Forgive me if I am not here tomorrow, For my heart has turned to stone, And my living soul forever gone... Forgive me if I am not here tomorrow, I will now be the shepherd of the clouds, I will be in the one breath of the winds, And I will be in all the tears of the sky. Forgive me my love but I had to die, I could not bear to see you cry, Even if yet we have not even met...
- Rowan
While travelling to meet what would be my third - and hopefully last - kick for this year, I was violently reminded of the day when I went to meet my ex, Natasha. I was taking the same road, six months later, to meet up with another girl. It wasn't much different though. I'm seriously starting to question the purpose of dating someone. Even if I simply want to fill in an emotional need, I cannot but see chaos when it comes to women and my life. One after the other, they appear and disappear, leaving burning marks on my heart. I started out young and fresh, and now I feel old and used. I guess I need a pet or something...
He stood in the deserted alley, contemplating the heavens. People tend to ignore the sky during the day, and instead focus their attention on the clouds. But he was different. He smiled to the skies, and they smiled back to him. The universe was opening up again. His thoughts lingered on the vague philosophies of good and bad. Even if both are completely relative, from the laws of Karma, if someone hurts you, that person should be hurt in an equal amount by somebody - or something - else. However, he wished to hold the katana in his hands once again, to make those people pay dearly for what they did. The words of his friend echoed though his brain, and he dropped those insane thoughts. "She'll get payback for what she did. I wish it was I who gave it to her though." Women are mysterious creatures. They use men, use them again and again, and finally dump them. And on top of that, they have the guts to claim that men are wildly insane and unemotional creatures, driven only by the will to procreate. He lit a cigarette, and for the first time in his life, he was thankful that the world was full of dicks who were endlessly using women and dumping them. At least, somebody was making them pay for everything. Even if the sword was not in his hands, he knew that somewhere out there, there were men extracting revenge for him. He caught himself smiling at the irony - the men he had always hated were now his only hope. Finally, everybody has a purpose in life.
Today's the 28th of December. Dom's finally leaving to get settled in South Korea, with his girlfriend.After almost three years of long distance relationship, Dominique finally managed to get everything right, manage his time and money and leave the country. We should appreciate the fact that South Korea (that's where his girlfriend lives) is 8 hours ahead of Mauritius, and that he successfully managed his relationship during those many years. I know what it takes to manage a long-distance relationship. I've been there, done that - and I'm certainly not going back.I should be happy for him, but I can't help feeling sad. Seeing your buddies go away sucks.
Knowing two girls of the same name can be frustrating. Especially if your contact list on your mobile phone is badly organised and you happen to be drunk as from 21h every night. It also gets a little bit worse if you're seeing both of them at the same time. I personally witnessed my friend struggling with the conversation as he stealthily tried to inject questions into the conversation to find out more about the identity of the girl. Which one was it? The one he was dating - or the other one he was dating?
Unfortunately for the non-poly-dating people, having people dating more than one person at once actually decreases the chances of us [the non-poly-dating people] finding a partner. This situation is even more irritating for me as I happen to be a complete loser when it comes to finding a partner (you must have noticed).
Why would it be wrong to date more than one person? What is more important - satisfying a biological need for reproduction, or satisfying the moral need for love? Some might argue that love does not exist. And I will retort: "neither does the biological need". Yes, the "biological need" emanates from the brain. Assembling a dick and two balls does not make of it an organ with a need. What's required is a series of interconnected neurones controlling that dick. If love is a by-product of your neurones, so is your life, your biological needs, and everything else.
Finally, for the likes of the poly-dating people, I would like to bring forward an argument. Whether you're a male or a female, consider this:
- How do you choose a friend?
a) Because the both of you get along really well
b) Because that person is exactly like you
c) Because that person is cute
Answer (a) and (b) seem to be the most sensible ones. Answer (c) seems so silly.
Now answer this:
- How do you choose a life partner?
a) Because the both of you get along really well
b) Because that person is exactly like you
c) Because that person is cute
I leave the rest to you.
Best of luck for the marriage, Q!
We're all with you... in a way :)
I Wish I Had An Angel
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel tonight
Deep into a dying day
I took a step outside an innocent heart
Prepare to hate me; Fall when I may
This night will hurt you like never before
Old loves they die hard
Old lies they die harder
I wish I had an angel
For one moment of love
I wish I had your angel
Your Virgin Mary undone
I'm in love with my lust
Burning angel wings to dust
I wish I had your angel tonight
I`m going down so frail and cruel
Drunken disguise changes all the rules
Old loves they die hard
Old lies they die harder
... Last dance, first kiss
Your touch, my bliss
Beauty always comes with dark thoughts
...
I am left with absolutely no goals in my life. Graduating from university? I don't care if I fail or pass my university modules; I'm revising for them for the sake of revising - I'm doing something: it's the ultimate proof of me still being tortured by my own living consciousness.It's my own fault if I don't have any long-term or short-term goals. I didn't do the right things, or wasn't motivated enough to do them; and above all else, I kept believing that one day, the loneliness would not be here any more.
On the left is a pic of me when I was three or four... I wish I had known back then that life sucked that much.
I could feel my brain knocking the sides of my skull as I walked into the Nenuphar Store once more. It was the first time I stepped in since I got that Royal Kick from the girl working there (see my previous post). I wasn't really thinking of the girl (who is way too cute by the way) but more of how I fucked up on the Formal Logic questions in the exam.I can't remember what I bought at the shop, but there came the little kid working there holding a piece of paper with a phone number and "Rachna" written on top of it. "No shit," I thought. "Aren't I a lucky bastard?" I had the girl's number. I guessed she wrote it for me and wanted me to call her. Nothing could've been sweeter. Yes, I had the number of the hot babe working there. Hooray!I ran back home, and decided I wouldn't call her right away. I'd wait a few hours, I thought. I just couldn't sit straight... I had her number! I think I walked around my room a few times to take my mind off her.
After a painful two hours of waiting and nail-eating, I called her. When Rachna first heard who it was, I could almost hear her mind exclaiming: "Oh my fucking God, where did that bastard get my phone number? Oh well, I'll talk to him, with some luck he might die a painful death tomorrow." It turned out that she didn't intend to give me the number; the kid working at the shop had pitied me and given it to me. It was, technically, another sort of kick. Not a real kick, but it brings the same hot unpleasant itchy feeling to the butt. Fucking hell.
I think I won't ever have any luck with women anymore. Being a nice guy without bad intentions doesn't pay nowadays. I am a only a dog in a country of lamb and wolves.
Kick - Painful hot feeling in butt without prior contact with foot.
