A quick lesson children. Hitting like a girl doesn't mean the person can't hit. It means they're going to hit you where it matters.
You learn pretty fast, if girls actually fight? They're not the fairest people in the world. And if you've still got some sort of deluded sense of honour about not hitting the "fairer sex", how the everloving fuck aren't you dead already?
Case in point. I'm currently nursing a black eye, among other bruises, scrapes and a rather unpleasant cut across the ribs.
But she's dead, so it's not like I'll be indulging the habit.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
I didn't think it would be this easy.
It occurs to me that I've been deliberately vague about where I am and where I'm going.
I'm not a long-term plan sort of guy. Never have been, consequences be damned.
You see, the more you think about something I figure, the more you're going to worry about what happens afterwards. Especially if it goes wrong.
No one will ever let you forget those fuck ups. No one. So you live with them. Wear them like armour.
So what have I been doing? I don't stop driving. Not for more than a few hours at a stretch. I've got a map in case I get lost. I've got the internet. But I wake up and I drive. Not much in the way of a course. Maybe wake up with a direction in mind. "Going east today" maybe. And from there, just roll with it.
Plans go wrong. It's like something made to live in a vacuum, or under extreme pressure. Do you know what happens to things that live under those conditions when they're exposed to the real world? Boom. Messy.
Get to the point.
Right. So, imagine my surprise. I stop for gas somewhere yesterday, and the missing posters... dear god the missing posters.
Seven children, in the past... four months I seem to remember. Bang. Gone, right out of their houses.
Sounds like anyone we know?
My interest was... piqued, for lack of a better word, so I stuck around.
And I found something. What, you might ask? We're talking about Them. It's little busy hands and feet.
Just one, not that you'd expect more. Small town. Statistics... It's touch was everywhere. You could see it... feel it. In that sort of ghost town way. This place is not for the living.
I drove by one of the local schools? Bloody thing drawn in chalk. Operator symbols. Fucking everywhere. Like they were mushrooms, and it had just rained.
Not important.
In any case, I found the bastards. It didn't take too much digging. Imagine their surprise. I'm probably a crappy shot, but a gun is a gun, and pointing one at someone, especially if you've just burst in the door and caught them with their metaphorical pants down, does a lot to put a little menace into what you're about to say.
I found them. Two of them, small building on the outside of town.
The funny thing is, you're also a lot less menacing if you're in the middle of making waffles.
One of them starts to get up, looks like he's scared. About to do something stupid. The other is busy holding a bloody waffle iron. I had to stop myself from laughing a little.
"Sit down."
He doesn't argue.
"You're the brains?"
Waffles nods. "Yeah."
Not much brains in either of them, to be perfectly honest.
"There any more of you?"
Waffles manages to stutter out a: "N-n-no"
Point the gun at him a little more emphatically.
"I don't remember asking you a damn thing."
Scared guy shakes his head.
Now, at this point, Waffles thinks he can talk his way out of it, like it was some kind of misunderstanding.
So I point the gun at him.
Not so much point as slam it into the back of his head.
That shuts him up.
"Did I break your concentration? "No? Guess you were finished then. Let me offer you a reply."
Bang. Waffles is down.
Bang. Scared guy takes one in the gut.
Roll credits, get the hell out of there.
It occurs to me that I've been deliberately vague about where I am and where I'm going.
I'm not a long-term plan sort of guy. Never have been, consequences be damned.
You see, the more you think about something I figure, the more you're going to worry about what happens afterwards. Especially if it goes wrong.
No one will ever let you forget those fuck ups. No one. So you live with them. Wear them like armour.
So what have I been doing? I don't stop driving. Not for more than a few hours at a stretch. I've got a map in case I get lost. I've got the internet. But I wake up and I drive. Not much in the way of a course. Maybe wake up with a direction in mind. "Going east today" maybe. And from there, just roll with it.
Plans go wrong. It's like something made to live in a vacuum, or under extreme pressure. Do you know what happens to things that live under those conditions when they're exposed to the real world? Boom. Messy.
Get to the point.
Right. So, imagine my surprise. I stop for gas somewhere yesterday, and the missing posters... dear god the missing posters.
Seven children, in the past... four months I seem to remember. Bang. Gone, right out of their houses.
Sounds like anyone we know?
My interest was... piqued, for lack of a better word, so I stuck around.
And I found something. What, you might ask? We're talking about Them. It's little busy hands and feet.
Just one, not that you'd expect more. Small town. Statistics... It's touch was everywhere. You could see it... feel it. In that sort of ghost town way. This place is not for the living.
I drove by one of the local schools? Bloody thing drawn in chalk. Operator symbols. Fucking everywhere. Like they were mushrooms, and it had just rained.
Not important.
In any case, I found the bastards. It didn't take too much digging. Imagine their surprise. I'm probably a crappy shot, but a gun is a gun, and pointing one at someone, especially if you've just burst in the door and caught them with their metaphorical pants down, does a lot to put a little menace into what you're about to say.
I found them. Two of them, small building on the outside of town.
The funny thing is, you're also a lot less menacing if you're in the middle of making waffles.
One of them starts to get up, looks like he's scared. About to do something stupid. The other is busy holding a bloody waffle iron. I had to stop myself from laughing a little.
"Sit down."
He doesn't argue.
"You're the brains?"
Waffles nods. "Yeah."
Not much brains in either of them, to be perfectly honest.
"There any more of you?"
Waffles manages to stutter out a: "N-n-no"
Point the gun at him a little more emphatically.
"I don't remember asking you a damn thing."
Scared guy shakes his head.
Now, at this point, Waffles thinks he can talk his way out of it, like it was some kind of misunderstanding.
So I point the gun at him.
Not so much point as slam it into the back of his head.
That shuts him up.
"Did I break your concentration? "No? Guess you were finished then. Let me offer you a reply."
Bang. Waffles is down.
Bang. Scared guy takes one in the gut.
Roll credits, get the hell out of there.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Mr. Kerr
I should be dead.
Instead, I'm not. How does that work? I mean, really.
Let me tell you about Mr. Kerr.
Mr. Kerr runs a small clinic, it's not important where this clinic is. A major city, suffice it to say. High population density.
I've been avoiding them thusfar. Why? Probability says that the more people there are in one place, the better the chances you have of finding a particular subset, if that subset can exist. In this case, the more people there are, the better your chances are of finding Us.
Stalked. Runners, fighters, whatever the fuck you decide to call yourself. Big cities are a breeding ground it seems, so long as there's an internet connection and at least one unlucky bastard. And where you find Us, you find the other guys. Them. You know the ones I'm talking about, Agents, Proxies, Hallowed (god I hate that word). Call them whatever the fuck you like. The Competition.
Into this mix, enters Mr. Kerr. Mr. Kerr is not exactly a doctor. Mr. Kerr was an EMT. You know, ambulance man. And apparently a volunteer with the Red Cross during some disruption of civilized life.
Mr. Kerr is of an indeterminate age, an undisclosed race, weight and height, as none of those are particularly important.
What is important, is that Mr. Kerr is aware of this particular mess. And it is to Mr. Kerr that I owe my continued survival at this particular moment.
You know what can happen, I'm not going to bore you with the fucking details of how it happened. Suffice it to say I was on the receiving end of a particularly deconstructive variety of mask wearing freak. He got the worst of it but I needed something more than improvised first aid. Bullet wounds are like that.
So how does Mr. Kerr enter into the picture? I stumbled into his "clinic". The reason I say "clinic" is because it's not marked like one. In fact, it looks like a drug store. Which admittedly amounts to almost the same thing. Only the staff don't tend to actually practice anything resembling medicine.
I stumble in. While I'm trying to purchase the supplies I intend to try to patch myself up with and trying very hard not to bleed through the bandage and tourniquet, he starts to describe a certain general sort of portrait which might describe any of us.
"Stop me if any of this sounds familiar," he says, "You're a runaway? Some masked guys in hoodies did this? Tall fellow in a suit." I nodded, admittedly I wasn't in any state for more violence. He offered to patch me up. Apparently good samaritans do exist. They're just few and far between. Colour me fucking surprised.
Judging by the way he acted, I'm not the first unlucky bastard to have stumbled in here. Not sure how Mr. Kerr is involved. The way he talks, he's not exactly in the know. I imagine he's taken pains to avoid that. I also think that the rather large gun under the counter isn't just for would-be bandits.
You people love your damned amendment, don't you?
Did a pretty good job of cleaning me up. I'm apparently lucky that the bullet didn't hit anything particularly important but my arm is going to be a little more useless that it was before. That's alright. I've had broken arms before.
Instead, I'm not. How does that work? I mean, really.
Let me tell you about Mr. Kerr.
Mr. Kerr runs a small clinic, it's not important where this clinic is. A major city, suffice it to say. High population density.
I've been avoiding them thusfar. Why? Probability says that the more people there are in one place, the better the chances you have of finding a particular subset, if that subset can exist. In this case, the more people there are, the better your chances are of finding Us.
