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Not exactly friends only, but... [17 May 2015|10:45 pm]
What is written here is NOT intended to be malicious or offensive to any parties whatsoever, but if one is uncomfortable with explicit content, metaphor, hyperbole, or any other symptoms of freewriting, consider this a warning. What may be blatant may be veiled, and what may be lost in vague adjectives may be conveyed as literally as seen fit.

I understand that this is the Internet, which is a public, full-access realm, albeit virtual. If I were afraid of the world reading what I write, I wouldn't put it on the Internet. Please heed this standard as you traverse my entries. If qualms arise regarding my archives, especially if heavily buried, please take the evolution of my past to present state into account.

With this disclaimer in mind, feel free to proceed.


This post exists because it's evidently needed, seeing how some people have taken personal offense to or responsibility for what I purge into the bowels of the Internet and have chosen to confront me about it in person. Just remember: if I wanted to hurt you, I already would have, and I wouldn't be subtle about it.


Comment here to be added.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [08 Jul 2009|12:21 am]
Leave me a comment and I will give you a letter. Then, write 10 things that you love starting with that letter. Post the list in your journal. Give out letters to your commenters in return. [info]twilighttttt gave me the letter "D".

1. Drawing
2. Disney(land)
3. Digital music
4. Duck(ling)s
5. Demons
6. Drumsticks (ice cream)
7. Daffodils
8. Dollar stores
9. Denny's
10. Diet Pepsi

This was surprisingly difficult :0
link3 ravers | raise your glowsticks

Doodle Meme from [info]wyna_hiros [26 Jun 2009|08:36 pm]
Though I don't think I even have ten friends...


"The first 10 people to comment on this post get to request a sketch of a subject/character of their choosing from me. Post all fandoms you're willing to draw for."


In terms of quality and practice:

God tier: Warcraft/World of Warcraft, Pokémon (Generations I & II are best)

Mediocre tier: Hellboy, some Star Wars, Jhonen Vasquez work, original characters, mythological creatures/demons, some Disney (probably in my style.. and it's best to avoid animals)

Shit tier: Naruto, Death Note, Neon Genesis Evangelion, One Piece, Hellsing
(Keep in mind that my exposure and depth into these shows is next to nil, so if you mention an obscure or late-debuted character, I may have trouble with it).

Please note these are quick sketches: they'll be available as replies to this post as I finish them (not necessarily in order). I'll edit this post to reflect when the ten comments and their requests are filled.



Fuck, I'll pretty much draw anything. Just make me active again.
link10 ravers | raise your glowsticks

Gentlemen on "Nice Guys" (can be applied to "Nurses" as well) [24 Jun 2009|08:05 pm]
In the past, I have had trouble pin-pointing what it was that bothered me about Nice Guys. )




He was such a NICE Guy, and she's such a Heartless Bitch for dumping him. )

To be honest, I don't really know any "Nice Guys" but this was an interesting read, especially coming from a place like the Robot 9000.
link3 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [14 Jun 2009|06:15 pm]
Happy Raver Day! )
I didn't take a single picture of myself until I got home that night. I got a lot of kandie and I met a lot of lovely people :D My favorite group was probably of Bliss, Fixation, Bludlust, Average Joe, and Po :D
link10 ravers | raise your glowsticks

Thoughts on raiding [05 Jun 2009|12:29 pm]
Q. What motivates different people to GIT PURPZ IN ULDUAR?

A. What motivates people?

I think a big part of raiding's appeal is the veiled cyclical method by which it operates: there is no "end" to achieve, just a level up. You fight monsters to get epic loot; you use this loot to fight harder, better monsters that reward you with better epic loot. This continues in an unbreakable, frenzied pattern, driving users to complete Blizzard's objectives before they can create new ones.

A big hook to MMORPGs, namely WoW, is that there is no consistent, concrete finish line. You pick a side, you pick a class, you pick a race, you pick two professions, you pick a talent tree, yet you've only experienced a tiny fraction of the game's possibilities. Many people will argue that "the game doesn't start" until you hit 80 (or whatever the level cap may be), because you get to truly test your skill and ability playing the class at its full potential.

With a character's full potential unlocked, raiding offers the player three main "R" functions consisting of reward, reputation, and randomization.

For sake of simplicity, I'll use vanilla WoW as an example with its level 60 cap and limited end-game content.