Here's my updated hit list for the year 2006: 1. Natasha Frederic (She deserves it. That bitch.) 2. George Bush (Do I need to explain WHY?) 3. The Teletubbies (All of 'em) 4. The 10 O'clock Flic-En-Flac Ticketer (I might spare him. Depends on the weather.) 5. ------------ The 5th place is free! If you want to apply, send me your CV with a complete list of reasons why I should be in my hit list. Limited seats.
It's raining in Flic-En-Flac.I was filled with an immense sadness when I woke up today. I felt as if I just missed something - something very important. What did I just do? What did I miss?
I know I had this feeling before, but I can't remember when. This is so weird.
I've been making so many retrospectives of my life lately that I think something is wrong. I remember the days when I was running to school accompanied by mom, the CPE results, my first day at RCC, the archery club at Rose-Hill, Dominique and his crazy plans, my HSC results, work at Eisos, Cuan's .NET courses, my life with Natasha...
It feels as if everything is gone, the past having turned to dust, leaving small traces in my memory and marks on my heart.
Right. Now that I'm single and all, I decided to blog out all my attempts at getting a girlfriend. Attempt #1 Wed 07 December 2005
I saw her three days ago. It was her first day working at the Nenuphar shop. God, wasn't she cute... heh... well, I decided to go to talk to her yesterday (Tuesday, 6th Dec) but she was already gone. I managed to leave my phone number with a kid working at the shop, instructing him to give it to her the following day.
Well, today, I dragged myself to the shop and saw her walking out of it. I dunno where I found the courage to go talk to her, but I did it.
- Hi, you're the new girl working at Nenuphar, right?
- Hi... yes
- Can I know your name please?
- Erm... why do you want to know?
[me thinking - wtf...!?]
- I just wanna know you and stuff
[me thinking - wtf am I saying man...?]
- It's Rachna.
- And how old would you be, Rachna?
- Whyyyyyyy do you wanna know?
[me thinking - wtf man, wtf?]
- Well, you know, I just wanna know you and stuff...
[me thinking - shit, this isn't going as planned]
- Look, I can't talk to you right now...
- Okay, at what time do you finish?
- 5 pm
- Okay then, I'll see you then!
7 hours later, a casually dressed Rowy was strolling towards the Nenuphar store. I admit it - I did spend quite some time getting dressed.
She came out. We started to talk.
- So, what's up, Rachna? Can I walk you to the bus stop?
- Erm... no
[me thinking - Maybe I should just quit it and run away as fast as possible.]
- Well, would it be okay to talk over here then?
- Yeah, but I really have to go
[me thinking - This is very bad]
- I understand. But you haven't told me your age yet...
- But... why do you want to know?
[me thinking - Dammit, Rowy, think of something]
- Well, you see... I saw you three days ago and I thought you were real cute and I wanted to talk to you
- Ah...
- You're in high school, I presume?
- Yep. I just did my HSC
- Oh, so you should be 18 or 19 then
- 18
- Ah, great. And... erm... do you have a boyfriend?
- YES
[me thinking - oh my fucking god, what am I doing here]
- I didn't know, sorry
- Well then, I'll get going
- Okay, we'll talk some other time
- No
[me thinking - sigh]
And this concludes my first official kick at Flic-En-Flac. For those out there wondering what kick might mean, here's my definition:
Kick - Action of violent rejection by an attractive female.
I am tired. Of the opposite sex. Of women running around "oh I want a nice guy" and end up screwing all the sadistic males around. Why? Because those guys are hot. Those same women end up eating ice-cream or chocolate while their female friends pat their backs - "Oh, you know, he doesn't know what he just lost." Okay, I'm pissed. I just wanted to point out to all the nice and nicer guys out there - the nice guy always loses it all. This statement implies that I'm in the "nice guys" club. Well, yeah, I guess so. I've got good examples to contrast with. Me: How serious would you want it to get? Friend: I just want to have an open relationship. Me: Meaning? Friend: It's like a pact, you know - you can have sex with anybody you want, while still being with the other person. Me: But... Friend: Yeah, that would be real neat. Weirdly, I wanted a girl for totally the opposite reasons. Not for the sex, but more for the emotional affection. Everybody keeps telling me that it's not fatal to be alone. Ha. The shimmering light of the pixels is like alchemy - a science that brings loneliness and seclusion to the ones caressing it.
My drinking spree is finally over. It hasn't been without consequences though. I've been pondering over the last few years of my life - the end of high school, the company where I've been working, my first kiss, how I cheated on Yusha, how much of a dick I was to Natasha and - well, many things.
The thing is, I was on the central highway, alcohol pumping through my veins, and this song started playing in my head. It's not like I knew the song; I was just making it up as it played in my head. Interesting effect of alcohol - I could hear it as if it were really playing somewhere around, but I still knew that it came from my mind.
However, I don't think I'd trade a few minutes of lyrical ingenuosity for a great many hours of suffering in the morn and nasty long-term effects on my liver. Heh.
This is Antony, my neighbour. He's omnipresent in Flic-En-Flac - he's a face you can't miss. If you came to Flic-En-Flac, and didn't see him, then you missed the whole point of coming over here.
I hang around with him when I'm not glued to my screen. I've been in Flic-En-Flac longer than him, but he seems to know the place better than I do. Heh, the perfect guide for this town... erm... village :)
The Elric Brothers are particularly talented in Alchemy. However, after the death of their mother, they attempt human alchemy to bring her back to life; the process turns out to be a failure. Alphonse, the younger brother, loses his body while Edward loses his arm during their mother's transmutation. Both of them set off on their journey to find the philosopher's stone, reputed to be the most powerful alchemy tool. The stone allows the one who posesses it to bypass the natural laws of alchemy and obtain what they want; and there is something the Elric brothers want the most - their bodies.
The Full Metal Alchemist is a well-made japanime. The story gets more and more complicated as the episodes fly by. It manages to translate words, images and sounds into deep emotions. My favourite.
The Nobuseri - bandits who transferred their consciousness and souls into machines - make a living out of stealing the rice from the peasants. The Kanna village decides to find and hire Samurai to fight off those bandits. There starts the tale of Kirara, the Water Priestess, accompanied by her little sister Komachi and Rikichi, a man particularly scared of the Nobuseri. They manage to gather seven Samurai, and their story stretches far beyond defeating all the bandits, while they discover the rules of a system with them at the bottom of the ladder.
Samurai 7 is not the typical japanime. The story is serious, complex, full of surprises and extremely well made. There is no complaining about the quality of the art, especially the Nobuseri, which seem to have been modelled and rendered in 3d. Samurai 7 is one of the best - if not the best - anime around.