Stalked. Runners, fighters, whatever the fuck you decide to call yourself. Big cities are a breeding ground it seems, so long as there's an internet connection and at least one unlucky bastard. And where you find Us, you find the other guys. Them. You know the ones I'm talking about, Agents, Proxies, Hallowed (god I hate that word). Call them whatever the fuck you like. The Competition.
Into this mix, enters Mr. Kerr. Mr. Kerr is not exactly a doctor. Mr. Kerr was an EMT. You know, ambulance man. And apparently a volunteer with the Red Cross during some disruption of civilized life.
Mr. Kerr is of an indeterminate age, an undisclosed race, weight and height, as none of those are particularly important.
What is important, is that Mr. Kerr is aware of this particular mess. And it is to Mr. Kerr that I owe my continued survival at this particular moment.
You know what can happen, I'm not going to bore you with the fucking details of how it happened. Suffice it to say I was on the receiving end of a particularly deconstructive variety of mask wearing freak. He got the worst of it but I needed something more than improvised first aid. Bullet wounds are like that.
So how does Mr. Kerr enter into the picture? I stumbled into his "clinic". The reason I say "clinic" is because it's not marked like one. In fact, it looks like a drug store. Which admittedly amounts to almost the same thing. Only the staff don't tend to actually practice anything resembling medicine.
I stumble in. While I'm trying to purchase the supplies I intend to try to patch myself up with and trying very hard not to bleed through the bandage and tourniquet, he starts to describe a certain general sort of portrait which might describe any of us.
"Stop me if any of this sounds familiar," he says, "You're a runaway? Some masked guys in hoodies did this? Tall fellow in a suit." I nodded, admittedly I wasn't in any state for more violence. He offered to patch me up. Apparently good samaritans do exist. They're just few and far between. Colour me fucking surprised.
Judging by the way he acted, I'm not the first unlucky bastard to have stumbled in here. Not sure how Mr. Kerr is involved. The way he talks, he's not exactly in the know. I imagine he's taken pains to avoid that. I also think that the rather large gun under the counter isn't just for would-be bandits.
You people love your damned amendment, don't you?
Did a pretty good job of cleaning me up. I'm apparently lucky that the bullet didn't hit anything particularly important but my arm is going to be a little more useless that it was before. That's alright. I've had broken arms before.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Rocked the boat
Someone tried to kill me today.
That feels new, oddly enough. It's not that it's never been a possibility, but this time it was different.
You can kill people lots of ways, we're fragile, breakable little things. Before it was always a chance that you'd live through being stabbed or bludgeoned. This one had a gun.
Stupid. Was he trying to get himself killed?
Maybe. That's the point of a gun. You can, presumably not kill someone with it, but at the end of the day, it's what it was made for. Killing. Using it another way goes against what it was made for. Against it's... purpose, so to speak.
He's not exactly doing so well.
Bullet wounds will do that.
Gun's mine now. Not doing so well though. But I'm still alive.
The important bit, right?
Right.
Back on the fucking road then.
That feels new, oddly enough. It's not that it's never been a possibility, but this time it was different.
You can kill people lots of ways, we're fragile, breakable little things. Before it was always a chance that you'd live through being stabbed or bludgeoned. This one had a gun.
Stupid. Was he trying to get himself killed?
Maybe. That's the point of a gun. You can, presumably not kill someone with it, but at the end of the day, it's what it was made for. Killing. Using it another way goes against what it was made for. Against it's... purpose, so to speak.
He's not exactly doing so well.
Bullet wounds will do that.
Gun's mine now. Not doing so well though. But I'm still alive.
The important bit, right?
Right.
Back on the fucking road then.
Monday, April 2, 2012
I don't think my arm should feel numb like this.
Not important. Getting it on with this.
I still don't remember much from around the car crash. I'm assuming that a low speed collision with a treeon top of a recovering concussion isn't a recipe for a healthy mind. Everything before I woke up in that room
Needless to say it's not something I'm in a hurry to review again.
They drugged me, I think. They did something to my head.
I feel like I can hear a pin drop though. My head is absolutely fucking killing me. I wonder if this is what a hangover feels like.
Oh. Hello there.
Time for more running it seems.
Not important. Getting it on with this.
I still don't remember much from around the car crash. I'm assuming that a low speed collision with a treeon top of a recovering concussion isn't a recipe for a healthy mind. Everything before I woke up in that room
Needless to say it's not something I'm in a hurry to review again.
They drugged me, I think. They did something to my head.
I feel like I can hear a pin drop though. My head is absolutely fucking killing me. I wonder if this is what a hangover feels like.
Oh. Hello there.
Time for more running it seems.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
On Compulsion
Not sure why I'm still blogging.
I mean, the sane thing to do would be to not only delete the fucking blog, but change the password to this account to something random and lock myself out of it, just to be safe. At least some of us have the good sense not to broadcast their movements for all the world to see.
I mean it doesn't make any sense outside of viewing this all as fiction does it?
The poor sods keep blogging while their world falls to pieces around them despite their minds coming entirely unhinged? Half the people who blog would be in mental facilities.
And the other half would be dead or in prison.
But it's the expectation of the fucking genre, isn't it? The slow, murderous descent into madness and mayhem. Clawing at what scraps of sanity we have left. Hounded at every fucking turn by a fucking faceless thing in a suit.
Actually let's take a fucking look at that for a second. IT WEARS A FUCKING SUIT. Can you comprehend that? There are people, in the world right this minute, being chased by a faceless abomination from god fucking knows where who is genteel enough to put on a suit and tie before he does so. And his fucked up little... what? What do you even call these people? I'm not even sure. But can you start to understand just how absolutely goddamned insane that is?
I really don't think I understand it. I don't think anyone does. Not really. They pretend to but that's getting off of the fucking topic.
But it gets played out. And people watch. It's god damned sickening. I'm ashamed to have been guilty of it, at this point.
But then I never claimed to be a saint.
The compulsion to keep writing, even as one is being devoured.
Lovecraft, at least, would be proud.
I mean, the sane thing to do would be to not only delete the fucking blog, but change the password to this account to something random and lock myself out of it, just to be safe. At least some of us have the good sense not to broadcast their movements for all the world to see.
I mean it doesn't make any sense outside of viewing this all as fiction does it?
The poor sods keep blogging while their world falls to pieces around them despite their minds coming entirely unhinged? Half the people who blog would be in mental facilities.
And the other half would be dead or in prison.
But it's the expectation of the fucking genre, isn't it? The slow, murderous descent into madness and mayhem. Clawing at what scraps of sanity we have left. Hounded at every fucking turn by a fucking faceless thing in a suit.
Actually let's take a fucking look at that for a second. IT WEARS A FUCKING SUIT. Can you comprehend that? There are people, in the world right this minute, being chased by a faceless abomination from god fucking knows where who is genteel enough to put on a suit and tie before he does so. And his fucked up little... what? What do you even call these people? I'm not even sure. But can you start to understand just how absolutely goddamned insane that is?
I really don't think I understand it. I don't think anyone does. Not really. They pretend to but that's getting off of the fucking topic.
But it gets played out. And people watch. It's god damned sickening. I'm ashamed to have been guilty of it, at this point.
But then I never claimed to be a saint.
The compulsion to keep writing, even as one is being devoured.
Lovecraft, at least, would be proud.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Something interesting happened
Beat the living shit out of someone? Fine. Knife one of those
mask-wearing crazies in the shoulder? Done that, not a problem. Suppose I
have to add homicide to the list.
It's getting to be a pretty long one at this point. So you killed a person. That's done. Bravo. No point in dwelling on it, right? I thought you'd gotten over this already. It's been two days.
I just killed a person. Fuck.
Obviously not, you've reduced a human being to a bloody pulp. That's murder, remember?
Never mind that you don't remember doing it yourself, that's just making it fucking worse, isn't it Robin?
Leave it up to the imagination to fill in the blanks in the most unpleasant way possible.
It was a mask-wearing prick who wasn't all there. You could hear it in his voice. Sick, like a rabid animal.
Was he really even human at that point?
I don't know; you're the one fucking asking.
It was shaped like a human being. It moved like one, but it was wrong. Wrong shape, something just fundamentally wrong about it. Not that that it matters either. He's dead. Done, over with.
Oh fucking hardly, or you wouldn't be fucking monologuing over it, would you? Dumbass.
Are you even sure you're feeling guilty about that? And besides, you stopped going to church years ago. After she died, remember?
No point in stopping now, is there?
Doesn't seem to be. At this point you're fucked either way, so what's the harm in a little more? You'll go crazy and die, or get murdered by some idiot in an out-of-season halloween costume.
You really don't have time to waste, do you?
And to be perfectly fair, it'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it just a little bit.
It's getting to be a pretty long one at this point. So you killed a person. That's done. Bravo. No point in dwelling on it, right? I thought you'd gotten over this already. It's been two days.
I just killed a person. Fuck.
Obviously not, you've reduced a human being to a bloody pulp. That's murder, remember?
