In what you see.
The words you speak
The thoughts you leak.
By shadows they cast
The ties that bind
The lies they wind.
Over nothing at all
The remarks I make
The conduct I take.
Out of their grasp
The warmth they fake
The thirst they slake.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sister Crabarina - Lvl 50 Crab
I haven't been blogging much and it's really due to a hodge-podge of reasons ranging from work, the general lack of need to elucidate anything in particular and recently, City of Villains. Gaming has always been a particularly attractive past time of mine or vice, if you prefer. The ability to immerse oneself in another world and the visual gratificiation one obtains from being an actual participant in the said world sufficient to hold one in enthrall. Add the sense of accomplishment one obtains from achieving various objectives to mix and you have a basic understanding of the allure gaming holds for so many, including yours truly. Which is why when I game, I game. And when I don't, I don't even log on. All or nothing.
I've returned to City of Villains, the sinister counterpart to City of Heroes, again. There is always something alluring about good old games (or ongoing ones, to put it more aptly in today's gaming scene of MMORPGS). And in terms of the ability to customise your very own villain from scratch right down to the markings on his or her bum, CoV / CoH remains the undisputed champion. I needn't say more.
Things have certainly changed since I left. For one, powerlevelling a toon to 50 these days is almost disgustingly fast thanks to the farms. Not that I'm complaining. In the short span of under a month, I got three new villains and an old character to 50 with time to grind for more phat loot. It's almost like a little family of mutants.
Icky Irene - Lvl 50 Dominator
I never cease to be amazed by the myriad characters that form the diaspora of gamers. From the truly imbecilic to warm humorous people who are a real blast to game with. By and large especially for MMORPGs (which require one to interact with other players), interaction with your fellow gamers forms a significant portion of your gaming experience and determines how enjoyable the game is.
Naturally, a shitty game cannot be rescued by any form of enjoyable interaction between players, assuming that such a thing would even be possible in the first place as people won't even stay long enough to be able to interact in a shitty game. Player Interaction is essential but not sufficient.
Black Momma - lvl 50 Mastermind
That said and done, gaming can be a refreshingly brainless activity. Oh, I know what they always say about strategizing, the need to plan how to achieve ones objectives but seriously how difficult or mentally taxing is it to game? Even working towards objectives remains enjoyable and the actual process of fighting is really a matter of a few well placed mouse clicks and fearsome key mashing.
So much so that you actually remember certain sequences of keys to mash in certain situations for certain characters. Which for Sister Crabarina, my 50 Crab, would be something like 5, 6, Delete, L, Click, 7, 3, 4, 1, rinse and repeat. Sequences which might appear like some hermetic cabalistic code straight out of the Da Vinci Code. But gaming's not rocket science, never is, never was. And for that reason, it remains highly attractive in all its psychedelic glory, for now.
Lady Sadis - Lvl 50 Fortunata
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Never has loneliness been more keenly felt.
Lost in a monochrome sea of strangers, the colours of my moribund existence
Faces that profess sympathy but understand nothing of my grief.
Of how it grips like a vice and rips away even the ability to cry out in anguish.
Leaving only sanity as refuge which I cling to as sanctuary against the madness that assails.
Spare me your whispered condolences,
your clumsy fumbling embraces of solidarity.
Save your feckless masks of sympathy,
your superficial utterances of commiseration.
For your pity crushes me
and the solace I seek is not one you can give.
Solace I have sought in solitude
but solace in solitude is a fallacy.
For while Misery loves company,
Sorrow remains personal and unfathomable. Sorrow is a just tyrant, impartial in her brutal castigation of her subjects, king and pauper alike. The strong are brought to their knees, their strength fails them. The wise become blathering idiots, reason no shield against their grief.
And I remain alone in my grief, with only sorrow for company.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
"Yo Bro! Long time no see! How have you been man? Following the exercise plan I gave you?" my PT (Personal
Torturer Trainer) exclaimed, heartily slapping me on my shoulder as he did so after a long, relaxing hiatus due to reservist.