After Kurosake Ichigo has been entrusted with Shini-Kami powers, his pass times radically change from being an ordinary person to cutting through the non-living with his huge soul-cutting katana, also called Zanpakto. However, after a violent battle where Ichigo's powers are taken away from him, his friend Kuchiki Rukia is forcibly taken to Soul Society to be punished for her crimes - that is entrusting a human with Shini-Kami powers. There starts Ichigo's Odyssey to find new Shini-Kami powers, get stronger and save Rukia.
Bleach gets closer and closer to the old Dragon-Ball styled japanime with its violent battles spanning through several episodes, and the impossibility absolutely everything.
Here's a list of the latest Anime I've been watching. Best ones first - 1. Full Metal Alchemist 2. Samurai 7 3. Bleach 4. Naruto 5. Green Green 6. Elfen Lied 7. Excel Saga 8. Chrono Crusade 9. Chobits 10. Tsubasa 11. Hellsing 12. Full Metal Panic 13. Vandread
My butt comfortably settled into the sand, I watched voluptuous smoke puffs drift away into nothingness. What do people need to be happy? I stared at my friend gulping down wine. He looked perfectly happy; he might have been happier with a few more bucks in his pocket, but he was definitely happier than I was. Was I too ambitious? Was it that hard to want not to be lonely any more?
I loathe all forms of virtual interaction. I hate the cyberworld, this place where people hang around, faking impersonations of their own selves. Above all else, I hate those people who just come round, pretending to be friends with you, but who wouldn't spend even half a day with you in the real world. I have nowhere to go now, and I'm left with only the real world, this vast unknown place full of constantly connected people.
Friends are people you spend time with. Spend time with your friends in the real world. After all, the amount of time you spend with someone shows how important that person is to you.
"Beauty is the expression of inward purity"a) Inward purity? Wtf is that?
b) That's bullshit. Beauty doesn't reflect purity.
I haven't lived long enough to say that I've seen everything in life, but what I saw a few minutes earlier was indeed a grave case of self-admiration.
There was the picture, and the profile. The person (a 17 year old female student of DMC, who goes by the name of Jaisha) had her profile up on a friends-network site (hi5). Guys were pouring beautiful comments on her pictures -
"hi dear u got a superbe smile"
" an exotic beauty, what a goddess..."
" u r just gorgeous babe!"
etc, etc.Which made me wonder - how many of them guys actually read her profile? What does it take to logically deduce that a person is totally self-centered, and lives only for being beautiful?
Maybe it's just the very limited amount of neurones in a dick. Heh.
Having been exposed to various kinds of humour, I thought it would be interesting to give some people an overview of what "funny" means across the world. Here goes my story on the puppy, and the different versions it might have:
Innocent puppy lapping up milk from a tin plate.Japanese humour: Master comes along, and swings a 100 Kg hammer on puppy. Puppy doesn't die. "Nani isherundato?" exclaims the master [What the hell are you doing?] as he pulls out the milk box revealing "Milk for baby whales" on its side.French humour: Camera moves backwards and you can see that the puppy is actually being licked from behind by another gay puppy.American humour: Trap door opens right below puppy, and puppy falls into canyon which was never there when the movie started. Puppy is flattened out as he hits the ground, but doesn't die.Chinese humour: Another puppy comes round and starts lapping milk from our hero's tin plate. Our puppy is irritated, and enters in combat mode; follows a strange fight of doggie fucking, tail whipping and flea attacks. Cat ends up lapping all the milk, and both puppies end up as friends as they go through the world hunting the evil cat. Finally, to defeat the evil cat who wants to conquer the world through the milk industry, our hero puppy joins a buddhist monk temple to study the venerated art of tail fighting. Movie ends as our beloved puppy waves its tail and exclaims: "After lapping up the holy milk, I find myself in peace with Buddha. I cannot go back home - there is no home. The world is my kennel."Kafka humour: Milk has special ingredients mixed with it, and puppy transforms into a dark mysterious insect-like creature, while still keeping all its former innocence. Puppy is forsaken in the end by its master.Edgar Poe humour: The master is watching the puppy grow fatter by the day, for soon he will use its fat to make candles to light his house and finally bury the puppy's remains in the wall. Puppy doesn't die till the wall crumbles, and reveals to the SPA agents the horrible acts of its master.
He rose from the old bench and looked back. There was a time where it had been all white and clean. It was now all gray - pieces of white paint had fallen off and drifted away towards unknown destinations.He had spent his life waiting. He remembered his youth quite well. He had waited for everybody to come back. One after the other, the women he had known and fell in love with had gone away - some promising to be back one day, and others simply disappearing.He had lived to wait, and waited to start living. It's always hard to face the truth. The theist who has always worshipped God is terrified to even contemplate a situation where the Lord doesn't exist. They all tend to slam their fists on their belief, yelling to block the voices of the others - NO, NO NO! Well, for once, he stopped and placed his hands in his pockets. He had wasted a good part of his life believing and trusting others. He hadn't lived for himself.It was there, the cold, solid truth. There was no mistaking it. He had wasted his life on something which had never existed in the first place. He was still glad he hadn't spent each and every Sunday at the church. The shade of the great tree extended towards the grayish bench was however worth it. He walked towards his new life, and felt greatly relieved.
I am tired of the virtual world. The virtual world - this place that theoretically exists in between two nodes of the network, an illusion of the protocols; a dream of IpV4 and IpV6; services and requests; ports and sockets - they simply make me sick. Cyberspace as it is, is not something bad. It's just the fact that people can actually entertain relationships through those networks and be satisfied with them that makes me mad. This abstract world should exist only as an extension of the real world. Virtuality cannot replace reality. One day or the other, people will want more. Let's just face it. Virtuality sucks. I wish there were some kind of standard protocol to make virtuality become real. A component, or dll, or COM+ object I could just integrate into my own code, and call the MakeReal() method...
People like to think they are in control of their destinies. The truth is, by the time most youngsters realise they can actually steer their lives in the direction they want, they've already been cannonballed high into the sky with a predetermined angle by their parents or guardians. They can only choose how the parabola will look like, and where they will crash.There is a template for the typical Mauritian middle-class born boy/girl:1. Education 1.1 Primary School 1.2 Secondary School 1.3 University2. Job & Life 2.1 Get a job 2.2 Get married 2.3 Live in another house with wife 2.4 Buy a car3. Kids 3.1 Have a kid 3.2 Start worrying about income 3.3 Set template for kid's futureet cetera, et cetera...
Some middle-class born people might not have lived their lives exactly like that, but the main ingredients are here. It's neither a right path, nor a wrong path. Come to think of it, nothing is really right or wrong in this world, but that's another story.This path has been proven to be relatively "safe" (i.e. minimum struggle) and socially acceptable. There are some slightly different paths that you can follow, e.g. moving to another country, but those paths are known to be less safe but with possible greater rewards at the end.Whatever your social background, there's already been a template readied for you. The princess isn't expected to marry the poet, and the son of the butcher isn't expected to become a ballet dancer. Are we really who we should be, or are we simply following our templates? Note that the only reward at the end of the template would be an epitaph which would read - "Had a nice life, followed the template properly."