Never mind that you don't remember doing it yourself, that's just making it fucking worse, isn't it Robin?
Leave it up to the imagination to fill in the blanks in the most unpleasant way possible.
It was a mask-wearing prick who wasn't all there. You could hear it in his voice. Sick, like a rabid animal.
Was he really even human at that point?
I don't know; you're the one fucking asking.
It was shaped like a human being. It moved like one, but it was wrong. Wrong shape, something just fundamentally wrong about it. Not that that it matters either. He's dead. Done, over with.
Oh fucking hardly, or you wouldn't be fucking monologuing over it, would you? Dumbass.
Are you even sure you're feeling guilty about that? And besides, you stopped going to church years ago. After she died, remember?
No point in stopping now, is there?
Doesn't seem to be. At this point you're fucked either way, so what's the harm in a little more? You'll go crazy and die, or get murdered by some idiot in an out-of-season halloween costume.
You really don't have time to waste, do you?
And to be perfectly fair, it'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it just a little bit.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
What the fuck I did on my blog-vacation
In which Robin finishes whatever the fuck he was writing about before;
Where the fuck was I with this?
The basement. Cellar. Dungeon. Whateverthefuckyouwanttocallit.
Right.
Cold. It was cold.
Of course it was cold it's practically fucking winter outside. Never mind that it's nearly bloody April.
Concrete floors don't help that. There's a little drain, like the kind you find in boiler rooms or old laundry rooms, rusted round little drain with holes in it.
There's a bit of pipe, big metal pipe, running along the wall above me. It's got those little C-shaped brackets holding it in place and then it heads up into whatever is above I suppose. Wall's pretty cracked. Old building from the looks of it. Old or not taken care of. Frost damage, or just wear. Fractures around the brackets.
I'm handcuffed to it. Just the one hand. Honest to god handcuffs.
Guess they couldn't find the zip ties? Pockets are empty. Which is a shame.
I can do handcuffs. Zip ties would have been a bit of a problem.
Long story, I had a friend in police foundations.
The plumbing looks... old. It's not copper. I don't think they make copper piping this big. Not old enough to be lead but it's black under the dust, like one of those old-school frying pans, or the stereotypical wood burning stove. There's a busted, rusty water heater over to one side of me and an old beat up washer and dryer on the other side. Furnace on the other side of the water heater. The whole place can't be much more than 7 x 9, low ceiling. The door's pretty low too. Maybe it's under something else?
Don't have my phone, so I don't know how long I'm waiting there. Time does that... stretching thing. Footsteps. Some fucker in a mask opens the door. Big white mask, no mouth, sort of shield shaped? Really pointy chin. Tall guy, big black coat on the shoulders, pinstripe suit.
He reaches up to brush the snow off with his hand and...
Oh god. His hand. His hand is... it looks like it's just flayed skin but that's not right. That can't be right. It's not really a hand. It's a claw. His hand is a claw. A mangled, broken why is it so red. Red like... raw meat. Makes you want to throw up just looking at it.
There's another one with him. Shorter, lanky. Still taller than me Fucking hockey mask. Like he's Jason Fucking Voorhees. Big, baggy, beat-up sweater hanging off of them... kid? Holes in it. Pinstripe doesn't do any talking. Just stands there, for all the world acting if he were the grim fucking spectre of death itself.
The kid? The kid
Ha. Solved that problem, didn't you? Solved it quite well. Don't look at me like that, the bastard had it coming and you know it. This jog any memories?
"Going to fly away little bird?"
Posturing. He's fucking posturing. The fucking bastard.
"Can't run now!" Laughter.
"Not so tough now!" More laughter. kick in the gut. More laughter, and a few more kicks. ribs ache.
"Scared little birdy. We're going to clip your wings." Laughing again. Like a cut-rate villain. Don't think he was all there.
And then he fucked up.
"You know what happens next?" Laughing. Getting closer. "We find your family. And we cut them all- wait." He pauses. You can hear the grin in the voice. "Yours is dead, isn't it?"
That seems like a mistake to me.
"Poor little bird, all alone."
He made to kick me again. Grabbed his other leg by the ankle with my legs. Don't think he saw that coming. Tripped up fell backwards like he'd had a carpet jerked out from under him. Skull made a nice cracking sound when it hit the floor. Not sure if I was grinning by this point.
Not sure what happened next.
Well no, that's a lie. We can infer some things that happened between A and B. By the time you came to, the unlucky bastard was a bloody wreck on the floor, and there was a bloodstained pipe in your hand.
No, still not over that?
Excuse me while I take the opportunity to attempt to empty my already empty stomach a second time.
You said "wreck" right?
I did. It's more that he's a loosely connected set of chunks that have been smeared across the floor. Connect the dots, it's not hard. I imagine it is pretty hard to laugh when you're spitting your teeth out onto the floor. Harder if you're coughing up blood. And I would suppose it's pretty much impossible to laugh when you're dead.
Some people just have no class.
His buddy with the fucked up... hand-thing, must have fucked off. There's a big hand-shaped smear on the wall near where he was standing. Not sure what it's made of, not going to bother finding out. Still needed to get the handcuffs off, but that's less of a problem now.
Plenty of tools. Didn't take much work to get free.
They had a pretty good set-up here. It's an old shop of some sort. Maybe did auto work, judging by the big doors and the lifts. Maybe a chop-shop. Has that kind of feel to it. Grungy, sketchy. The bits of car might be mine. Found a couple odds and ends that look like they were mine. There's a few things that look like graves out back. Doubt I'm the first to have wound up here.
Murdering fucks. Deserved what they got.
Someone's been living here, judging from the cot, the wi-fi and the shitty netbook. Can't find my laptop. Not like there was anything important on it.
In which I explain where the fuck I've been
It's been... one two three four... FIVE DAYS!
FIVE WONDERFULLY FUCKED UP DAYS!
Since I last posted on this blog. Don't know why I'm still bothering, but that's for another time. Excuse me if this is a liittle fucked up. I'm posting from a computer that isn't mine and whatever I've been dosed with doesn't quite seem to have worn off. Also the keyboard on it is a piece of shit.
So where the fuck do we start?
Physical condition perhaps?
Okay good a place as any. Physically you're a bit of a mess. A car accident, even a low speed will do that to you. Getting grabbed out of the wreck of said car will not improve that situation. Neither will dragging your sedated ass to a dingy, old, abandoned building somewhere in... well there's no point in mentioning, and chaining someone to a bit of the plumbing in the cellar. Over all? Aches, pains, one shoulder is a little fucked up I think, to say nothing about the state of you ribs.
But then, I'm not a doctor. I am vaguely reminded of the second time my nose got broken. That was fun. But getting off-topic.
So what about mental condition?
Don't quite think I'm exactly qualified to assess that.
So, car accident you say?
Why YES! That was ALL FUCKING KINDS OF FUN. Let me tell you about the car accident.
It's a dusty stretch of back roads out in the middle of nowhere. The road comes to a Y-shaped intersection that's a bitch and a half to get around if you want to head down one arm from the opposite. Pretty deep ditch on either side. Fields, tree at the fork. I'm sort of parked in the middle of the road, trying to figure out which side of that fork to go down.
The old farmhouse is down the left-hand fork, so I start towards it.
Blink.
About half way down the road.
There he is.
ThereHe is.
THERE HE IS. I think I might have lost it.
No question. You lost it.
The... wrongness of it. It. Not quite the right word.
Do we even have a right for that? The right word would probably be a wrong word all of it's own accord you know.
It's limbs are jointed the wrong way and where did the extra sets of arms come from? The car is moving and then
The last thing I remember thinking before the crash is 'he looks just like a tree'
Blink.
Tree. There's a tree there's a tree and then... white. Noise. A sort of ringing? That fades into a persistent honking noise that sounds like it's coming from all directions.
oh.
We seem to have crashed.
Idon't remember accelerating, or turning.
Or running into a fucking tree.
Am I in the ditch?
and then the door opens. I start to fall, the seatbelt catches me a little. Then.. hands, the seat belt is gone and pain in my neck. Things get hard to see and then black.
I wake up in a fucking cellar, chained to the plumbing. Like someone's idea of a bad horror film. Now, where did the...
pardon me, i think i'm going to have to be sick.
FIVE WONDERFULLY FUCKED UP DAYS!
Since I last posted on this blog. Don't know why I'm still bothering, but that's for another time. Excuse me if this is a liittle fucked up. I'm posting from a computer that isn't mine and whatever I've been dosed with doesn't quite seem to have worn off. Also the keyboard on it is a piece of shit.
So where the fuck do we start?
Physical condition perhaps?
Okay good a place as any. Physically you're a bit of a mess. A car accident, even a low speed will do that to you. Getting grabbed out of the wreck of said car will not improve that situation. Neither will dragging your sedated ass to a dingy, old, abandoned building somewhere in... well there's no point in mentioning, and chaining someone to a bit of the plumbing in the cellar. Over all? Aches, pains, one shoulder is a little fucked up I think, to say nothing about the state of you ribs.
