use of booze itself.

I intentionally made myself vexed, by playing a videogame that has been frustrating for the past days or so.
Just now. Took an hour, and it's 1:30, and now I have shit like class to deal with but that is the price I pay for retaining a fragment of myself. Verbiage. Vexed. Excess.

I did so because I wanted to do so, because I hadn't in a long time. And I'm realizing that it's healthy, or at least necessary (many things necessary to survival are in fact detrimental to your immediate health, but hey, that's how life works. sort of.) to get pissed off at a regular rate.

Most people do it silently, or at least quietly enough that it never grows up and spreads to other people, or erupts into real honest-to-god anger, or unleash it upon the actual cause of the vexation, turning it to rage.

This is unhealthy. And, required. Deal with it. That's the point.

But, every now and then, you are entitled to a good sulk. And you should throw yourself into these "vacations" with as much verve and fervor and other action words with V's in them as you can muster. Because your body will produce them anyway.

In this respect, it is like menstruation.

Also, it is an unspoken rule that you're allowed to be pissy like this.

In this respect also, it is like menstruation.

Girls, you are smarter than we think. Who We is in this sentence, I have yet to quantify. Obviously we are people who don't give credit where credit is due in the conniving department.

The point is, you have to learn to identify and seize these opportunities to work up a mental (and sometimes physical) sweat just being sullen and sulky.

Justification is key. Nobody likes an asshole.

An asshole is somebody who behaves this way all the time.

So lets say you're feeling a cold coming on, and it's still only the second week of school. You've got work, where there was no work before. Things like chores and to-do lists swim around your head, competing sperm scuffling for the ovum of your brain.

What is it with me and gameto-metaphors lately. I will tell you what. It is Zoology.

ZooLOLogy. FLOLmingo. GorilLOL. AxoLOLtl.

You're hungry, and you know you can't just eat whatever's in the fridge because the only things in the fridge are raw ingredients you bought yourself, and you can't go to the store and buy more because you're sick and life is conspiring against you just to make you miserable.
Any attempts to alleviate the suffering are met with resistance provided by the great Sulk Spirits, oily and diaphanous, hovering above your house, your head, your biosphere. Waiting until you succumb to the inevitable. Hoping you'll embrace them, become one of them.

Which you should. It's a quick and painful release, like squeezing out a deep pimple.

Quite like that, actually. A bit of strain for instant satisfaction, coupled with eye-watering leftover pain and a lingering sensation that this was a bad choice and you've just made yourself look that little bit uglier come morningtime.

Do it anyway. It's human nature. And that way, if everyone does it, I can justify it much, much more easily.

TED, I? (Wordscramble!): I've been far too busy to listen to music. Which is odd, because I stuff my headphones into my ear canals twice daily as I walk to and fro school. Mostly fro. I take the bus in the to direction. I fro back on foot. Perambulation in the Fro direction. Vehicular transportation upon embarking towards things labeled To.

So no new music lately. Not even any new youtubes. Can't listen to music when you're playing videogames that require sound, and since they're all so fancy these days they use stuff like auditory cues for enemies or powerups. You are required in order to participate. And contrary to popular opinion of teenagers everywhere, music does not in fact help you study, or learn, a damn thing.

That behind said, have some more D'Angelo.
You can skip to when the music starts, at 1:00 or so. Excuse it. It's the start of an album.