I was strolling nonchalantly towards Suresh's shop, to get something to cook for lunch. As expected, I saw my friend standing over there, his hands in his pockets, looking abashed. Yes, it was yet another episode of The Girl From Domaine Anna.- Haha! Man, how you doing?- I'm okay.- You look like some dude just raped youHe looked at me with vitreous eyes. I could've sworn he was going to cry. It was almost funny.- It's the girl, isn't it?- Yeah, it's her- What did she tell you?- No no, I haven't talked to her alreadyAll sorts of possible scenarios scrolled in my mind. Could it be... he saw her with her boyfriend the moment he was walking towards her, a rose in hand? Or maybe he wrote a love letter and kept it where she usually sits - and the wrong person picked it up. Or...- She's older than me- Oh... well that's not...- She's a muslimMy friend being a hindu, dating a muslim girl would most probably be frowned upon by his parents.- You know, it's not that impossible, if you just...- She's marriedI stopped short. Married? What the fuck! I tured around to face the great tree. She was sitting there, with a cute handbag and her hair always short. She was really beautiful. And she looked young. But... married? Fuck. I felt really sorry for my friend.- Well man, there's more fish in the sea.- Yeah, but that was a big one...- A really big one.- A really cute one...- I'll second that.- I need some porn.- Yeah, that should help you all right.- You know who told me she was married?- Who was that?- Yvon.Yvon was the old man of Flic-En-Flac who knew absolutely everybody and everything in here. He was the oracle of Flic-En-Flac, who accepted queries in form of cigarettes and beer.- I didn't ask him about the girl directly, I just asked about the Domaine Anna van which comes by to pick the employees up. He might be old, but he instantly knew what I was talking about.Yes, with age comes wisdom. It didn't surprise me that Yvon was such a sharp guy. Although he's going to be 60 next year, walked real slowly, and drank rhum mixed with wine, his mind was fucking intact.- Well then, I'll go back home make a post on my blog.- Bastard.- See ya!
No matter where and when you looked into her life, there had never been true happiness. She had never been happy with someone before, and for the last few years, the desire to be hugged and caressed - to be loved - had incessantly been eating her away. Way before her first disastrous relationships, she had been humiliated countless times by the men she adored, and because there was no shoulder to cry on at that time, she had saved all the tears in her already swollen heart.Her love life could easily be resumed in one word: waiting. She had waited for lovers to come back; she had given temporary breaks to her boyfriends only to see them go; and she had been waiting for the love of her life to show up - not really the prince charming, but a guy who would care, a guy who would be there for her - but he never came.And on this sad day, she sat on the cold marble stairs, and stared at the sky. Could he be watching the stars as well? If he wasn't, he must have seen the stars one day. She felt warm to think that the stars were something both her and her prince had shared, in a way. All the tears that had not been shed silently showed up in her eyes. They warmly caressed her cheek and jumped off at her chin to finally die on the cold marble."Where are you?" She muttered...
The ultimate guide to cheap vacation in Mauritius
Mauritius is not an expensive destination. Here's the exchange rate for a few currencies:
Pound Sterling - Rs 37.06
Euro - Rs 54.44
US Dollar - Rs 30.76
Transportation from airport to Flic-En-Flac might cost you around US$30-50
Renting a neat bungalow for one month might cost you around US$350-1200.
Buying good food for one *very hungry* person might cost you around US$40-60 a day.
Renting a car might cost you between US$500-1200 for a whole month.
Transportation from Flic-En-Flac to airport might cost you around US$30-50
Seriously, here are the expenses me and my mom have to incur every month for living at Flic-En-Flac:
Renting of bungalow (yeah, we're renting the place, it's not ours): US$200
Food for me & my mom (we eat a lot): US$250
Phone, Electricity & Water (we talk a fucking lot over the phone): US$110
My Internet Connection (thank you, Thomas, for the shared internet): US$17
Total: US$577
Yep. US$577 a month. And that's still exaggerated. Of course, we have other expenses, but those aren't related to the cost of living around here. Heh, we're not living in a shack. There are three rooms in here, two bathrooms, one kitchen (a bit small though), a small veranda and an open garage. There's a small garden we share with our neighbours who live on top (around 4mX8m), and a cute coconut tree that gives us so many coconuts that we're bored shitless of the milk. We're at a walking distance from the beach and the nearest supermarket is around 700-800 metres away.
Now, after hearing how much people actually pay to come to Mauritius through hotels, I couldn't help but smile. I think I'm going to set up a website to help people come to Mauritius. Could make some money with that. What d'you think? Is charging US$100-200 reasonable? Hmmm... and a free test-drive (feedback & photos required) for the first customer :P
Contact me on rowan.rishigmail.com
He wasn't elaborately dressed. He was wearing a pair of bermuda shorts and a simple black T-shirt. However, he had paid particular attention to his hair and had shaved himself prior to this mission. He was standing right in front of Suresh's shop in Flic-En-Flac, and from where he was, the sky was all green from the small leaves of the great tree right in front of him. He was waiting, and his heart was beating slightly faster. His eyes were straying from left to right, lingering a bit longer on the right corner near to the clothing shop. Someone appeared. His iris contracted, and his pupil shrank. His endocrine system reacted, and spurted various chemicals inside of his body, making his heart beat even faster, and the hair on his arms stand on an end. I came round the corner and saw him standing in front of Suresh' shop, looking breathless. I smiled and walked up to him. He seemed happy to see me, but something in his eyes betrayed an immense deception. - Hey, wassup buddy? - Oh, nothing much. He could barely speak. He was overwhelmed with emotion. "You waiting for someone?" I inquired. His eyes shifted from the leaves of the great tree to the ground, and then to the left and finally on my feet. "Nah, not really," he said. "Ah. Okay," I said, while I pressed my back against the column and stared at him. Something was wrong. - Okay, here's the deal. I'm waiting for this really cute girl, and I just can't get myself to talk to her. - I know the girl? - You don't know any girls living in here, you bell-end. Although his comment felt like an arrow in the heart, it was kind of true. I didn't know any girl from around here. In fact, I knew only a bunch of folks living in Flic-En-Flac. - So she lives in here, eh? - Yeah - Would it be that girl by the way? A slim figure had appeared round the corner. She was dressed in a pink top and black trousers. She had short hair and was pretty fair. The rosy umbrella she was carrying would've made her look like a normal person in the crowd, but she was nonetheless beautiful and extremely feminine. My friend's jaw had dropped, and I feared his foolish expression might ruin his chances - if he had any. The girl walked right underneath the great tree, and sat down. She was right in front of us, but she hadn't noticed the two guys watching her. - Stop staring at her like that. - Shit man. She's cute, isn't she? - Yeah she is. Go talk to her, else I'll write about it in my blog. He stared at me with menacing eyes. The threat of having his mission failure laid out on the internet was sort of motivating. - Okay, dude, help me out. What do I say? How do I begin the conversation? - Just go there, and talk. I dunno, say something interesting. Tell her you like her umbrella. - Fuck, fuck, fuck! He placed his hands in his pocket, and I saw his eyes focus on her. He was going for the kill. I hoped he wasn't really going to tell her he liked her umbrella. A white van with the "Domaine Anna" logo printed on the side stopped right between him and the girl. The object of all his desires rose and climbed in the van. I felt really sorry for my friend. The van drove away, and I could see him standing there, frozen. I walked up to him and patted his back. - There's more fish in the sea, dude. I'll go back home and make a new post on my blog.