But then, I'm not a doctor. I am vaguely reminded of the second time my nose got broken. That was fun. But getting off-topic.
So what about mental condition?
Don't quite think I'm exactly qualified to assess that.
So, car accident you say?
Why YES! That was ALL FUCKING KINDS OF FUN. Let me tell you about the car accident.
It's a dusty stretch of back roads out in the middle of nowhere. The road comes to a Y-shaped intersection that's a bitch and a half to get around if you want to head down one arm from the opposite. Pretty deep ditch on either side. Fields, tree at the fork. I'm sort of parked in the middle of the road, trying to figure out which side of that fork to go down.
The old farmhouse is down the left-hand fork, so I start towards it.
Blink.
About half way down the road.
There he is.
There
THERE HE IS. I think I might have lost it.
No question. You lost it.
The... wrongness of it. It. Not quite the right word.
Do we even have a right for that? The right word would probably be a wrong word all of it's own accord you know.
It's limbs are jointed the wrong way and where did the extra sets of arms come from? The car is moving and then
The last thing I remember thinking before the crash is 'he looks just like a tree'
Blink.
Tree. There's a tree there's a tree and then... white. Noise. A sort of ringing? That fades into a persistent honking noise that sounds like it's coming from all directions.
oh.
We seem to have crashed.
Idon't remember accelerating, or turning.
Or running into a fucking tree.
Am I in the ditch?
and then the door opens. I start to fall, the seatbelt catches me a little. Then.. hands, the seat belt is gone and pain in my neck. Things get hard to see and then black.
I wake up in a fucking cellar, chained to the plumbing. Like someone's idea of a bad horror film. Now, where did the...
pardon me, i think i'm going to have to be sick.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
God that hurt.
Instantly regretting it.
I think I'm... out of whatever that was.
At least, this looks like the highway again.
I think I could do with a doctor. Cauterizing your own finger with a car cigarette lighter probably isn't exacatly what you'd call medicine. Do they even make cars with cigarette lighters anymore?
Christ, what the fuck was that?
Instantly regretting it.
I think I'm... out of whatever that was.
At least, this looks like the highway again.
I think I could do with a doctor. Cauterizing your own finger with a car cigarette lighter probably isn't exacatly what you'd call medicine. Do they even make cars with cigarette lighters anymore?
Christ, what the fuck was that?
Thursday, March 22, 2012
I feel sick.
Five.
That can't be real but it looked it felt
This is five.
so very real
Ignore the sirens.
it looked just like her
Even if you leave this room, you can never leave this room.
It's not
Eight.
shes dead but it looked she's fucking dead alright
This is eight.
i feel sick
We have killed your friends.
where am i
Every friend is now dead.
i feel sick
it hurts why does it hurt
My brother was actually eaten by wolves one winter on the Connecticut Turnpike
it hurts
Mom it hurts.
Five.
That can't be real but it looked it felt
This is five.
so very real
Ignore the sirens.
it looked just like her
Even if you leave this room, you can never leave this room.
It's not
Eight.
shes dead but it looked she's fucking dead alright
This is eight.
i feel sick
We have killed your friends.
where am i
Every friend is now dead.
i feel sick
it hurts why does it hurt
My brother was actually eaten by wolves one winter on the Connecticut Turnpike
it hurts
Mom it hurts.
This can't be fucking happening.
This is not real.
This place got half burned down years ago.
You remember things like that
It never really got fixed, because the bastard could only keep money in his wallet long enough to spend it on booze.
That's why you got moved. Toronto, remember?
I wonder if there's anything...
There's got to be something inside right?
This is not real.
This place got half burned down years ago.
You remember things like that
It never really got fixed, because the bastard could only keep money in his wallet long enough to spend it on booze.
That's why you got moved. Toronto, remember?
I wonder if there's anything...
There's got to be something inside right?
That is the same fucking hitchhiker. From two hours ago.
Unless he's got a fucking doppelganger, that is the exact same goddamned hitchhiker that I went by two hours ago. And that is not fucking possible. I have been driving in a straight line. The road hasn't so much as BENT the whole goddamned way.
What the hell is with the goddamned fog?
Turning the fucking car around, going the other way.
Unless he's got a fucking doppelganger, that is the exact same goddamned hitchhiker that I went by two hours ago. And that is not fucking possible. I have been driving in a straight line. The road hasn't so much as BENT the whole goddamned way.
What the hell is with the goddamned fog?
Turning the fucking car around, going the other way.
A fucking hitchhiker. I don't believe it.
Okay, where the fuck am I?
This map has to be fucking useless. There isn't a stretch of road that even FUCKING REMOTELY resembles this anywhere. There isn't. It's just straight fucking road going on to infinity that isn't on the fucking map.
Wait...
No. No. FUCK THAT. Fuck that shit.
god damn it this is not fucking happening it is not
Okay, where the fuck am I?
This map has to be fucking useless. There isn't a stretch of road that even FUCKING REMOTELY resembles this anywhere. There isn't. It's just straight fucking road going on to infinity that isn't on the fucking map.
Wait...
No. No. FUCK THAT. Fuck that shit.
god damn it this is not fucking happening it is not
Road to Nowhere
Still inside the fucking cloud. Five fucking hours. I don't believe it.
At this point, I'm betting the highway is some sort of mobius strip. Wouldn't be too fucking surprised at this point. I swear to god, it all looks the fucking same.
The bit of fence I'm next to? Well it looks like any split rail fence but I'd swear I've been by it a least twice already. Hard to tell in the fog.
Sure as hell not getting out of the car.
Wait.
Is that a fucking hitchhiker?
At this point, I'm betting the highway is some sort of mobius strip. Wouldn't be too fucking surprised at this point. I swear to god, it all looks the fucking same.
The bit of fence I'm next to? Well it looks like any split rail fence but I'd swear I've been by it a least twice already. Hard to tell in the fog.
Sure as hell not getting out of the car.
Wait.
Is that a fucking hitchhiker?
Monday, March 19, 2012
Mad World
Not going back there. Not that I had much choice after my run in with who I assume was good Dr. Serra, who I assume is now going out of her way to violate what passes for a Hippocratic oath these days.
So I dragged myself to the ER. Mentioned that the other day, I think.
That went superbly. Told them I'd been mugged (90% true) but didn't see who did it. (Entirely false)
They seem to have done a pretty good job patching me up. Brace for the ankle, even went so far as to stitch the cut on my arm.
And then things started happening. So I got the hell out of there as soon as I could.
People should not be able to grin like that. They shouldn't. It's just not fucking natural. Hell of a lot of blood.
I haven't been comfortable staying in one place for too long. At least it's justified now.
Been saying it a while, but there's a great fucking granddad of a storm waiting out there. Best get out of it's way while I can.
If I can.
So I dragged myself to the ER. Mentioned that the other day, I think.
That went superbly. Told them I'd been mugged (90% true) but didn't see who did it. (Entirely false)
They seem to have done a pretty good job patching me up. Brace for the ankle, even went so far as to stitch the cut on my arm.
And then things started happening. So I got the hell out of there as soon as I could.
People should not be able to grin like that. They shouldn't. It's just not fucking natural. Hell of a lot of blood.
I haven't been comfortable staying in one place for too long. At least it's justified now.
Been saying it a while, but there's a great fucking granddad of a storm waiting out there. Best get out of it's way while I can.
If I can.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Can't Decide
Man goes to the doctor. Complains of problem with ankle
Doctor proceeds to beat the patient within an inch of his life.
Everyone laughs. Except the patient because he has fucking bruised ribs.
Typing this waiting in the ER. Hopefully they don't give a fuck.
That last little dust-up didn't go so well for me, you might have guessed. I'm not exactly a medical expert, but I severely doubt that my ankle should feel like this. Or my shoulder.
Now, I have two options:
Not really much of a choice is it?
So I called up a certain "Doctor". Maybe you're familiar? She didn't get back to me, so I wrote it off and kept driving.
I pulled in to a rest stop last night to catch a bit of rest, needed to stretch. Fucking cold night. And my jacket is still filled with holes. Need to replace it.
So this... woman shows up. White coat, scarf, what looked like chocolate but I'm assuming was blood on both.
Creepy fucking mask. Points for that, the thing was made out of bits of bone.
Not sure what it was painted with, don't want to know. Horn sort of thing, on the one side. Deer maybe?
What happened next? Ow. Really fucking ow.
She came at me with a fucking bone. Like a fucking shinbone.
Get on the ground. Pain, really bad idea. Face is still in one piece but she got your shoulder, more than a little raw. That's alright, you can shake it off.
Roll over, you need to get up. Nope, foot planted in my ribs. Just about knocked the breath out of me.
Swing, try to hit something dumbass. The wrench in my pocket gets her in the leg.
Bad idea. She goes for my head. Try to pull my arm up. Wait, wrong fucking arm.
Pain. Everything goes white for a second, and then red. Blood in my eyes. More pain, boot in the ribs again.