Say you have just reached level 60 on your Protection-specified Warrior. A raiding guild is just starting out and is in high demand of "tanks" (your class/spec.). They recruit you and you are accepted into their circle. This entails a high amount of psychological dependency as it is (valued as a unit in demand, appreciated for your proficiency, able to work well with others and therefore liked as a person overall, etc.), but it's one of the more excusable roots of the sown seeds of possible addiction because "you play with friends".

Once you demonstrate your usefulness as a player, you are able to escalate up ranks in the guild system for better chances at receiving loot. Similar to a caste system in its execution, a guild structure creates a separate set of stakes within a gamble. If a creature you're fighting has a 6% chance of dropping an item you want and the guild has 10 possible recipients, your chances in getting it have dropped from 6% to 0.6% (that math is probably wrong-- I'm an illustration major, cut me some slack!!). Either way, it's less than a 1% chance. The three "R"s unite in this scenario: the chances of the random loot falling in the player's favor relies on his/her reputation as a professional member of his/her class and of his/her guild, to which he/she receives this loot reward.

The more time one dedicates to this guild and game, the better the chances increase, with both guild leaders and the game mechanics itself as factors. If the player has attended every run, befriended the guild members through hours of dedication and bonding time, and sees the item finally drop, in the player's eyes this means his/her chances of receiving the prize are 100%.

The player receives this item and is recognized in his/her community for his/her efforts. The item is proudly displayed and the player gains reputation, as the loot signifies that this player is capable of tackling one of the hardest bosses in the game. The addiction stems from this process, as this one item is usually part of a set, or is not enough on its own to improve the player's stand with the guild and the community as a whole. Accomplishment comes from getting a second part, and a third, and so on until the set is complete. Now you are one of the best of your class on your server, highly respected for your devotion and skill. This is a heavy, meticulous dissection of the emotions and mental processes throughout a raiding experience, but it's important to realize that each raider now feels like a hero. Especially for an individual with low self-esteem or poorly recognized talents in The Real World, the sense of integrity and impact that comes from raiding is alluring.

Q. Any other thoughts on motivations to raid? social aspects, manipulating people, etc.?

Any specific practices that you undergo before raiding? eg: pick up two cans of monster, order pizza hut cause we HAVE to get to phase 3 of boss x? Favorite arm chair / special mouse to play with / etc.

A. Well, as mentioned, when you spend that much time doing something, you're bound to make friends with your guildmates enough to a point that they'll notice if you're gone or not participating. Even if you're tired of the game, you may return to raiding or playing WoW because your friends need you on it, perhaps even to a point where you'll re-roll classes on the same server or even switch factions on a new one. In terms of how it affects your real life, dedicating that much time to your new hobby decreases free time spent with tangible friends and family. Some friends of my ex-guild leader surprised her on her birthday by showing up to take her out to dinner, and she made them wait a half an hour while we finished a dick-around ZG raid (even though we were all level 80) before she left.

Manipulating people probably comes better into play when you're a guild leader yourself, able to concern favoritism when rewarding members, or if there is competition among your class.

In my example above I used a tank, an inherent leadership/figurehead class, but if you were a less-than-desired raider like rogue DPS and weren't at the top of your game compared to the others, you could probably pull strings to wriggle yourself into the pool of loot recipients. For instance, even though I wasn't the best geared healer (Primal Mooncloth and Karazhan epics, woot) I would be chosen over no-name priests and shamans because I had a high reputation of being a fun and kind person on my server. Even hardcore raiders (as hardcore as they can get on an RP server) would prefer my company, though I think me being female might have had a slight something to do with it...

As far as raiding practices, I know my ex would bring his dinner to the computer and even try to schedule his job around his raiding schedule. Raiding came first, to a point where he'd sleep in after a late night raid and skip his work carpool. He eventually lost his job and house, then moved in with his mom.
I didn't raid often, but I'd try to have snacks handy and I know pee breaks were kind-of hard to come by. Some people in Vent would even joke about urinating in their beer bottles and almost mixing them up... except they were serious.

I met a guy from my server because he lived [nearby], and when he brought me back to his house I ended up just sitting on his bed and then falling asleep while he was in a heroic dungeon. I feel raiding ties into this social aspect because he valued the virtual friends he's already invested hours into over a new person sitting five feet away... even though twenty minutes prior, I had been one of the virtual people too. It's almost as if he failed to recognize the transition of an Internet identity into a real one: "You're not an undead priest, so you can't be the same person!"

