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Showing results for tags 'life'.
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Hi everybody, Anyone knows if its possible to change the position of live bar? I wanna put it above the score. And if anyone can explain why its so deformed in right side: And for any reason, I'm trying to take out this black line in screen, but I can't, in other projects I tried, but it always had bugs impossibilating to recompile.
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You know, I actually forgot that I had a blog here on AtariAge. After all, I'm not exactly writing for an audience here. Mostly I'm just putting words on paper (err, screen) for the sake of my own personal amusement. Some days I just type to see how high I can get my WPM (and when I really get going I can do about 90 now, Mario Teaches Typing told me so!). Perhaps I should make an effort to post more often. In any case, right now I'm replaying the Lego Star Wars games on my PS2, so there is really nothing to say - it's all been said already. Speaking of which, I need to find some good straightforward platformers for that system, as I mostly seem to have RPGs. Your guess is as good as mine whether I'll cough up another post within the next week.
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Boy sits in first grade class, crosses his legs, scratches his armpits. Uncomfortable. Hasn’t caused enough trouble today. Already finished the assigned exercise. Boy is finished before everyone else because he learned to read and write when he was one and a half. That gives him two or three years more practice than everyone else in the room. Boy doesn’t like that he’s the best reader because that makes him different from the other kids. Boy pretends he can’t read. Gets stuck on “cat,” “car,” “bug.” Boy doesn’t want to express himself through reading, so boy causes trouble behind the teacher’s back whenever he can, not realizing this makes him just as different as being able to read. Boy looks at the homework that he knows he’s going to get perfect on. Tears off a strip. Eats it. Tastes terrible. Resolves not to try again. Boy gets up to sharpen his pencil, notices the stapler on the shelf. Picks it up. Plays with it. Accidentally releases the spring mechanism. Click. Stares at hand. Stapled his thumb. Very good stapling job, teacher would be proud, if only on paper. Blood is starting to rise from the punctured digit. Boy isn’t in pain, merely curious. Squeezes thumb to see how much blood will come out. Stands in the corner of the classroom for several minutes, holds thumb in the air, tries to dry it into a large scab around the buried staple. Remains there until teacher notices boy is out of desk, sees the wound, turns white. Not sure whether to send boy to school nurse or school principal. Resolves to do both, first nurse, than principal. Boy continues to stare at his thumb in detached amusement. Mission accomplished.
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Alright, so not really. But on days like this, it certainly feels like it. I am a writer by nature and by aspiration. I accept that these days on the internet that isn't saying much at all; in fact, it may actually be saying less than nothing. But that is what I am. A world builder; a voyager to lands only I can see. And thus far, I remain the only one that can see them, because I can't find the words as of late. When I was a younger, more naive person, the words came far easier, because I wasn't worried about how good they were, or if they were even the right words at all. I wasn't worried about whether I was ripping someone else off. And above all, I wasn't worried about whether or not I was wasting my life; whether I would amount to anything with my simple craft. Most of the time, rather than dealing with the uncertainties and what-ifs, I just push them from my head. But at the same time, I push out the writing too, and go for long periods of time without doing any productive work at all. I started this blog because the unconscious part of me knew I needed the practice badly, but the conscious part of me was still too afraid to peer within myself and go back to the places I have envisioned. Today is one of the days that I have as a direct consequence of my own literary constipation. The stories demand to be told. As dearly as I want to tell them, I haven't figured out the right words to do it yet, but the stories themselves couldn't care less. On days like this, they rattle the bars, fight with each other, and fight with me to be let out. I might sit down and type at that point, and I might get a few words down. A few pages if I'm really on a roll. But most of the time, when I come back to it a day or so later, I hate what I've written. It's a vicious cycle. I took a Fiction Workshop class last semester, thinking that being in regular attendance of a forum of like-minded peers would simultaneously encourage and force me to be more productive. I was not wrong, and in time, I came to be regarded as a class leader for my enthusiasm, my discussion, and my raw talent. I will come out and say it: when I chock back my whining and insecurity, I am a talented writer. I enjoyed the class, but when it came to a close my motivation to keep producing evaporated. I haven't written anything all summer, but the stories are still churning, still turning. Today they scream to be let out. I can't keep them chained up forever. Either I'll let them out, or they will break free of their own accord, and who knows what will happen then.