Drives the breath out of me.
That's alright, you've been here before, plenty of times. Try to roll with it. If she wanted to kill you she'd have done it by now, right?
Lost track a little, more hits with that fucking bone. . I remember trying to pull my legs up, cover the squishy bits, that didn't sit too well with the crazy lady.
Not sure when she left or how long the beating lasted. I'm a fucking mess now. Bruises all over my arms legs back. Plenty of them on my ribs, nasty cut on the side of my head.
When I could move again, I had a bit of paper tucked in my pocket, and a fucking lollipop. Believe it. A fucking lollipop
It's a prescription, little hard to read, physicians apparently can't write worth shit, but this was worse.
"Anger management zalafl?" Trying to prescribe food maybe?
And then: "Hello Robin, we haven't met before in person but I hope you feel better soon please take this gift as a sign of everyone's fucking appreciation for you."
That's just fucking cheery isn't it? I'm guessing the good Doctor caught up with me after all.
Fuck you too Doc. Fuck you too.
Doctor proceeds to beat the patient within an inch of his life.
Everyone laughs. Except the patient because he has fucking bruised ribs.
Typing this waiting in the ER. Hopefully they don't give a fuck.
That last little dust-up didn't go so well for me, you might have guessed. I'm not exactly a medical expert, but I severely doubt that my ankle should feel like this. Or my shoulder.
Now, I have two options:
- Go to a hospital and say I got fucking mugged (which has the potential bring up the whole nine yards about murder, arson, and jaywalking)
- Seek the help of a certain unlicensed professional.
Not really much of a choice is it?
So I called up a certain "Doctor". Maybe you're familiar? She didn't get back to me, so I wrote it off and kept driving.
I pulled in to a rest stop last night to catch a bit of rest, needed to stretch. Fucking cold night. And my jacket is still filled with holes. Need to replace it.
So this... woman shows up. White coat, scarf, what looked like chocolate but I'm assuming was blood on both.
Creepy fucking mask. Points for that, the thing was made out of bits of bone.
Not sure what it was painted with, don't want to know. Horn sort of thing, on the one side. Deer maybe?
What happened next? Ow. Really fucking ow.
She came at me with a fucking bone. Like a fucking shinbone.
Get on the ground. Pain, really bad idea. Face is still in one piece but she got your shoulder, more than a little raw. That's alright, you can shake it off.
Roll over, you need to get up. Nope, foot planted in my ribs. Just about knocked the breath out of me.
Swing, try to hit something dumbass. The wrench in my pocket gets her in the leg.
Bad idea. She goes for my head. Try to pull my arm up. Wait, wrong fucking arm.
Pain. Everything goes white for a second, and then red. Blood in my eyes. More pain, boot in the ribs again.
Drives the breath out of me.
That's alright, you've been here before, plenty of times. Try to roll with it. If she wanted to kill you she'd have done it by now, right?
Lost track a little, more hits with that fucking bone. . I remember trying to pull my legs up, cover the squishy bits, that didn't sit too well with the crazy lady.
Not sure when she left or how long the beating lasted. I'm a fucking mess now. Bruises all over my arms legs back. Plenty of them on my ribs, nasty cut on the side of my head.
When I could move again, I had a bit of paper tucked in my pocket, and a fucking lollipop. Believe it. A fucking lollipop
It's a prescription, little hard to read, physicians apparently can't write worth shit, but this was worse.
"Anger management zalafl?" Trying to prescribe food maybe?
And then: "Hello Robin, we haven't met before in person but I hope you feel better soon please take this gift as a sign of everyone's fucking appreciation for you."
That's just fucking cheery isn't it? I'm guessing the good Doctor caught up with me after all.
Fuck you too Doc. Fuck you too.
Slept too long
Six fucking hours.
Fuck. That's too long. Anything could have happened.
Must've really done a number on me.
Where the fuck is a hospital when you need it?
Fuck. That's too long. Anything could have happened.
Must've really done a number on me.
Where the fuck is a hospital when you need it?
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Note to self
Learn to land properly. My ankle is fucking killing me.
Stopped last night for a few minutes to grab something to eat. Someone was waiting by the car when I came out. So I avoided the car. Went for a bit of a walkabout. This feels... flat. It's not quite what I'm used to. Lot more buildings in Toronto, even downtown Ottawa had build-up. Highrises, that sort of thing.
The walk didn't end well.
Whoever was watching my car had friends. Never really got a good look at 'em.
Running, you can hear their feet hitting the pavement behind you, but that's alright. Two? No, maybe three. Hard to tell.
They aren't far now. You don't have to be faster, not the whole time, just fast enough. Have to be smarter.
There's a fence, jump over it, swing the legs up. Like running away from that dog that lived nearby. You had to walk past it after school. Remember when it broke it's lead and came after you? Just like that. Over the fence.
Keep running, they're still on you, did you think it was going to be easy? Hard left, down the street. Cars coming from both directions, hard right, through the street. Mind the traffic now boys.
Now quickly, up over the fence between those houses. Make them work for it.
Oh shit. Dog. Move fast, keep going. Maybe he'll slow them down, another fence. Up and over it one more time. Almost in the clear now.
Fuck, ditch. Stick the landing, roll.
Pain, shake it off. Your ankle doesn't hurt that much. Sounds like the dog is dealing with one of them. Just get back up. Fuck.
Lost your footing there. Bottom of the ditch now. More pain. Shoulder this time. Not going to be easy. Alright, running isn't exactly a fucking option at this point. Hide. There's a culvert over there. Climbing out will take too long.
Looks like they're gone. Lucky bastard. Now, just need to get back to the car. Have some people to talk to.
Stopped last night for a few minutes to grab something to eat. Someone was waiting by the car when I came out. So I avoided the car. Went for a bit of a walkabout. This feels... flat. It's not quite what I'm used to. Lot more buildings in Toronto, even downtown Ottawa had build-up. Highrises, that sort of thing.
The walk didn't end well.
Whoever was watching my car had friends. Never really got a good look at 'em.
Running, you can hear their feet hitting the pavement behind you, but that's alright. Two? No, maybe three. Hard to tell.
They aren't far now. You don't have to be faster, not the whole time, just fast enough. Have to be smarter.
There's a fence, jump over it, swing the legs up. Like running away from that dog that lived nearby. You had to walk past it after school. Remember when it broke it's lead and came after you? Just like that. Over the fence.
Keep running, they're still on you, did you think it was going to be easy? Hard left, down the street. Cars coming from both directions, hard right, through the street. Mind the traffic now boys.
Now quickly, up over the fence between those houses. Make them work for it.
Oh shit. Dog. Move fast, keep going. Maybe he'll slow them down, another fence. Up and over it one more time. Almost in the clear now.
Fuck, ditch. Stick the landing, roll.
Pain, shake it off. Your ankle doesn't hurt that much. Sounds like the dog is dealing with one of them. Just get back up. Fuck.
Lost your footing there. Bottom of the ditch now. More pain. Shoulder this time. Not going to be easy. Alright, running isn't exactly a fucking option at this point. Hide. There's a culvert over there. Climbing out will take too long.
Looks like they're gone. Lucky bastard. Now, just need to get back to the car. Have some people to talk to.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Always with the running
He's following me.
Six times. Six times I've seen him today. Not going to stop tonight. Can't stop.
It just stands there by the side of the road. Suit and no face.
And there's a sound. That's not right because it's not really a sound. You know how really low bass, you don't so much hear as feel through your feet and your lungs? Or a really high pitched note you can feel in your teeth and behind your eyes more than you can hear it. And it doesn't have direction. Like a low-flying jet. It's coming from everywhere at once.
I just read that again. I'm not making anything even remotely fucking resembling sense.
He's there, outside. Watching. It's funny isn't it? He's watching. I know he's watching but he DOESN'T HAVE ANY FUCKING EYES. How can he be watching without eyes? I don't know. Drives me right up the bloody wall it does.
No one else can see him. It. It's just standing there out on the other side of the street.
How many do you think are in mental institutions? Because they can see it but no one else does?
This is what it feels like to question your own sanity, isn't it? And there it fucking is again and again that sound that isn't a sound. It's high and low and everywhere all at once why can no one else hear it? There are a dozen people in this shop, and they can't see him. I've got to be fucking mad right? They can't hear it.
Fuck it. Need to keep moving.
Six times. Six times I've seen him today. Not going to stop tonight. Can't stop.
It just stands there by the side of the road. Suit and no face.
And there's a sound. That's not right because it's not really a sound. You know how really low bass, you don't so much hear as feel through your feet and your lungs? Or a really high pitched note you can feel in your teeth and behind your eyes more than you can hear it. And it doesn't have direction. Like a low-flying jet. It's coming from everywhere at once.
I just read that again. I'm not making anything even remotely fucking resembling sense.
He's there, outside. Watching. It's funny isn't it? He's watching. I know he's watching but he DOESN'T HAVE ANY FUCKING EYES. How can he be watching without eyes? I don't know. Drives me right up the bloody wall it does.