Whereupon I somewhat sheepishly informed him that no, not once had I referred to the comprehensive three week program he'd given me prior to Reservist. A program I had explicitly requested for. In fact, I hadn't stepped into the gym since I left for reservist in the start of May, only managing to haul my lazy ass off to the gym last Sunday for a 45 min jog on the treadmill that left me positively winded. It's amazing what one month of inactivity (exercise wise) does to your physique in general and fitness level in particular. Nothing pleasant for sure.
And unlike the truly dedicated or passionate, the rest of us mere mortals are usually afflicted by a crippling inertia to start working out proper once we've been lulled into a period of blissful languidness, of sweatless slacktitude. Inertia that is only broken by overwhelming exigencies that shatter that stupefying reverie which for some might be the constant, insistent cajoling of health freak friends or for others the desire to feel that endorphin, exercise induced rush.
For me, it's that mortifying thought that everything would literally head down hill and congeal comfortably around the fatal midriff region. That and the equally horrifying notion of eventually looking like certain individuals in the office. At any rate, thoughts sufficient to break through that sluggish inertia andcompel me to arrange for today's PT session.
"Wah! 4 weeks never exercise! Brudda, you damn jialat. Never mind! Today we start slow, get you back into shape." My PT said chirpily. I was comforted, being under the impression that it'd be a slow yet competitive work out that'd ease me back on my abruptly (albeit a little pleasantly) interrupted journey to a hard six pac and a mean toned bod. (Ah, we can dream can we not?) I was so wrong. I should have realised that Mr PT had said that in the same tone in which I inform my clients that while your initial deposit is XXX, rest be assured that if there is any left over after your case concludes, we'll refund you the balance.
The work out started out fairly well. The first couple of sets went well and I was actually starting to think that 4 weeks of inactivity hadn't done that much damage when Mr PT went ahead and burst my bubble with "Ok. Those sets were really easy. Baby also can do. They were just to get you used to the feeling of weights again. Now we start the serious one." And it all went downhill from there.
A couple of sets into the 'serious' workout, I was beginning to get winded and the muscles which I was once aware of started protesting stridently. "Wa. Can't even press this amount? Sure or not! Your 4 weeks in Army so relax ah?" Mr PT baited, punching me lightly on the chest while I was faltering at the shoulder press. Any harder and I'd have dropped the weights.
If there's one thing I'm glad for (I guess) it's the fact that Mr PT is so terribly unattractive, which is good because I can focus on the work out and not Mr PT. Which is not something I can say for some of the other PTs at the gym. A couple of whom are incredibly attractive and I am absolutely certain that if either of them were my PT, PT sessions would take on a whole new allure but might not be very effective. After all PTs need to assist with certain exercises or weights, some of which may involve the PT being in very close physical proximity with you and certainly some physical contact. And if you're doing weights, focusing on the touch of a person rather than the weights you're supposed to be lifting is ..erm.. not going to be productive to say the least.
Though like I was telling Yisa, you don't go to the gym to pick guys up (though it can't be helped if guys pick you up haha) and attempting to hit it off with your PT (even if possible) is not financially feasible. After all that's what special friends are for right? haha. So thank goodness for fugly Mr PT. Bless his perverse heart.
By the end of the session, after more baiting, cajoling and admonishments to 'push yourself all the way, all the way, this was nothing 4 weeks ago!!', I was positively winded, a little light headed and my legs were starting to cramp. In that moment, I almost (and I say almost) felt a spark of sympathy for the colleague who joins us for our basketball games, collapses like clockwork after a couple of games, hands clutched at his chest/belly, legs kicking in the air, while he grunts and curses long unadulterated strings of vulgarity in hokkien. Much as I dispassionately observed (after laughing my head off ) to the Gang, like woman in labour, position, screams and all. Alright, maybe a very vulgar, balding woman in labour.
"See you Thursday Bro! Don't die on me ah!" Another hearty slap on my back as I was trying to catch my breath and he went off. I suspect that was his way of getting back at me for not showing up for 4 weeks. Even though my reservist was only for 3.
They said that there's no gain without pain. That's true. At least for exercising and getting back into shape is concerned. Though it doesn't make that truism any more comforting. The things we do for