Admirals for best debater. Not to debunk the folks in serious, but Admirals stands on his own when it comes to talking anything Halo based. And he keeps it clean too.

I'm gonna pick Brute for contributor. Isara's done good for web design and such. Deci made some nice themes. But Brute keeps chuggin' along nice and steady.

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:42:26 PM

I'll bite. Halfway through last week I wanted to jump in my truck, and just fucking drive until I ran out of gas. See where I went from there.

Thinking of it is so liberating but shameful too, isn't it? Well anyways, cooler heads always prevail fortunately.

Well. Not really. If I did that? Got in my truck and drove? Well. Let's just say I'd be doing it because I'd die. Something would have pushed me over the edge too far.

So. No. But shit was nasty last week. Family bullshit and my own feeling like shit don't go so well together.

I'll bite. Halfway through last week I wanted to jump in my truck, and just fucking drive until I ran out of gas. See where I went from there.

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:26:24 PM

Quote from: ねこ on December 14, 2014, 11:25:47 PM

TL:DR fgt

I can cosplay as a zombie without having to use makeup.

Cool now go scare your town mess with them until they start shooting ya

Okay, see, in order to do that, I'd need to put ice skates on. Everything melted and froze again because apparently winter is having an identity crisis up here.

I smell a new movie opportunity. Zombies on skates.

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:18:51 PM

Quote from: Korra on December 14, 2014, 11:18:07 PM

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:17:36 PM

Quote from: Korra on December 14, 2014, 11:17:15 PM

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:16:55 PM

Quote from: Korra on December 14, 2014, 11:16:21 PM

Exactly.

Ah...

Ha...

Aha...

Haa...

Aah...

I don't know where the fuck my head is tonight Korra. Honest to god it feels like I'm about to fucking keel over and die. But I've got one stubborn little piece of humor left.

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:16:55 PM

Quote from: Korra on December 14, 2014, 11:16:21 PM

Exactly.

Ah...

Ha...

Quote from: Sandtrap on December 14, 2014, 11:09:54 PM

Jesus fuck I felt like ass in the morning. ^^^ I fixed a bit of that, I am happy to say. Today, not so bad as it started out. Little bit more of a reason to shuffle onwards now!

Glad to hear it

Still feel like fucking ass now. But now, I've got something new. Potentially, a reason to keep going. Something tangible and believable. I'd dare say I'm excited.

This is a strange day for me. Although. All this is overshadowed by the fact that I go in for another round tomorrow.

I can't tell you how much my stomach clinches at the thought.

Jesus fuck I felt like ass in the morning. ^^^ I fixed a bit of that, I am happy to say. Today, not so bad as it started out. Little bit more of a reason to shuffle onwards now!

How is this a bad thing?

It's a natural impulse to want to kill and harm people, to set fire to things and to otherwise pillage, plunder and pilfer. Suppression of your baser urges is a good thing.

100% Verbatim Approved.

they jump high like the blacks

coincidence?

Consider this. Basketball, to some degree, is a sport or activity of some skill no? Team coordination and the ability to dunk a ball through a small opening either close or far. It is prided as something not easily done as it takes legitimate fine tuned skill to pull off some of the stuff basketball players do.

In most cases, we see the basketball court filled with black folks. Tall black folks. Reach the hoop easier.

So. I ask what sense is there in a sport that bases itself off skill, but then seeks the tallest fucking players who could scratch clouds when they scratch their heads?

Howdy amigo. Late for the party but don't worry. There's still some fun to be had!

Don't mind me folks. I'm just doing some thinking. Some of you may or may not have a heard, I ran into myself in the mirror yesterday. And, although I'd like to say there was a devilishly handsome face staring back at me, I can't. What I saw in the mirror yesterday made me consciously aware of what's happening to me.

I don't want to look in the mirror again. An yet, here I am. Staring at myself again. I can't help it. It's like a train wreck that I can't turn away from. It's some kind of morbid fascination. I've always been curious. And, my stance on death is now skewed because of my experience with both falling so far into depression a few years back, and the sheer number of times I've almost been nailed in almost all manner of situations.

The way back when depression snuffed everything out. Everything was all grey and gone. But, yet there was death. The only thing with colour. It was like a call. A song. It was rest. Like going to sleep. Calm, relaxing.

And my own run ins with various happenings over the years, have given me a sense of humor about myself only I seem able to handle.