No one else can see him. It. It's just standing there out on the other side of the street.
How many do you think are in mental institutions? Because they can see it but no one else does?
This is what it feels like to question your own sanity, isn't it? And there it fucking is again and again that sound that isn't a sound. It's high and low and everywhere all at once why can no one else hear it? There are a dozen people in this shop, and they can't see him. I've got to be fucking mad right? They can't hear it.
Fuck it. Need to keep moving.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Air Raid Sirens
Bit of a bad season. Lots of dead people. Didn't know any of them, but I try to keep up with the obits. I have to keep score somehow, right? We've actually got confirmation that Zeke Strahm, face-punching, gun-toting, ex-cop wunderkind is dead. Not pretty at all, had to happen eventually.
This isn't the time or place for heroes. It's time to start looking for cover.
Air raid sirens and thunderclouds. Hope I can run fast enough. You're dead if you stay still, and standing on the high ground is just asking to be struck by lightning.
Anyone who says otherwise is fucking mental. Delusional, to a man. Some of them had fucking messiah complexes.
Heroes get killed. No question. It's just a matter of how many people are unlucky go with them.
Time to get back on the road. A knife wound and broken fingers obviously weren't disincentive enough for some people.
This isn't the time or place for heroes. It's time to start looking for cover.
Air raid sirens and thunderclouds. Hope I can run fast enough. You're dead if you stay still, and standing on the high ground is just asking to be struck by lightning.
Anyone who says otherwise is fucking mental. Delusional, to a man. Some of them had fucking messiah complexes.
Heroes get killed. No question. It's just a matter of how many people are unlucky go with them.
Time to get back on the road. A knife wound and broken fingers obviously weren't disincentive enough for some people.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Now I need a new coat
I can pick up the signal from the service centre on the other side of the highway from the parking lot over here. Barely.
They haven't really started over here. They've just shut down the service centre. I expect they'll tear it down soon enough. With any luck no one will notice.
I pulled into the service centre just about sunset. It's farm country here, one of the places around here is big on tomatoes. They're quite good actually. I didn't see how they got in. Two of them. Boy and a girl.
They couldn't have been much more than teenagers. 15-16, best guess. It was the giggling that set me on edge. I couldn't figure out which of them was doing it. Masks were a permanent sort of grin. Like a clown's facepaint. It's disturbing.
I didn't see her pull the knife on me. That cost me. Pulled my arm up to protect myself and she sliced me across it. Bandaged now, but it bled pretty nice. I'll have to stop and clean it properly I expect. Don't know if I'll need stitches. wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last
Her buddy grabbed me from behind. He was taller than me. Bad luck for him. I've always been of a mind that the longer someone's legs are the better. It just means the soft, squishy bits are a little easier for me to get at.
In this case it meant pushing him back into a wall, slamming my shoulder into his gut and my elbow into his crotch and trying to get his chin with my head. Headbutting people generally isn't a good idea, but you work with what you've got.
Bubbles Mcgiggle was harder. She was all over the place. Wouldn't stop moving. Few more shallow cuts. Going to need a new coat, she put enough holes in this one. Couldn't keep her hand still though. She was shaking the whole time. Like she was freezing cold, or having a walking seizure. And the damn laughing. I'm sure I missed part of it that only dogs would hear.
I'm sure I got lucky. She tripped over a bit of uneven floor. Almost got me in the neck when she flailed the damn knife around. More broken fingers after that. Boots are good. She didn't stop laughing when I stepped on the hand with the knife in it. It got worse. Lanky was a little less inclined to come at me when I took the knife off of her. Not entirely disinclined. I'm no good with knives. It's a whole bag of snakes that I'm not willing to open up. Lanky got it in the shoulder and I booked it.
Lesson learned? Not in the fucking slightest. I'm not dead yet, right?
They haven't really started over here. They've just shut down the service centre. I expect they'll tear it down soon enough. With any luck no one will notice.
I pulled into the service centre just about sunset. It's farm country here, one of the places around here is big on tomatoes. They're quite good actually. I didn't see how they got in. Two of them. Boy and a girl.
They couldn't have been much more than teenagers. 15-16, best guess. It was the giggling that set me on edge. I couldn't figure out which of them was doing it. Masks were a permanent sort of grin. Like a clown's facepaint. It's disturbing.
I didn't see her pull the knife on me. That cost me. Pulled my arm up to protect myself and she sliced me across it. Bandaged now, but it bled pretty nice. I'll have to stop and clean it properly I expect. Don't know if I'll need stitches. wouldn't be the first time, won't be the last
Her buddy grabbed me from behind. He was taller than me. Bad luck for him. I've always been of a mind that the longer someone's legs are the better. It just means the soft, squishy bits are a little easier for me to get at.
In this case it meant pushing him back into a wall, slamming my shoulder into his gut and my elbow into his crotch and trying to get his chin with my head. Headbutting people generally isn't a good idea, but you work with what you've got.
Bubbles Mcgiggle was harder. She was all over the place. Wouldn't stop moving. Few more shallow cuts. Going to need a new coat, she put enough holes in this one. Couldn't keep her hand still though. She was shaking the whole time. Like she was freezing cold, or having a walking seizure. And the damn laughing. I'm sure I missed part of it that only dogs would hear.
I'm sure I got lucky. She tripped over a bit of uneven floor. Almost got me in the neck when she flailed the damn knife around. More broken fingers after that. Boots are good. She didn't stop laughing when I stepped on the hand with the knife in it. It got worse. Lanky was a little less inclined to come at me when I took the knife off of her. Not entirely disinclined. I'm no good with knives. It's a whole bag of snakes that I'm not willing to open up. Lanky got it in the shoulder and I booked it.
Lesson learned? Not in the fucking slightest. I'm not dead yet, right?
What's that saying?
That which doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger?
And there was that bit in the Dark Knight that substituted "stranger".
Bullshit. If it doesn't kill you it tends to hurt like a bitch.
I'm not dead yet right? Or if I am this is a hell of a weird hereafter.
I seem to still have all my bits attached.
Bringing me to the point of this post.
There may be some angry people following me.
Well I say people. I assume you know the sort of "people" I'm talking about. One or two bastards in cheap halloween masks. It seems that not everyone approves of my treatment of a certain would be antagonist.
I did leave him alive. I'm not a murderer.
Whether or not our mutual acquaintance in the suit did... well that's another question altogether isn't it?
They've been doing a pretty good job keeping up with me. That's a good trick. Think I'll have to ask them about it. They've been replacing the service centres along the highway here. Shouldn't be too much effort to find somewhere a little less public.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Don't stop me now
Should have known better. Did you really think I would just ignore something like that? Did you think you'd get away with it? Honestly, did you?
Miranda is dead. Frankly, I'm doing just fucking fine with that.
The problem is that someone trying to mess with me by using her email account is quite far from fine. That's just rude. More precisely, it's people fucking with me, which is something I really can't stand.
Now, the dumbass responsible? He's getting his just desserts at the moment.
He tried to run. But you don't get points for trying. He didn't run fast enough. Steel toes are good for kicking the shit out of someone. Might have been taller than me, but he's a scrawny little bastard. And that plastic mask of his wasn't worth shit.
What does this would-be antagonist have to show for his trouble?
Two hands worth of broken fingers, more bruises than I'd care to count, maybe a rib or two broken, and some missing teeth. Don't think done yet. He's still got thumbs. And the ability to walk. Those are a little harder and I figured I'd take a break before getting back to work.
Can't say I haven't been enjoying myself.
That'd be lying.
Miranda is dead. Frankly, I'm doing just fucking fine with that.
The problem is that someone trying to mess with me by using her email account is quite far from fine. That's just rude. More precisely, it's people fucking with me, which is something I really can't stand.
Now, the dumbass responsible? He's getting his just desserts at the moment.
He tried to run. But you don't get points for trying. He didn't run fast enough. Steel toes are good for kicking the shit out of someone. Might have been taller than me, but he's a scrawny little bastard. And that plastic mask of his wasn't worth shit.
What does this would-be antagonist have to show for his trouble?
Two hands worth of broken fingers, more bruises than I'd care to count, maybe a rib or two broken, and some missing teeth. Don't think done yet. He's still got thumbs. And the ability to walk. Those are a little harder and I figured I'd take a break before getting back to work.
Can't say I haven't been enjoying myself.
That'd be lying.
A brief interlude of violence
Of course.
Of course someone is fucking with me.
Of course someone has decided that THIS! This must be the correct moment to fuck with me.
Which means that the logical thing to do is to keep going in the direction I was going and let them keep on at their little games.
But you know what? You've caught me in a bit of a bad mood. Not feeling the logical vibe today. What I am feeling is a terrible desire to find the party responsible and break a few of their fingers. For starters. I'm given to understand that fingers are necessary for operating a keyboard and I'd rather permit the person or persons responsible to do so for the foreseeable future.