I didn't raid, but I would RP a ton, and I've even contemplated returning to WoW for the roleplaying alone even though the game itself isn't fun anymore at all... I've just spent so much time and developed so many great memories exploring the land, the lore, and the server's population that I feel a want to go back. That, and my laptop can't run Warhammer.
link4 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [01 Jun 2009|11:22 pm]
I thought I had squandered my prime youth for raving away until I met a bunch of really nice kids that turned out to be my age. I know 19 isn't that far gone, but it sure feels a hell of a older than it is. I think I'm going to finally jump on the driving bandwagon this summer. My brother and I can take the classes together and laugh about it, and then coach and practice with each other.

I'm happy that I've figured out how to make more complex kandie now, including 3D cuffs, daisy cuffs, multis, and ladders of course. However, I don't think I have peyote down, but I don't really like how it turns out anyway. I get lost on what color combinations to use; maybe it's time to refer back to my color wheel, heh. Also, if anyone would like kandie, just e-mail me your address and what kind you want (colors, animals, type, etc.) and I'd love to send you some :D

This post, compared to my others, makes it look like I'm on Valium. I'm so much happier at home. Food, day parties, friends. And I don't have to worry about anyone walking in on me while I'm in the bathroom!
link9 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [27 May 2009|04:38 pm]
Hot Topic sells sweatshop kandi now, dohohoo

Seriously? Eight bucks for something that costs ten minutes and fifty cents to make?

Then again, they also treat homosexuality like a sweet fad so whatever


ITT: mall rage
link5 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [20 May 2009|12:32 am]
I can't remember anything. Nothing stands out or sticks in my head like it used to. I once had a photographic memory that would isolate and preserve every moment of significance in my life. My mental archives are blurry, and what I attempt to remember is lost in a sea of nostalgia or incoherent, split-second fragments of sensations or feelings.

I'm hoping this is just a result of stress.

Maybe the reason I yearn to revert to a past state is because I need to revisit it.

I was being marveled for my ability to forgive so quickly. I think it's because I can't remember the pain unless it's constant. Am I a cow? I continually thrust my hand among the flames although my fingers are charred and black from my insolence. I never learn. If I learn, I don't retain.

What's wrong with me? Someone help me. Not even my nightmares depict images. The shadow people I see are wearing clothes, or sometimes white. The dark ones I see are only at night, standing in the middle of my dorm room. They aren't translucent, they're solid. Solid, black masses, standing. They stand for a long time, sometimes a full five seconds, before I blink and they fade away by splitting in two, rushing to the corners of and behind my eyes. At times they'll have two flecks of red, almost signifying eyes.

Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and saw one hovering right above me as I slept. In the same instant it shot in reverse toward the window and dissolved, almost faster than I could register it happening.

Only a few times, more than once but less than three times, I've seen masses of huddled shadow people, a group of anywhere from twenty to fifty people. They ran, nodded their heads, and communed among themselves, disappearing in a spark.

This used to be cool and funny, but now I'm getting really sick of seeing these things all the time. I thought it was my glasses being gummed up, but I see them whether I'm wearing glasses or not. Then I thought it was my vision, blurry as it is, distorting figures in the night, but I see them during the day, even in open areas.

I used to be frightened. Now I'm just intrigued, annoyed. I probably just need to go the optometrist again and get a better prescription, but I wonder what causes me to see them?


I think I'm so bitter because I can't be Arete anymore. Not that I'm not like her in real life (I like to think I am to a certain extent), but that I'm not welcomed with open arms anywhere I go. I felt like people found a solace in Arete. I would RP with those that would go ignored or be shunned because it was fun to RP, no matter who I was with. I gave everyone a chance, or a second, or a fifth, even if they broke my heart, because I didn't want to make any enemies. I did my best and gave everyone my all because I felt loved, and that was good enough for me. People would tell me wonderful things-- they started RPing because of me, or rolled on Thorium Brotherhood because of me, or rolled an undead or a priest because of me, that they'd invite me to a raid or group even if I was undergeared because they liked me, because they wanted me around. Thorium Brotherhood felt like my home away from home. I felt like I could trust everyone and give them my heart and soul and they'd listen and love it and love me. Even if it was just to laugh at my jokes or because they thought Arete was adorable (even though I never really intended her to be cute, more just obnoxiously naive), people wanted to talk to me or would come to me if they had problems. I felt bad that I couldn't be more available to people and that some people would lie to me just to look wholesome or hospitable, but I did my best and gave it my all.