By what kind of twisted fate did that pair of electro-punk yellow-black rayban sunglasses end up on the old man's face? Sorry sir, but you seem to be wearing some kind of rayban sunglasses. Do you mind if I laugh and write about it in my blog? A detailed examination of the old man would leave us baffled. You wouldn't know he's very old until you actually see his face and hair, but if you start to examine him from his feet, nothing could have indicated that his nose would be supporting an object initially created for aviators and now perverted by fashion.
His black shoes and gray trousers would definitely have him settled in the "non-fashionable" category at first glance. His white shirt (with all buttons properly in place) and hands dangling on both sides would still make of him non-fashionable. Plain shirt, plain trousers, black shoes. Nothing good so far. A two to three day dirty beard, skin visibly wrinkled - and a rayban neatly settled on his nose. Yes. Rayban. And I'm talking about the kind of thing Michael Jackson wouldn't dare wearing five years ago. No, something is wrong.
The old man, tired of his dry attempts at luring younger women, decided to go for a change in dress-style. He sat on the bench at Vandermesch and "analyzed" the couples walking by. Most girls and women were going out with men who owned and exposed their rayban sunglasses. "Yes" he thought. "Those things are the modern signs of male power and accomplishment. I must buy a pair of those." He decided that he was right (after all, wisdom comes with age) and went to get the first pair of rayban sunglasses he came across. Although it didn't improve his cataract, he was now walking with a pair of rayban sunglasses.
Amazing! Women are now staring at me!
Yes, it was working. Because he was brought up in the old way, he decided to have at least 20 eye-contacts on different days with a woman before trying to talk to her. He didn't have much luck with Ginette, who seemed genuinely interested in him. Ginette, 1m74, always wearing heels and with curly black hair, after detailed inspection unfortunately turned out to be a post-op transsexual, formerly known as Gino. Disgusted, the old man changed spot (it broke his heart because he wouldn't see the 1m22 small-breasted cutie with whom he had accumulated five eye contacts) and moved to Flic-En-Flac.
Yes, there are cool people living in here.
The lazy drunken bastard rose from the dusty corner where he had settled to enjoy his cheap wine. Wine, as everybody knows, is best enjoyed in the corner of a forgotten shop far away from the Capitalist world. He was the kind of guy who was unsure whether he had to take his responsibilities as an individual in society, or just give up and let the tides of misery carry him around. He had been working as a maritime broker but he wasn't very sure why he didn't have the job anymore - he had lied to everyone and had already started to confound reality with the numerous versions he gave for being jobless.His legs were carrying him nowhere, and he allowed himself to be guided by the wind. Far away, an engine roared, and a car appeared. A youngster's head popped out of a window and he heard:-Ta, clochard! To fer villain lor la rie!Clochard. Tramp. He turned back to look at the tramp the young man had been making fun of. There was no-one but him on the road. His eyes darted from left to right, more and more desperate to see the tramp. Could it be? It was slowly dawning on him that he was the tramp. Tramp. What had happened to the once brilliant and good looking Roy? Tramp. What would his family think? Tramp. He would never get laid again.The last bits and pieces of his own self-respect faded away with the wind, like the fine grains of a sand-castle.
Hello world, I'm finally 20. Today's my birthday, and I just came back from KFC. I had lunch with SunflowerAveish, her sister Arsha, and one of their friends. I came a bit earlier, and I met Sunflower on the way. We settled down and got ourselves some food, and she lit a small candle on top of a tiramisu cake, while singing happy birthday. It was really unique, and I loved it. I can't remember a cuter birthday ^^ I'm happy, and I feel like the merry-go-round-15-year-old-britney-adoring-silly girl. No, heh, of course, I'm not like that. Sunflower and her sis have been really adorable today, and I'm just happy. Of course, you can't ever be completely happy, and for some mysterious reason, Vidi is totally mad at me. And she doesn't want to say why :\ Dom's coming over tonight. Maybe we'll get drunk. I'm constantly receiving sweet messages from my friends - thanks everybody. I'm just waiting for one person's message actually... hehe... I think she's out camping :(
By the time this post will be up, I'll be 20. So far, I have had no manifestations of superpowers, and I think I might just need to live the rest of my life as a programmer.I sincerely don't know what to write in here. Totally clueless. My last day as a 19-year old. Goodbye, 19-year-oldness. It was nice to lie about my age and pretend I was one year older the whole time. Damn.
They say that after you kill someone, you are forever haunted by a ghost.I was walking down the semi-deserted streets of Flic-En-Flac, cheap techno music blasting through my ears. I had that music going to firewall the foul atmosphere that was trying to penetrate me. My mp3 player flashed. Too late. The battery died out, and there were no barriers to stop those memories. I felt them wrapping around me, like tentacles gently caressing their prey. That heavy atmosphere: The murder, the atrocity of the crime. Killed. Twice. Betrayed. It all came back to me, how I was wandering through the streets, looking for my murderer. Hoping, crying... and this foul atmosphere, this suicide-inspiring atmosphere, where I lost my soul.I was but a ghost, wandering aimlessly through those streets. I have some of the worse memories of this place: Of those badly lit streets, of this air - always smelling the same day after day and never changing. I can't believe it. I had victimized myself, pointing my finger at my killer, expecting that criminal to feel sorry.Today I realise how wrong I had been. I should have cornered the monster somewhere, slapped it hard across the face. I should have punched, kicked, been violent. Peace is old-fashioned, deprecated; it's a war out there, and I am sick of being your average nice guy. Bitch. Yes, I should never have let you go out of here unscathed. I should have made your life a nightmare, made you pay.But it's useless. I can't get my revenge now. So, every night, I will walk through those badly lit streets, hoping to see the spectre of you, so that I can stare at you with red eyes; yes, I loathe you, and day after day, my thoughts eternally come back to the sweet thoughts of torturing you. I have not forgotten, I will never forget. And if one day our paths ever cross again, I will no more be the semi-transparent ghost. I will make sure that you pay this time. You will pay, and very dearly. You very well know that I can forgive, but never forget.Each side might claim that righteousness is in his camp, but I don't care. The moment I will swing the blade over your neck, I don't care whether you are innocent or guilty. Yes, I have no whatsoever regard for good or evil when it concerns you. I will swing the katana with full force, taking care to linger for a moment while the blade cuts through you. And even if my life has no sense after your head heavily thumps onto the ground, I will be satisfied. Killing is needless, but killing you has a sense, dear murderer.I know that when you read this, you will wonder whether I have really written about you. Yes, I speak of you. All the juries in heaven and hell might declare you innocent, but I don't care. I won't be a victim anymore, I won't point fingers. I will just swing the blade, and clearly state what I think from now on. Pray to your God that our paths never cross again. But I know - I feel - that it will.Every dog has its day, every ghost has his revenge.