So I'll tell you what asshole. This is your notice. I'm turning my car around. If you would like to avoid pain, seriously bodily harm and assorted very unpleasant words that I would like to have with you, you should step away from that account you just broke into, and start running at the sound of the tone.
I don't take kindly to people fucking with me by using dead people.
Beep.
Post Script: Sorry if this gets to you two or three days late. There's not much in the way of free internet between where I am at the moment and my destination. I'll probably have arrived by the time it gets there. But you've got to see to the formalities when you're dealing with mad people.
Pardon me, there's a spot of violence I need to be doing. I'll let you know how that goes, shall I?
Of course someone is fucking with me.
Of course someone has decided that THIS! This must be the correct moment to fuck with me.
Which means that the logical thing to do is to keep going in the direction I was going and let them keep on at their little games.
But you know what? You've caught me in a bit of a bad mood. Not feeling the logical vibe today. What I am feeling is a terrible desire to find the party responsible and break a few of their fingers. For starters. I'm given to understand that fingers are necessary for operating a keyboard and I'd rather permit the person or persons responsible to do so for the foreseeable future.
So I'll tell you what asshole. This is your notice. I'm turning my car around. If you would like to avoid pain, seriously bodily harm and assorted very unpleasant words that I would like to have with you, you should step away from that account you just broke into, and start running at the sound of the tone.
I don't take kindly to people fucking with me by using dead people.
Beep.
Post Script: Sorry if this gets to you two or three days late. There's not much in the way of free internet between where I am at the moment and my destination. I'll probably have arrived by the time it gets there. But you've got to see to the formalities when you're dealing with mad people.
Pardon me, there's a spot of violence I need to be doing. I'll let you know how that goes, shall I?
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
I could very well be crazy.
Don't think it hasn't occurred to me. Psychotic break? Hallucinations? I could be going just like
Not important. Not like I've been acting particularly rationally. For all I know, I could be entirely delusional. Hanlon's Razor isn't as nice when it's not working in your favour.
And knowing this? I could just, turn around I suppose. Turn the car around, drive back and get myself put in a mental institution.
I don't think I want to though.
Don't think it hasn't occurred to me. Psychotic break? Hallucinations? I could be going just like
Not important. Not like I've been acting particularly rationally. For all I know, I could be entirely delusional. Hanlon's Razor isn't as nice when it's not working in your favour.
And knowing this? I could just, turn around I suppose. Turn the car around, drive back and get myself put in a mental institution.
I don't think I want to though.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
I am a bastard. I think I've made that abundantly clear. I make no apologies for it. I like it. It works.
Until I'm given reason to feel otherwise, I don't like you. I'm not a fucking fan of people, in case we've missed that little fact. I look out for myself, it's worked out.
I don't even known why I'm still writing this. I don't need to fucking justify myself.
Until I'm given reason to feel otherwise, I don't like you. I'm not a fucking fan of people, in case we've missed that little fact. I look out for myself, it's worked out.
I don't even known why I'm still writing this. I don't need to fucking justify myself.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Right. So.Calm now? Yeah. Calm now. Good.
Woke up yesterday, pulled the car over to the side of the highway to sleep the night before.
I woke up this morning and someone had delivered mail.
MAIL. To a fucking car, in the middle of nowhere. Just dropped it on the hood. Asshole even put a fucking flag on it. Like one of those little swing-y arm things from the mailboxes? Duct taped to the side of the thing.
Same package as last time. The exact, same fucking package. The one that I left in Ottawa. No. Nope. Calm. Incredibly fucking calm. Okay. Good.
Yellow envelope. Like what they sometimes send airmail, with the bubble-wrap on the inside.
No, I'm not opening it. It's in a ditch somewhere south of London.
Woke up yesterday, pulled the car over to the side of the highway to sleep the night before.
I woke up this morning and someone had delivered mail.
MAIL. To a fucking car, in the middle of nowhere. Just dropped it on the hood. Asshole even put a fucking flag on it. Like one of those little swing-y arm things from the mailboxes? Duct taped to the side of the thing.
Same package as last time. The exact, same fucking package. The one that I left in Ottawa. No. Nope. Calm. Incredibly fucking calm. Okay. Good.
Yellow envelope. Like what they sometimes send airmail, with the bubble-wrap on the inside.
No, I'm not opening it. It's in a ditch somewhere south of London.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
Assault, Breaking and Entering, and Jaywalking
So, I might just have committed a felony or two. Running down my (admittedly limited) knowledge I've just stolen, and committed assault and just a little bit of battery.
No one's heard from Miranda. Radio silence. Total radio silence.
Observations then? Just the facts?
I'm jumpy. It's interesting in a way. You get complacent. I wonder if this is how monkeys feel? You know, climbing trees to stay out of reach of things with bigger teeth and claws.
But yeah, jumpy. I really can't stand sitting around. I can hardly manage to write this post. It's like being on an adrenaline rush. Right after you've gotten scared or hit something in the face. It's just gogogogogogogo. Incessantly.
That's why I've got a car now. I've been keeping a low profile. Big crowds, transit (thank god for bus passes), trying to fade into the background noise. It worked for a little while. I saw it yesterday though. Standing in the middle of the street. I don't know how you can tell if it doesn't have a face but it was... watching me. It's mid-day and it's just standing there, nine-foot-tall and suited and faceless AND NO ONE NOTICES.
No one. Not even a blink. They just sort of stepped around it. It's like they knew something was there, but they weren't noticing just what was there.
And then I blinked. Lost line of sight. And it wasn't there. Almost freaked out. Would have had mall security called on me. Not safe in Ottawa. Not any more.
But I saw it this time. That's the important thing. I saw it.
No one's heard from Miranda. Radio silence. Total radio silence.
Observations then? Just the facts?
I'm jumpy. It's interesting in a way. You get complacent. I wonder if this is how monkeys feel? You know, climbing trees to stay out of reach of things with bigger teeth and claws.
But yeah, jumpy. I really can't stand sitting around. I can hardly manage to write this post. It's like being on an adrenaline rush. Right after you've gotten scared or hit something in the face. It's just gogogogogogogo. Incessantly.
That's why I've got a car now. I've been keeping a low profile. Big crowds, transit (thank god for bus passes), trying to fade into the background noise. It worked for a little while. I saw it yesterday though. Standing in the middle of the street. I don't know how you can tell if it doesn't have a face but it was... watching me. It's mid-day and it's just standing there, nine-foot-tall and suited and faceless AND NO ONE NOTICES.
No one. Not even a blink. They just sort of stepped around it. It's like they knew something was there, but they weren't noticing just what was there.
And then I blinked. Lost line of sight. And it wasn't there. Almost freaked out. Would have had mall security called on me. Not safe in Ottawa. Not any more.
But I saw it this time. That's the important thing. I saw it.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
I'm alive. That's good news right? Ha. Ha ha.
Found this on the tumblr.
Looking more and more likely that Miranda has the camera.
The first one is from the woodlot, for certain.
I don't know about the other one. "Smile".
Yeah right. Fuck you Mir.
I've still got a little crappy point-and-shoot that Miranda left behind. I'll see if I can't get some use out of it.
I'll give the Ottawa transit system one thing. It has heated bus terminals. Lifesaver.
She's not at her house. I checked. There might have been a broken window involved. I'm not quite sure, you know? I think, that this is in order.
My name is Robin Smith.
You might know me. I spent some time trolling a few blogs. No, this isn't a fucking apology.
No, I'm not asking for your fucking sympathy. Take it elsewhere, I've got no fucking use for it.
I'm not writing this for me. I'm writing this because of her.
I have a friend. Girl named Miranda. She's missing, probably running like me. She was acting weird, before.
I didn't really mention it. Kind of regret that now.
She's about 5'7'', dirty blonde hair, dyed brown the last time I saw her. Short, sort of a pixie cut. Nose piercing.
If you see her? Drop me a line.
Found this on the tumblr.
Looking more and more likely that Miranda has the camera.
The first one is from the woodlot, for certain.
I don't know about the other one. "Smile".
Yeah right. Fuck you Mir.
I've still got a little crappy point-and-shoot that Miranda left behind. I'll see if I can't get some use out of it.
I'll give the Ottawa transit system one thing. It has heated bus terminals. Lifesaver.
She's not at her house. I checked. There might have been a broken window involved. I'm not quite sure, you know? I think, that this is in order.
My name is Robin Smith.
You might know me. I spent some time trolling a few blogs. No, this isn't a fucking apology.
No, I'm not asking for your fucking sympathy. Take it elsewhere, I've got no fucking use for it.
I'm not writing this for me. I'm writing this because of her.
I have a friend. Girl named Miranda. She's missing, probably running like me. She was acting weird, before.
I didn't really mention it. Kind of regret that now.
She's about 5'7'', dirty blonde hair, dyed brown the last time I saw her. Short, sort of a pixie cut. Nose piercing.
If you see her? Drop me a line.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Miranda is missing.
She was here yesterday.
I think.
Camera is missing.
Conclusion? Miranda probably has the camera.