I quit World of Warcraft because I didn't have any time with college work piling up and because I wanted to go out onto the campus and have free time to mingle with and meet people. I felt like WoW gave me an obligation to stay home: "I have to talk to so-and-so", "I told so-and-so I'd RP/run something with them", or just have it as a time-waster. It eventually got to a point where there was nothing left to do because no one was left to do things for. I didn't go fishing because no one needed the fish, and I didn't do dailies because no one needed anything cooked. I didn't raid because it was an endless, pointless cycle (can't anyone see that raiding is just interactive gambling?) with little chance for success. I didn't RP because there was no one left to accept my roleplay, unless I was some sort of sugar-coated cyborg (or accepted them, which Arete would ICly not do as a devout follower of the Light, albeit Forsaken) or a blood elf. Since Thorium Brotherhood's spike in deterioration, college has made me feel more alone, afraid, and insecure. Spending 5+ hours a day somewhere for two years straight and having it fall apart was more crippling than I thought.

My room mates detest me over the frustration they read about in my journal. A brick tension hangs in the air. They refuse to make eye contact with me or even acknowledge my presence, badgering me until I cried because I called the dorm a chicken coop and them the hens. I am ignorant, dependent on and loose with men, unable to hold a conversation with a person and will therefore suffer in the working world due to my naivete and insecurity. Molestation and rape is commonplace and entirely my fault, as well as something I need to overcome by growing up. "I'm just wondering when you're going to, you know, grow up."

Your answer is never. Never, ever, ever. And if you knew anything about the world, it would be your answer too.

Luckily tonight is my last in this harpy nest.
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [16 May 2009|03:28 am]
did you know that people still play yu-gi-oh?

evidently this guy Steven from my school does, and has very rare cards to boot. i spent like six hours watching those gamblers in the making.

an asian man that worked there, named Long, was hitting on me the whole time-- starting up conversation about how he wrote an analysis paper on Gundam Wing, telling me he plays techno in his car, and asking me if I was engaged because of the ring on my left hand. This guy looked like a living embodiment of all the racist caricatures from the WWII Looney Toons cartoons, with a jutting out bottom lip, huge buck teeth, and eyes so narrow you couldn't see the whites. In addition, he spoke with a stammer and an accent, and before he suddenly excused himself, I saw his nose bleeding. "Have fun, Rita! Don't let all the guys intimidate you!" He felt up my hands way too much "examining" my ring.

Steven, his friend John, and I, all headed over to PLURple for a few hours. It was fun! I ran into Kitten and Spoo and met Kix, Felix, and their friend Oscar (who i named Grouch, though I don't think it was very clever). I also met Haley and her friend Free/Dream, Starfire, Yoshi and Truth, and Chew Toy and Midget. Then we got stuck in a 2-lane merge on the 91 due to road work, where we were detoured to Compton and stopped for McDonald's at 2:30 in the morning.

i got kids bop in my happy meal and played it in the car, then we popped the cd out in horror and finally made it home. what a day...
link4 ravers | raise your glowsticks

Summer idea: Back to Azeroth [14 May 2009|08:44 pm]
We should sew tabards, and then in full make-up and get-up, carouse around L.A. as a wayward party searching to return to Azeroth...

But where in L.A.? I'd definitely want to make it a full day event, but I'm not sure where in Los Angeles would be prime for a renegade band of mythical travelers.

I definitely want to do this with a few friends this summer. Give me suggestions! So far, I think we should:

1. Go shopping in a supermarket
2. Possible visit to the mall (we may get kicked out, but I don't really care)
3. Visit the park/playground
4. Order (fast) food

We'll be in character and full garb the entire time. I assume we'll be on a Scavenger Hunt/quest so that we'll have an objective upon visiting these places, i.e. [Shiny Red Apple]x1, [Speak with Haris Pilton or other Socialite]. Is this awesome y/n?
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [10 May 2009|11:31 am]
Tell me what you think of me, honestly and bluntly. Whether you've never met me in person or have known me for years, tell me everything.

Anonymous comments are highly welcomed. I can't track you.

Helpful starting prompts are:
Lately you've been...
I've always thought that...
Aside from what you may think...
I really love/hate it when...
Ever since I met you...
link7 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [04 May 2009|09:20 am]
So, my laptop no longer detects the external hard drive Neil gave me last year. It fell off my bed while it was being read, which I assume corrupted it. I tried restarting my computer as well as plugging it into other computers, but it went undetected every time. I wanted to back it up this weekend along with my laptop's hard drive, but it doesn't show up as an available disk.