I'm sure nobody really wants to know how I struggled with ASP and an MSAccess database to generate my funny horoscope - which I couldn't make to interact with my blog because of the added banners given out by the free asp hosting space that I have.Can anybody lend me an asp.net page with a MySQL server database?
No?
Bastards. Anyway, check out my predictions for the week on the right. Hehe.
Definition of sarcasm (wikipedia) : Sarcasm is sneering, jesting, or mocking a person, a situation or thing. It is often used in a humorous manner and sometimes expressed through particular vocal intonations. Sarcasm is often expressed in ironical statements. It can sometimes be the sincerest form of discourse for the emotionally fragile. This is often done by simply over-emphasizing the actual statement, or particular words of it.
Rowan: I'm listening to local Mauritian musicMandy: amazingIt was a day like any other. A few of the cash-out terminals were closed at the local Spar and tourists dressed up with dumb-ass hawaiian-style shorts with flowers (note: nobody will doubt your sexuality or clothing tastes if you're wearing shorts with sunflowers in a tropical country) were queueing up to pay for their stuff.There was an old man behind me, staring at what I had bought. Bread, canned tuna, cheese - and a huge roasted chicken. I could already feel his questionning eyes going from the chicken to my face - my face, and then the chicken. What he was thinking, I already knew.- "Sorry mo cousin, mais to enne Indien toi?"And there we go. Again. Yes, I look like an indian guy - oh wait - I'm one. Like 40% of the local population. I could feel something inside of me, some kind of hot lava boiling, producing thick black bubbles of sarcasm. Bursting on the surface and liberating green mortal sarcastic fumes, feeding my brain some of the most luciferous replies. It was the fasting period, for the believers. No meat, no fish, no shit. Sierra Mike Delta, n00b.I hate the holier-than-thou attitude. Be it with your fucking O/S or your religion. No, I don't believe in God; I think it's really stupid to. I don't believe that God monitors what you eat (or shit for that sake), he doesn't have food-sniffers installed on us, reporting any ingestive activities.Yes, old man. I am an indian guy. However, because of my upbringing, I eat pretty much everything. I enjoy weekly satanic rites and I have bat's balls drying on top of my house. Excellent food, I must say. I also eat human flesh while you fast, to balance out good and evil in the world. Would you like to join me tonight?My eyes suddenly flashing with a strange light made the old man swallow back his thoughts. Say it, just say it! The wolf wants the lamb tonight...It was my turn. I smiled at the woman, and she smiled back. I kicked everything in a plastic bag, paid with cash, and strolled away, a strange light still lit in my eyes.
After writing so much about style and shit, here's two sites worth visiting...1. Sunflower Aveish's blog.If you've been to my blog a few months before, you'd have seen what I wrote on Aveisha. Yes, well, to sum it all up, Aveisha is Vidi's hottest cousin. She's hard to read and understand, mainly because I believe there are some things she never talks about. She's got a mysterious edge, and well... she's got style. Yes, she's also got style as in a cute girl with style, but I'm talking about writing style. English. Good English. Beautiful, wonderful, naturally flowing; it feels almost as if you could ignore the flowery language, and become part of it all. There's so much to say about her, and what I think about her. But just read her blog. Ah, and yes, fuck you, S; and Soggy - just listen to her. You've won a fucking lottery ticket man. It's no good to break innocent flower's hearts.2. Bottomless pitThis dude got style. Fuck. I'm almost jealous of his English. Read it. Now!
After you have gone through the realisation that people actually live and carry out their daily routines in really sweet tourist spots such as Flic-En-Flac, I'll tell you more about how it is to live in the place itself.
I moved in here a few years ago. The house wasn't big nor small - it was an OK place for me. After spotting a nice residence for my PC in the house, I started bringing in my stuff from our older shack. What's interesting is my parent's ability to make maximum use of resources and efforts to produce the worse possible results. Okay, well, it's not that great to blame everything on my parents, but well...
Week after week, we went back to our former residence (which we were renting, and still are renting actually) to bring in stuff. I kept bringing books, hardware and all kinds of stupid things which should have ended up in the thrash. After around 2 months, we had moved 80% of our essentials, and we started out life in Flic en Flac.
My house is located on top of some kind of hill, which means that you've got to sweat buckets of water on midday to get to my casa on foot. I recently discovered a shortcut (which goes through some kind of bushy terrain with a kinder slope) but in the ol' times, my dad was still around to carry us up and down on his monstruous 4x4, now notorious in the region for its menace to public safety.
My house is part of a 4-house complex (staring out of the window: no, complex isn't the right word) and for about a year, we lived here alone. Afterwards, came three german guys who got married with Mauritians. They were quite friendly, especially the guy who lives at the first floor on our side, Thomas. Two of them left, and there's only Thomas and my family left in here. Thomas is a really nice guy, and god knows about the number of times he helped me out. I'm currently using 1/3 of his internet connection, which means that I've got around 12-17kb/s download on good days.
During week-ends, Flic-En-Flac is pretty crowded. Most of my male friends have constantly been inquiring about the number of hot babes that can be spotted around here - and the answer is - yes, there are hot babes around here, but you'd be lucky to spot one who's not accompanied.
I don't like going out on week-ends, mostly because of the huge crowds on the beach and the legions of cars with blasting Sega/Ragga/Reggae. On week days, and especially in the morning, Flic-En-Flac is peaceful and all calm. There are a few cars here and there on the beach, and you can actually hear the waves crashing on the shore and the wind brushing through your body. The water (although a bit cold) is quite inviting, and the sand one of the warmest places to rest your butt.