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I have implied in posts several times before that I hail from Pluto. Try not to laugh. It's a touchy subject, having your planet demoted to "dwarf" status. What exactly does that entail? Do a bunch of 3-piece suits with all the appropriate paperwork show up on your planet one day and tell you to get off? Are we suddenly represented by less Members of Solar Parliament? Is our garbage collection demoted to a bi-weekly schedule? Surely nobody thought of these questions when the decision was put forth to arbitrarily downsize the number of planets in the solar system. But we Plutonians are used to such hardship. You think Canadian winters are harsh? Russian? Don't make me laugh. On Pluto in winter, the atmosphere freezes and falls to the ground. That's about as much suck as you can get. Literally; around that time of year, you have little choice but to get on your hands and knees and suck the ground to breathe. Let me remind you at this time that Plutonian winter lasts 124 Earth years. If you're born during the wrong season on Pluto, well, you're pretty much boned. I confess I've done much complaining; perhaps you now wonder if Pluto is an outright shithole. But it's not all bad, friend. For example, gamers there are respected as legitimate athletes. We've introduced the concept here on Earth, but so far it's only really taken flight in South Korea. But in the end, I suppose - begrudgingly - that I am here, on Earth, today. If I am so proud of my home, then why would I be here? It's quite simple: tax evasion. Best Wishes from the Plutonian Imperiate.
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I Have Proof that Undermines the Standard Model
MagitekAngel posted a blog entry in MagitekAngel's Blog
Much fuss was raised about a year ago when the Large Hadron Collider was getting ready to activate and perform experiments. As many will know, its primary intended purpose was to orchestrate and monitor subatomic particle collisions in a controlled environment, with the ultimate goal of discovering the Higgs Boson: the only particle predicted by the Standard Model that has not yet been directly observed. Some feared that upon activation, the LHC would generate a black hole that could destroy the Earth, or possibly the entire universe. Several thickheaded scientists involved with the project did little to allay those fears when they suggested that the odds of that sort of calamity occurring were approximate to winning the lottery; as if to say that such a disaster would be a "lucky" thing, and that we would all be winners in such an event. Much more likely is we'll discover the Graviton, figure out how to put it in a bomb, and things will proceed from there. But none of that matters, because I'm here to tell you that I have ineffable proof that completely disrupts the Standard Model. Actually, what I have to say is unrelated to the Standard Model, because as an incomplete theory, it doesn't even attempt to explain the fundamental force which I have managed to discredit. But I digress. Gravity has failed. I have been trying to grow my hair out, because I've never had long hair in my life and I have always favored a medium length hairstyle for a male. It's never been this long before, and right now it's about six and a half inches. But it's not going down. It's growing up. still. My mother is English/Irish/Scottish, and the Irish appears to be winning out because she has long red hair. My father is half Japanese, and that seems to be the side he's inherited most of his genes from. He's got black hair (well, now it's greying, but you get the idea). Apparently, these radically different hair-gene types do not blend well. Perhaps if one side had won outright, I'd be fine. But it seems on top of my head, my genetics fought to a stalemate. The result is a ghastly halfway point: Brown, wavy hair. Not straight. Not curly. And not even "nice" wavy - instead of soft rounded curves, my follicles literally bend at right angles at periodic lengths up the shaft. And none of them seem to want to bend in the same direction. Multiply this unsightly mane by six and a half inches, and you may understand why my girlfriend has been nagging me to give in and get a haircut. Now, when my hair is straightened, it actually looks the way I want it to, and I actually start to show my Japanese ancestry. But I'm not a girl. I can't use a straightener to save my life. My girlfriend has to do it, and she always manages to burn my ear. So it's not a regular thing for me to undertake. A pickle, indeed. Gravity has let me down when I needed it the most. Never mind planetary atmosphere retention; I just want to be able to vary my hairstyle a little. I shall be making the appropriate calls to the scientific community shortly.
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