I lost five years and 100 gigabytes worth of music.
I'm hoping I won't have to spend all that much money to restore the files, hoping it just needs a new boot.ini or partition letter or something of the sort. It would be especially suspicious to hand a drive to someone and have them come across almost nothing but thousands of mp3s.

I don't believe any physical damage has been done to the drive; nothing seems to be grinding or bouncing around in there.

So... what are my options? It's time to bury baby Maxtor, isn't it? How the fuck am I going to get all of that music back?
link4 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [25 Apr 2009|03:16 pm]
Bandit9842 (3:13:26 PM): for making campfires
Bandit9842 (3:13:30 PM): you dont need a flint and tinder anymore
ZombieArete (3:13:31 PM): ahhaha what?!
Bandit9842 (3:13:31 PM): just wood
ZombieArete (3:13:33 PM): ROFL
ZombieArete (3:13:39 PM): THAT'S STUPID
Bandit9842 (3:13:40 PM): and the item was turned into a grey
Bandit9842 (3:13:43 PM): also
Bandit9842 (3:13:46 PM): cooking doesnt require spices
Bandit9842 (3:13:48 PM): (except northern spices)
ZombieArete (3:13:51 PM): what
Bandit9842 (3:13:52 PM): and those are removed from vendors
ZombieArete (3:13:55 PM): what
Bandit9842 (3:14:02 PM): i dont quite understand the motive for these changes
ZombieArete (3:14:02 PM): WHY IS WARCRAFT SUPER EASY MODE NOW
Bandit9842 (3:14:06 PM): who gains
ZombieArete (3:14:07 PM): NO SPICES!?
Bandit9842 (3:14:10 PM): WHO BENEFITS
ZombieArete (3:14:14 PM): I HAVE NO IDEA
ZombieArete (3:14:15 PM):
BAG SPACE?!
Bandit9842 (3:14:17 PM): FROM NOT BUYING THE SHIT FOR LIKE 1 COPPER A PIECE
ZombieArete (3:14:20 PM): seriously
ZombieArete (3:14:23 PM): what in god's name
Bandit9842 (3:14:31 PM): idk, it doesnt hurt the game
Bandit9842 (3:14:33 PM): but so strange
ZombieArete (3:14:36 PM): it hurts RP aspect ;~;
ZombieArete (3:14:39 PM): I loved cooking
ZombieArete (3:14:42 PM): it was fun
ZombieArete (3:14:48 PM): to like...
ZombieArete (3:14:52 PM): pretend to think about spices and
ZombieArete (3:14:53 PM): things
ZombieArete (3:14:53 PM): and
ZombieArete (3:14:54 PM): ;~;
ZombieArete (3:15:07 PM): This is a dark day in Warcraft history
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [19 Apr 2009|02:00 pm]


BOY I'M SO GLAD I'M STUCK HERE WRITING A PAPER INSTEAD OF PARTICIPATING IN DELIGHTFUL SUMMER ACTIVITIES WITH THE FRIENDS I DON'T HAVE ON CAMPUS