There's the Spar, the local supermarket, where most people get their stuff. There's a casino next to the spar, all ready to lick dry the last cent out of your pocket, and the Arena night club, the best place to shake your butt in Flic. Entrance to Arena costs around 200 bucks, while it's 100 bucks for entrance in Summer Beach, a little bit further down the main road. The Manissa store remains open till quite late (I'm not sure till what time though. I think it closes down at 21:00 or 22:00) while the Buddha Beach Bar remains one of the best places to get drunk.
Flic en Flac doesn't come only with advantages. My friend Cuan got robbed twice while living in here: he lost his digital camera and loads of other valuable stuff. We haven't had any problems with robbers ever since we're here - maybe because out of all the houses in here, ours is one of the smallest and crappiest.
Coming to Mauritius is quite expensive. Especially if you're staying in one of the huge hotels around here. However, if you know your way around, it might cost you ten to twenty times less...
While hordes of youngsters were swarming towards Arena, the local nightclub, I was sitting in a badly lit living room with my mom. We were silently eating the bread and honey-chicken, taking a sip of wine from time to time. We didn't dare to look at each other, most probably because we had discussed about that enough. Yes, the big plate of chicken had been divided into two, instead of the usual three. Even if the third portion would normally go into the fridge, it would still have normally been divided into three.But now, it looked pretty much final. That was it. After one week of absence, we had silently understood that the chicken would almost always be divided into two equal parts from now on. One for me, and the other one for my mom. So would the bread - yes - we should buy less bread. We don't need that much anymore.The meal was excellent, but there was this silence which loudly accompanied us throughout the meal. I wish we hadn't joked about it so much. Maybe we could've saved something for dinner: a joke about his new girlfriend, or a joke about his damn car. We don't care. Or we don't show that we care anymore.My mom's not that good at hiding her thoughts. The constant questions she keeps asking always betray her brain activities. I have questions too, but I dare not ask them to the concerned person. It's not that I'm afraid of asking them, it's just that I'm scared of starting a conversation; I hate conversing with people who think they're always right. The whole purpose of conversation is to share experiences or convey new ideas. Not to force the other one to accept that his opinions are right, and that we should be adjusting to his school of thought. Hell no.If I've been stoic to my dad before, now is the time to be even more. I sincerely don't want him back with us. Even if I have to go and live under a bridge for the next few years, I'm not willing to see him here again. Do bridges have broadband by the way?My door's closed. My mom's in her room. It's been like that for the past few months. Each one of us dealing with his or her own life. Except that we meet, from time to time, in the living room, to discuss what happened.Things like that happen to people all around the world, but I never really thought about this happening to us. Note that I've imagined impossible scenarios: Saddam nuking flic en flac (because he'd be pissed off with PePe's pizzas not having home-delivery schemes), or a huge tsunami wiping Flic out of the map (Women and chil... erm... Hard-Disks and RAM modules first), but not that.Hold on, if you think this is affecting me emotionally, you're wrong. Financially - maybe. But not emotionally. Still, it's a bit weird to see the family size suddenly reduced. I have to find a way to kill this loud silence, ringing in our ears all the time. This loud silence, eating me away, very slowly. I want to stab that silence, and loudly exclaim that I don't give a shit about what's happening here. I want to slowly strangle it, and feel a new true wave of peace settle over the house. Murder the silence, in a very evil way; my eyes suddenly volcanically red, menacing to pop out of their sockets, while I press my hands harder and twist my face in an ultimate strangling effort: DIE, SILENCE! But no, those are just sweet fantasies... Isn't this when people decide it's time to move out? I don't want to think about that, but maybe it's time to try radiating ourselves with cheap radio music.
A quick shot at writing in french... my french's way better than my english.
Assis sur un méchant fauteuil, je me grattai et me demandai s'il y avait vraiment utilité d'écrire toutes ces bêtises sur le style. Mais bien sûr que oui. Le style, on l'a tous, il suffit de le réveiller; entrer tout doucement dans la grotte où dort la bete, et à l'aide d'un bâton pointu, le reveiller. Prendre soin a ne pas introduire le baton dans les orifices arrieres de la bete.Oui, on l'a tous le style. C'est l'inspiration qui nous manque. L'inspiration qui apparait tout comme la fée clochette, et qui se pose sur notre épaule, pour tout doucement nous chuchoter des mots gentils à l'oreille... L'inspiration, c'est quand l'exhibitioniste enfile un slip vert le matin avant d'aller a la rencontre des nones de l'église; c'est quand le musicien de hard-rock ajoute un soupçon de violon dans sa composition; elle nous arrive de nulle part, nous chuchote des mots doux a l'oreille - et voilà! Les Fleurs du Mal, Le Père Goriot, La Porte Etroite... pour ne nommer que quelques uns des chef-d'oeuvre de l'inspiration. Et je dis bien que c'est l'inspiration qui a écrit ces livres, et non l'auteur. L'inspiration écrit a travers l'homme, elle parle, transpire et chuchote des idées, et c'est l'homme qui donne naissance aux images, aux sons, aux mots et a la littérature. L'inspiration est comme une femme invisible, coquine, qui ne visite que les quelques amants qui sont prêts a l'écouter. Elle arrive tard le soir, ou apres la dernière goutte d'absynthe, et enroule son bras autour de l'artiste. Elle approche son visage illuminé et l'image, le son et les mots naissent d'eux-mêmes.Elle ne se donne pas a n'importe qui, l'inspiration. Et elle ne courtise point. L'inspiration, on ne peut pas l'appeler, ni lui addresser des lettres d'amour. Elle ne vous répondra pas. Elle arrive et part de son propre accord. On en tombe amoureux, on la chante, on pense à elle, on a besoin d'elle. Mais c'est ça, l'inspiration. Elle s'en va et vient... comme une maitresse qui n'est plus sûre si elle veut vous quitter ou vous aimer.
Style. Writing style. Very few authors have a real writing style. You'll know when an author has a writing style when the words, expressions and ideas naturally flow in the text. He/she might be able to jump from one subject to another faster than a bunny about to have sex, and still keep the ideas flowing naturally. Regardless of the subject at hand, you feel like you can't get your nose unglued from those words... those new words, funny expressions - you'll find new uses for words, extremely appropriate expressions which you've never heard of before, and above all else, you would really feel affected by the words, sentences, chapters or stories.You've got style when you write:"What would my heart not give to be able to tell you those three words."Instead of "i luv u :)"
Yes, it's beautiful. What would my heart not give; Not give to what? To tell you those three words... and then you're saying "I love you" without even writing it. Where are the good authors? Yes, I admit it. Harry Potter is nice, and so is The Da Vinci Code. But those books focus much more on the plot, and not the language used to detail the story.