The fact is, I can't handle this. At the same time, I can't look away. It's a curiosity.

When I pull out more strands of hair than I normally would, I know that the cells responsible for them are being killed. My skin's gone pale because of lack of exposure to sunlight in the winter and this is amplified by cells dying off.

My skin's going sunken. Lack of solid nutrition because I can't eat much. I don't have the stomach for it, and generally, anything that tastes goes down hard. I'm still a big person. A few extra pounds easy. Love handles for the romantic.

But I can see the changes, as everything seems to kind of just sink in. And my muscles are going too. A combination of atrophy from lack of activity in the winter and my own sitting on my ass and sleeping.

My eye sockets have rings, dark grey, almost black, a combination of my own stubborn efforts to fight by getting up early in the morning and working my job, and sleeping all day because I don't have the strength for anything else.

It's terrible. I feel terrible. I feel sick, almost all hours of the day. It's the absolute worst on injection days. But afterwards, the poison lingers. It spreads. I have to drink water. Water's a cleaner. Good for the human body. But that's all I can drink.

And my head. My head seems to be the only thing left of me that's intact. but I know otherwise. I'm consciously aware that I'm being damaged mentally by this. It's leaving scars on my psyche. It's like.... two halves. One half, I'm falling apart mentally.

All these strains. These little worries, about my own life, amplified a dozen times over by this. And my own worries, about what currently transpires in my family, my business, and my friend's lives. These worries, I cling to them because they are my life, my anchors, my reality. Something to fix and fight for, to make right. To make it work. But it's too much.

And my other half, whatever intelligence it is, my sense of humor and my creativity, my writing and stubborn optimism that still finds a way to persist, even when, one morning, I wake up, and I can't. I don't even get up out of bed. I just turn over, look up at the ceiling, and I say fuck it. I'll just lay here till I die.

It catches that. Makes fun of it. And I still write stories. I write this.

I am not afraid to admit that I finished a story yesterday, a monumental 78 pages in one day, nearly 11,000 words, for a friend. A friend, who I will never meet, a friend that I would wager I could fall in love with, and I bet, I already have.

I finished it because it was a challenge. It was fun. But I pushed myself to finish it. Because I'm aware that I'm dying. All around me, I am, physically dying. I'm dying, because a bundle of living cells, about the size of a coin, in my head, threatens to kill me.

I'm a mess. I'm losing track of time, losing track of days. I've only been on this for one week. I've had two shots. And I'm a mess. And tomorrow, I go in again, for another round. Another cycle they call it I believe. And it will be bad. I won't be able to stand on my own. I'll collapse in bed and sleep the entire day, and then wake up, at some point, exhausted, but at the same time, having slept so much that it's bad for me.

Winter is a long way from over. And, if I survive this, I'd wager, come winter's end, I'll be off chemo and my tumor destroyed. And, it'll have taken a chunk of me with it.

I'll have to start over from scratch. My strength, my health, my routine. My head. And I can see it all now.

All of this, everything around me, is a tightrope. It's stretched to its limit, and it's waiting to snap like an elastic band on too many twists. I'm not holding the rope.

I'm walking it. And I'm not even afraid. I'm just walking, because I'm walking. I'm walking because that's the only thing left to do. Like sitting on a diving board. You go up, and stand over the edge, and then suddenly realize how high it seems. How scary it seems. And you can't turn around because of all the other kids behind you. They'll laugh and you're more afraid of that than anything.

So you jump, because that's all you have left.

So. Rather than make a pity me thread and waste space. I'm going to write. I feel horrid tonight. Really. Fuck me. So. Here goes.

Through sunken eyes I stare.
Every passing day, more hair.
Drifts away on empty air.
My mind tries to fight, but it is not right.
I lose my ground, just like pounds.
Skin is pale, starting to fail.
This winter is hard, leaving me scarred.
I fight from all sides, like standing up to tides.
I falter and fail, a body going frail.
The outside rots, the inside clots.
I struggle to stand, fight my shaking hand.
I try my best, to fight this mess.
But I will not lie, I feel like I will die.
My time seems done, like I have none.
Every day I fall, and soon I will crawl.
All I ask, behind this mask.
A brave face to all, why fight at all?
But most of all, who will be the first to fall?
The world I see, or the cancer in me?

I'm cosplaying as a hollow from dark souls.

Oh and uhh #ModBias

*sigh*

You know my stance Psych. Hire an assassin. Invisible stealth kills.