edit: OR CELEBRATING EASTER

HAPPY EASTER
link2 ravers | raise your glowsticks

The Men We Carry In Our Minds [15 Apr 2009|09:25 am]
"This must be a hard time for women," I say to my friend Anneke. "They have so many paths to choose from, and so many voices calling them."
        "I think it's a lot harder for men," she replies.
        "How do you figure that?"
        "The women I know feel excited, innocent, like crusaders in a just cause. The men I know are eaten up with guilt."
        "Women feel such pressure to be everything, do everything," I say. "Career, kids, art, politics. Have their babies and get back to the office a week later. It's as if they're trying to overcome a million years' worth of evolution in one lifetime."
        "But we help one another. And we have this deep-down sense that we're in the right-- we've been held back, passed over, used-- while men feel they're in the wrong. Men are the ones who've been discredited, who have to search their souls."
        I search my soul. I discover guilty feelings aplenty-- toward the poor, Native Americans, the whales, and endless list of debts. But toward women I feel something more confused, a snarl of shame, envy, wary, tenderness, and amazement. This muddle troubles me. To hide my unease I say, "You're right, it's tough being a man these days."
        "Don't laugh," Anneke frowns at me. "I wouldn't be a man for anything. It's much easier being the victim. All the victim has to do is break free. The persecutor has to live with his past."
        How deep is that past? I find myself wondering. How much of an inheritance do I have to throw off?
        When I was a boy growing up on the back roads of Tennessee and Ohio, the men I knew labored with their bodies. They were marginal farmers, just scraping by, or welders, steelworkers, carpenters; they swept floors, dug ditches, mined coal, or drove trucks, their forearms ropy with muscle; they trained horses, stoked furnaces, made tires, stood on assembly lines wrestling parts onto cars and refrigerators. They got up before light, worked all day long, whatever the weather, and when they came home at night, they looked as though somebody had been whipping them. In the evenings and on weekends, they worked on their own places, tilling gardens that were lumpy with clay, fixing broken-down cars, hammering on houses that were always too drafty, too leaky, too small. The bodies of the men I knew were twisted and maimed in ways visible and invisible. The nails of their hands were black and split, the hands tattooed with scars. Some had lost fingers. Heavy lifting had given many of them finicky backs and guts weak from hernias. Racing against conveyor belts had given them ulcers. Their ankles and knees ached from years of standing on concrete. Anyone who had worked for long around machines was hard of hearing. They squinted, and the skin of their faces was creased like the leather of old work gloves. There were times, studying them, when I dreaded growing up. Most of them coughed, from dust or cigarettes, and most of them drank cheap wine or whiskey, so their eyes looked bloodshot and bruised. The fathers of my friends always seemed older than the mothers. Men wore out sooner. Only women lived into old age.
        As a boy I also knew another sort of men, who did not sweat and break down like mules. They were soldiers, and so far as I could tell, they scarcely worked at all. But when the shooting started, many of them would die. This was what soldiers were for, just like a hammer was for driving nails. Warriors and toilers: those seemed, in my boyhood vision, to be the chief destinies for men. They weren't the only destinies, as I learned from having a few male teachers, from reading books, and from watching television. But the men on television-- the politicians, the astronauts, the generals, the savvy lawyers, the philosophical doctors, the bosses who gave orders to both soldiers and laborers-- seemed as remote and unreal to me as the figures in Renaissance tapestries. I could no more imagine growing up to become one of these cool, potent creatures than I could imagine becoming a prince.
        A nearer and more hopeful example was that of my father, who had escaped from a red dirt farm to a tire factory, and from the assembly line to the front office. Eventually, he dressed in a white shirt and tie. He carried himself as if he had been born to work with his mind. But his body, remembering the earlier years of slogging work, began to give out on him in his fifties, and it quit on him entirely before he turned 65.
        A scholarship enabled me not only to attend college, a rare enough feat in my circle, but even to study in a university meant for the children of the rich. Here I met for the first time young men who had assumed from birth that they would lead lives of comfort and power. And for the first time, I met women who told me that men were guilty of having kept all the joys and privileges of the earth for themselves. I was baffled. What privileges? What joys? I thought about the maimed, dismal lives of most of the men back home. What had they stolen from their wives and daughters? The right to go five days a week, 12 months a year, for 30 or 40 years to a steel mill or a coal mine? The right to drop bombs and die in war? The right to feel every leak in the roof, every gap in the fence, every cough in the engine as a wound they must mend? The right to feel, when the layoff comes or the plant shuts down, not only afraid but ashamed?
        I was slow to understand the deep grievances of women. This was because, as a boy, I had envied them. Before college, the only people I had ever known who were interested in art or music or literature, the only ones who read books, the only ones who ever seemed to enjoy a sense of ease and grace were the mothers and daughters. Like the menfolk, they fretted about money, they scrimped and made do. But when the pay stopped coming in, they were not the ones who had failed. Nor did they have to go to war, and that seemed to me a blessed fact. By comparison with the narrow, ironclad days of fathers, there was an expansiveness, I thought, in the days of mothers. They went to see neighbors, to shop in town, to run errands at school, at the library, at church. No doubt, had I looked harder at their lives, I would have envied them less. It was not my fate to become a woman, so it was easier for me to see the graces. I didn't see then what a prison a house could be, since houses seemed to be brighter, handsomer places than any factory. I did not realize-- because such things were never spoken of-- how often women suffered from men's bullying. Even then I could see how exhausting it was for a mother to cater all day to the needs of young children. But if I had been asked, as a boy, to choose between tending a baby and tending a machine, I think I would have chosen the baby. (Having now tended both, I know I would choose the baby.)
        So I was baffled when the women at college accused me and my sex of having cornered the world's pleasures. I think something like my bafflement has been felt by other boys (and by girls as well) who grew up in dirt-poor farm country, in mining country, in black ghettoes, in Hispanic barrios, in the shadows of factories, in Third World nations-- any place where the fate of men is just as grim and bleak as the fate of women.
     When the women I met at college thought about the joys and privileges of men, they did not carry in their minds the sort of men I had known in my childhood. They thought of their fathers, who were bankers, physicians, architects, stockholders, the big wheels of the big cities. They were never laid off, never short of cash at month's end, never lined up for welfare. These fathers made decisions that mattered. They ran the world.
        The daughters of such men wanted to share in this power, this glory. So did I. They yearned for a say over their future, for jobs worthy of their abilities, for the right to live at peace, unmolested, whole. Yes, I thought, yes, yes. The difference between me and these daughters was that they saw me, because of my sex, as destined from birth to become like their fathers and, therefore, as an enemy to their desires. But I knew better. I wasn't an enemy, in fact or in feeling. I was an ally. If I had known then how to tell them so, would they have believed me? Would they now?