The perfect book for reading would be one with a good story and twist, and written in a sensible, good, and beautiful English. Or other language.
I realised that there IS something else apart from the story in a book just today. For the third time, I'm reading "Composition Francaise" by Jean Cau. He's a french author, and fairly well known. The thing is, there is no head or tail in that book; it's a "diary" where he writes all sorts of nonesense. Apart from what he's writing, there's something sublime in the way he details things and events. Or his use of words and expression. And even his damn sarcasm.
I wonder what he'd have said about blogs if he were still alive today. Style, he wrote, exists when a music rises slowly from the text, a coordinated melody in between words and sentences. YES, he had style. Even if he was writing bullshit about art (which he did actually) it's still interesting. He explores all kinds of topics, with a funny point of view and style, and it just keeps your nose glued to the book.
I wish I had a writing style. Although I almost always write in English now, I just can't detect the slightest trace of a writing style in here. Maybe I should try french.
Oh well...
Jean Cau died in July 1994.
IpV6 can have a maximum of exactly 340282366920938463463374607431768211456 addresses. And I have 90 bucks left. Gandhi is waiting outside my window for me to finish posting, so we can go and play golf together.The world is not a strange place. I am fairly sure that you have all read about how this world is all artificial, all fucked up etc - but it's not. Nothing is artificial. It's natural. Cars are natural. Artificial Intelligence is natural. My pen is natural - it all evolved from something natural; even if we don't consider our intelligence as natural, we are part of the universe and its evolution.Money, money, money - and then more money. Money, in the form of coins, notes or assets is what most humans identify as the direct link to happiness. Although some have tried to spread the rumours that money isn't happiness, we all know it is.A blog is some kind of diary. A public diary. Note that "normal" diaries aren't really personal either. If you had a "personal" diary, you should make sure the CIA, NSA, PTA or alcohol support group will never have access to it. You should also make sure that the diary is destroyed as soon as you die. That would be personal. But we write in the hope to be read, and if it's private stuff, we'll write in the hope that we're long dead when it's read. Which never happens.The diary. The cute innocent girl living a happy life with her new husband falls on his diary - she reads all about him and her best friend - and wham! The diary... Used to fool the cunning private detective, leading him onto a wrong path - but of course, he's cunning, and he'll understand that the real diary was destroyed, and it was a suicide disguised into a murder. The diary, opening the minds of young children to the art of cryptography or the art of hiding things. The diary, the blog, money, the universe and IpV6. All of this sums up to: there's a goblin under my bed. How can I convince him/her to do the dishes while I'm sleeping?
I like Jazz now. The music is soft, beautiful, rythmed. It's like the performers are naturally producing sound frequencies that can soften up anything.
The thundering ring woke me. I dragged my body to the phone and picked it up. It was early morning - too early in the morning. With a blank voice, I answered. It was God. He wanted my recipe for chocolate cake. I gave it to Him, and was about to hang up when I thought - This is my chance! I took a deep breath and asked: "God, do you know how to make trading & profit and loss accounts?" God replied: "Sorry, I didn't study accounting." I said: "But, I thought you knew everything?" - to which the Almighty replied: "But I don't exist... so I don't know anything at all. And we're not even having this conversation anyway." I thought that was fair enough an answer, and hung up.I was still half asleep in the shower, and conscience came back to me periodically while travelling to university.A day like any other one. The dude on the bus tried to make me pay the fare (although I have a bus pass, which makes me elligible for free transport) but I cunningly showed him some of my management notes, which made him totally forget about making me pay.My eyes barely open, I loaded my blog template and started working on it. I sold my soul to the devil for less than 200 bucks, and put up some google ads in here. I also deleted all my previous posts, because I felt like clicking a lot. After all, it's still impressive to use a mouse without a wire and see the pointer move accordingly.I think wireless mice are alive. I first thought they had some kind of little mouths, and they were constantly calling out to the receivers: "He's moved me on the right! Two millimetres! Wait, he clicked just now! On the left - no, a little bit more!" but then I thought that if they kept shouting, I would've heard something at least. And that is how I concluded that the receivers actually had eyes, and those eyes were locked on the mice itself. I haven't figured out how they work in the dark though.My compiler is giving me friendly error messages, and my operating system notifying me before crashing - "Awwww, there is a mistake on like 127, maybe you should try putting in a semicolon at the end." or - "I'm sorry, but I'm about to crash because I can't read sector 0xEAF8849E - that's where you keep your porn by the way."
My soul long sold to the devil is playing blackjack on a poker table, and my heart beating in my chest no more mine.I miss you Marie.
Forgive me if I am not here tomorrow,
I Wish I Had An Angel
I am left with absolutely no goals in my life. Graduating from university? I don't care if I fail or pass my university modules; I'm revising for them for the sake of revising - I'm doing something: it's the ultimate proof of me still being tortured by my own living consciousness.
It's raining in Flic-En-Flac.
My drinking spree is finally over. It hasn't been without consequences though. I've been pondering over the last few years of my life - the end of high school, the company where I've been working, my first kiss, how I cheated on Yusha, how much of a dick I was to Natasha and - well, many things.
This is Antony, my neighbour. He's omnipresent in Flic-En-Flac - he's a face you can't miss. If you came to Flic-En-Flac, and didn't see him, then you missed the whole point of coming over here.
The Elric Brothers are particularly talented in Alchemy. However, after the death of their mother, they attempt human alchemy to bring her back to life; the process turns out to be a failure. Alphonse, the younger brother, loses his body while Edward loses his arm during their mother's transmutation. Both of them set off on their journey to find the philosopher's stone, reputed to be the most powerful alchemy tool. The stone allows the one who posesses it to bypass the natural laws of alchemy and obtain what they want; and there is something the Elric brothers want the most - their bodies.
The Nobuseri - bandits who transferred their consciousness and souls into machines - make a living out of stealing the rice from the peasants. The Kanna village decides to find and hire Samurai to fight off those bandits. There starts the tale of Kirara, the Water Priestess, accompanied by her little sister Komachi and Rikichi, a man particularly scared of the Nobuseri. They manage to gather seven Samurai, and their story stretches far beyond defeating all the bandits, while they discover the rules of a system with them at the bottom of the ladder.
After Kurosake Ichigo has been entrusted with Shini-Kami powers, his pass times radically change from being an ordinary person to cutting through the non-living with his huge soul-cutting katana, also called Zanpakto. However, after a violent battle where Ichigo's powers are taken away from him, his friend Kuchiki Rukia is forcibly taken to Soul Society to be punished for her crimes - that is entrusting a human with Shini-Kami powers. There starts Ichigo's Odyssey to find new Shini-Kami powers, get stronger and save Rukia.