- Scott Russell Sanders, The Paradise of Bombs, 1984.


This is for the men out there like my father, who has sweated for twenty years underneath houses riddled with rats, animal feces, black widows, and staggering heat to build homes for the big wheels of the biggest cities in America. A man who has to deal with the insolence of the aforementioned architects, presenting M.C. Escher plans that physically cannot be built and then tolerating the backlash from his clients when they insist on its production. A man who has gotten staples in his skull--twice-- from attempting to sate an unruly autistic child and a co-worker smacking him in the head with a two-by-four. I love my daddy for everything he's provided for us, and that even at sixty years old, his grueling effort still continues.

This man paid for the taxes that allowed all of the kids in my sophomore geometry class the ability to purchase Sidekicks and studded name-plate belts and sixty dollar earrings with inset gems. This man raised his daughter to be herself and do what she likes and wear what she wants, and has raised her to be tolerant of the price range she has to adhere to in expressing herself. So when I tromped into class in the only pair of pants I had, Freak And Frolic camouflage-hemmed rave pants, and received the blows from the engorged tick of a female in the back of the room, I had to explain that I could probably afford a socially-acceptable pair if the bottom-feeding leeches in the room hadn't been sucking my father dry. So they could declare their womanhood and liberation in wearing clothing that labeled them as "bitch", "brat", "apple bottom", "princess", "angel", "juicy", and such other morally empowering terms.

My father had bone spurs removed from the slipped disks in his spine so that you could finish college, become a teacher, and preach to me about how he insinuates a racist world simply by being a white man. Because, after all, by being a white man, any of the tribulations he had to face simply pale in comparison (see what I did there?) to those of minorities. Because of his outer appearance, he has privilege.

I'd agree, considering his outer appearance consists of a haggard body speckled with pockmarks of burned off skin cancer, scars, cuts, bruises, scabs, wrinkles, and graying hair. He has privilege because he worked for it. Black, white, brown, yellow, it doesn't matter: we all turn fucking gray.
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [01 Apr 2009|11:08 pm]




No foolin'!
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

In this exciting installment: Dining hall food gives me nightmares [24 Mar 2009|11:13 am]
My campus was suddenly transferred to an alternate reality where it existed in the bleak backwater countryside, riddled with planks of wood and machinery widgets and shrapnel like a ghost town. No matter where you stepped, half of your journey was hindered by having to brave a labyrinth of scrap metal.

In a somewhat of an open area between dorm residences, my sister found a picture of herself and two other girls that she didn't recognize on the sidewalk. Those same girls were approaching us while we studied the photo, flanked by two very unsophisticated (read: hick) men. Upon seeing the photo and discovering that we didn't know the other girls in it, he threatened to beat us up, but used some strange word like "crush" or "crunch" or "munch" instead, like "I'm going to munch you up!"

In an effort to escape, we ran toward an enclosed area where a select number of artists were building wickermen out of newspapers they were attempting to recycle. This probably stems from the daily real-life experience of receiving spam handouts from the advertisers standing right in the walkway as I go to class in the mornings, wondering how many of these get thrown away and how they should simply be recycled. One of the wickermen was at least twenty feet tall in the figure of a man crouched in pain (think "orz" or "OTL"). Beneath the hulking monument, a handful of other artists worked hastily on smaller newspaper wickermen in other, varying positions.
The main artist would periodically light sections of his wickerman on fire while working on it. Instead of slowly burning like fire normally does to newsprint, it ignited in a long, sudden stretch, as if gasoline were poured on it, then promptly died out, leaving immediate charred remains. This of course affected the workers beneath it, whose burn wounds looked to be more like charcoal shading than any injury. The artists cried out in great, annoyed protest toward the main artist, oblivious of the fact that the impromptu lighting had spread to a nearby tree, evacuating the animals within it.

A bear cub (?!) descended from the tree along with several other identifiable animals. Darting among the obstacles of industrial fragments toward safety, I picked up a bowl-like piece of plastic/PVC that had something printed on it: "CASTLE (?) CRUSH (?)". This crush/crunch word was quite vague but appeared twice in my dream. Equipping it as a makeshift helmet, I rushed behind a broken down jeep or tractor of some sort, ready to rush to safety. I found several of the refugee animals poised to strike and frozen in mid-air, but facing me any direction I turned. This included several vicious-looking wasps and rodent creatures.

At this part in my dream I "awoke", checking the time on my laptop as 3:50 AM, reaching down to my phone and calling Matthew for help, but quieting my voice as to not wake my room mate, "Katie" (name withheld), although we were seemingly in apparent danger. Matthew did not answer because, even in my dream, I had no reception in my dorm.

I turn to my window, which is no longer part of my dorm, but the window to my little brother's room at my old house. This window opens side-to-side with a lock in the center as opposed to my dorm's vertical windows. I see a little rodent creature attempting to get into my room. Hoping to offer it safety, I approach the window to let it in. Suddenly a National Geographic-esque narrator pops into my head, giving me an entire biographical description of my intruder. His voice and words are lost between the sounds of my strain and the rat, growing more deformed and hideous as the documentary progresses. Finally locking the window and exiling the rat, the narrator recovers and mentions "tusk-like fangs", "incredible strength", and other properties of the distorted invader, now more of a swollen hairy imp than a rat. The lock pops open and it starts opening the window with the side of its body and its claws. Some of its fur is caught in the split lock and I seize my chance, sliding the window back and forth in fury, the mechanism cutting and splitting the rat inside out and into pieces. Its tongue hung out of its twisted, gray-walled mouth, pressed up against the glass, slathered in its own black blood.

More of these are on the way is my only thought. I need to escape. Where is safety? I'm reminded of my acquaintance Seth living in the Residence Commons, which are suddenly located in a remote mountainous region albeit still a five minute walk from Parkside Commons. Waking up to reality from a two hour nap at ten PM, I slide on shoes over my socks from the earlier school day. Clutching my bed sheets, glancing around the room, and realizing that everything is fine, I kick off my shoes.

It was a dream. In my temporary post-nap dementia, I report the news to Seth via Skype, then realize: It was a dream. He laughed, life was normal again.

Well, I mean. As "normal" as my life tends to be.
link1 raver| raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [20 Mar 2009|09:40 am]
#64 posted by Kyle Armbruster , March 20, 2009 6:53 AM

This, right here, is why I stopped doing drugs a long time ago and never have wanted to go again. I had some very valuable experiences in altered states which, believe it or not, actually made me a nicer person.

But the worst drug experience I had was a very bad shroom trip (my fault--I took way too much), during which I had the very real epiphany that even if some drugs, used responsibly, were safe,
I had no fucking idea what I'd just put into my body. Maybe you know your dealer really well, and have known him for years, and know he would never do anything to hurt you. That doesn't matter. Because it's not like your dealer is down in his laboratory mixing up your E. He's getting from someone who he probably trusts well enough, who gets it from someone... whom no one knows, who gets it from god-knows-what psychopath gangster asshole...

And we can all blather on about how that's why drugs should be legalized, so we can control quality, etc., but the simple fact of the matter is they
are not legal, which means, by definition, that everyone you're dealing with to get high is a criminal.

So you're putting your body in danger by trusting people who don't deserve your trust, and if you get caught you can end up being ass-raped for a few years and then emerge unemployable.

And that's why no one should do drugs. Because they're illegal.

From here.

I don't really want to start arguments with anyone, but I think this plainly sums up some of my feelings on why I choose not to do drugs, aside from not being attracted to being "outside" my state of mind and all of that. If you do choose to do drugs, it doesn't concern me so long as your choice doesn't affect or interfere with me choosing not to.
link3 ravers | raise your glowsticks

(no subject) [17 Mar 2009|11:41 am]
All credit card information has been removed from your World of Warcraft account, effectively canceling its recurring subscription. )
__

New screen name: ZombieArete
__

Anything else? Let's see... somewhat updating Rita's Comic! again. Check it out!
__

Although my account will run out on April 7th, I still want to enter Blizzard's Creative Writing Contest. I'm thinking of submitting one of my RP stories about Arete or just writing a new one. You can read the stories here.
link6 ravers | raise your glowsticks

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