There's not a note. No signs of a struggle, but I don't suppose that means anything. Her stuff isn't here.
And then there's the pictures.
Miranda left it up on the laptop.
I recognize... the first one is from out at the edge of the woodlot.
The second? No.
Conclusion? Miranda is running.
Makes sense.
Fuck. Right. Okay. Caffeine. One stop. Then more running.
Running is better than sitting still at least.
She was here yesterday.
I think.
Camera is missing.
Conclusion? Miranda probably has the camera.
There's not a note. No signs of a struggle, but I don't suppose that means anything. Her stuff isn't here.
And then there's the pictures.
Miranda left it up on the laptop.
I recognize... the first one is from out at the edge of the woodlot.
The second? No.
Conclusion? Miranda is running.
Makes sense.
Fuck. Right. Okay. Caffeine. One stop. Then more running.
Running is better than sitting still at least.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
its reel real I mean it's really all actually FUCK fuck fuck fuck fuck
it took an hour to calm the fuck down relatively fucking speaking
there doesn't seem to be much point in beating around the bush so let'ss out with it
the fckuing fucking Slender man
feel like someones replaced my bones with bits of lead pipe
rusty spiky frozen fucking jgagged bits of lead pipe
sososoooso much fucking running running like you would not believe
i was out taking photos
no you wont see these ones
iive deleted them
fFuck okay where was i it shard to type im still fucking shaking its been five hooours and im still fukcing shaking WHHat tthe fuck the woods righ was out at that woodlot snaaappign some pphotos and i was looking at one of the treees look im trying not to wax peotic here but... worrds dontt exactly work rhigt i cant do 'just the fucking facts'''
needd ot warm up
How did that take an hour? How the fuck.
An hour to calm my fucking hands down.
Going to regret punching the wall. pathetic
Keep fuckng writing dumbass. The tree?
It's an odd looking tree. I've tried getting photos of it before, but they don't turn out well. Its fucking annoying because I can see what the photo should look like but it never comes out quite right and i'm getting stide tracked. No sense in not trying again though, right? So the camera comes up, viewfinder to the eye. And, in the space between where I see the tree directly, and where I start looking through the lens somewhere in that moment
It doesn't make any fucking sense.
I can't explain it. I don't suppose there's a point in even fucuking trying to explain it. In that blink of an eye, where before there's nothing but empty space between me and the tree? He's right fucking there. Out of fucking nowhere. It's not like someone just stepped out from behind a fucking tree, there's not enough fucking cover. Not with the fucking leaves off and... fuck.
Doing better with this calming down thing now. Only took thirty minutes. Where the fuck were we?
Right. There he is. And it's just... cold. There's nothing to read off of. No body language, no facial expression. Like a fucking dressmaker's mannequin. Like trying to get an expression out of a fucking tree. The temperature drops, just for an instant. The kind of cold that takes the breath right out of you when you try to get your breath.
I wonder, if this is how an animal feels when it finds itself in front of something more dangerous? Every bit of me starts screaming to get the fuck out of there but my legs dont move. icant fucking move. I blink. He it moves. Moves isn't the right word. Moving implies... something. Action. This was like... moving, without action. He's simply there. Closer now. Shaking, it feels like my legs are about to give out. And the cold... like having ice in your veins. Flowing, ice.
Click. The shutter on the camera. Did I psuh it?
Doesnt matter. The cold is gone. Broken. I can run. Right into the street. Don't know how I didn't get hit by a car. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Like... a big spring that someone had wound all the way up. Not until I was warm. Still not warm. Suppose I should keep running.
it took an hour to calm the fuck down relatively fucking speaking
there doesn't seem to be much point in beating around the bush so let'ss out with it
the fckuing fucking Slender man
feel like someones replaced my bones with bits of lead pipe
rusty spiky frozen fucking jgagged bits of lead pipe
sososoooso much fucking running running like you would not believe
i was out taking photos
no you wont see these ones
iive deleted them
fFuck okay where was i it shard to type im still fucking shaking its been five hooours and im still fukcing shaking WHHat tthe fuck the woods righ was out at that woodlot snaaappign some pphotos and i was looking at one of the treees look im trying not to wax peotic here but... worrds dontt exactly work rhigt i cant do 'just the fucking facts'''
needd ot warm up
How did that take an hour? How the fuck.
An hour to calm my fucking hands down.
Going to regret punching the wall. pathetic
Keep fuckng writing dumbass. The tree?
It's an odd looking tree. I've tried getting photos of it before, but they don't turn out well. Its fucking annoying because I can see what the photo should look like but it never comes out quite right and i'm getting stide tracked. No sense in not trying again though, right? So the camera comes up, viewfinder to the eye. And, in the space between where I see the tree directly, and where I start looking through the lens somewhere in that moment
It doesn't make any fucking sense.
I can't explain it. I don't suppose there's a point in even fucuking trying to explain it. In that blink of an eye, where before there's nothing but empty space between me and the tree? He's right fucking there. Out of fucking nowhere. It's not like someone just stepped out from behind a fucking tree, there's not enough fucking cover. Not with the fucking leaves off and... fuck.
Doing better with this calming down thing now. Only took thirty minutes. Where the fuck were we?
Right. There he is. And it's just... cold. There's nothing to read off of. No body language, no facial expression. Like a fucking dressmaker's mannequin. Like trying to get an expression out of a fucking tree. The temperature drops, just for an instant. The kind of cold that takes the breath right out of you when you try to get your breath.
I wonder, if this is how an animal feels when it finds itself in front of something more dangerous? Every bit of me starts screaming to get the fuck out of there but my legs dont move. icant fucking move. I blink. He it moves. Moves isn't the right word. Moving implies... something. Action. This was like... moving, without action. He's simply there. Closer now. Shaking, it feels like my legs are about to give out. And the cold... like having ice in your veins. Flowing, ice.
Click. The shutter on the camera. Did I psuh it?
Doesnt matter. The cold is gone. Broken. I can run. Right into the street. Don't know how I didn't get hit by a car. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Like... a big spring that someone had wound all the way up. Not until I was warm. Still not warm. Suppose I should keep running.
Count the coincidences
This can't be happening. It just can't.
Count the fingers on one hand, see if you're dreaming.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Thumb.
Four fingers and a thumb. The thumb's not a finger because it's opposable.
One of these things is not like the others.
One of these things just doesn't belong.
Did I see that? Is the lack of sleep finally getting to me?
Count the fingers on one hand, see if you're dreaming.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Thumb.
Four fingers and a thumb. The thumb's not a finger because it's opposable.
One of these things is not like the others.
One of these things just doesn't belong.
Did I see that? Is the lack of sleep finally getting to me?
Friday, January 27, 2012
Weekend Plans
We've had freezing rain again, so I'm off to the woods for more photos.
Also on my list of things to do?
Also on my list of things to do?
- Scream Liveblog
- Sleep
- Delicious food
- Complain to the post office?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Mail Call
I had a friend once, back in high school. He was... what you might call "enthusiastic" about ideas. Had all sorts of them. Green energy, shadow governments, time travel. They were always interesting, so I'd listen to them.
Anyways, one of his explanations (may it live forever in infamy) about conspiracy theories had to do with the scale of events, and the effect that people observing them had. 9/11, the assassination of J.F.K, the Moon Landing conspiracy nuts.
The idea he had was that having so much attention, the attention of hundreds of thousands of thinking minds focused on a single moment affected reality somehow. Warped it and stretched it for the briefest of moments, and opened up a window where anything could happen. Quite literally a "perfect" moment in time. He called it "causally free". After it opens, it snaps shut again, and things sort of, reorient themselves around that. Like a linchpin, the rest of the event constructs itself around that perfect moment. And that created ripples so things like birthdays and middle names and places and even license plates started to line up in weird, funny, creepy co-incidental sorts of ways, both before and after the actual moment. Little echoes
So what did it mean when this started happening?
"You run for cover." His words exactly. Run for cover. "Because it's not really an echo. Not exactly."
"It's an air raid siren. And something is about to go off."
Well, I'm starting to get the feeling he might have been right.
You see, I found a package waiting for me on my doorstep when I came home this evening. Which, I know isn't exactly strange, things like that happen all the time. No, the strange part is who sent it. Which is to say, "me." My name was listed as the sender.
The return address was that house that burnt down.
Is someone playing a trick on me? Because I am not in the fucking mood.
Anyways, one of his explanations (may it live forever in infamy) about conspiracy theories had to do with the scale of events, and the effect that people observing them had. 9/11, the assassination of J.F.K, the Moon Landing conspiracy nuts.
The idea he had was that having so much attention, the attention of hundreds of thousands of thinking minds focused on a single moment affected reality somehow. Warped it and stretched it for the briefest of moments, and opened up a window where anything could happen. Quite literally a "perfect" moment in time. He called it "causally free". After it opens, it snaps shut again, and things sort of, reorient themselves around that. Like a linchpin, the rest of the event constructs itself around that perfect moment. And that created ripples so things like birthdays and middle names and places and even license plates started to line up in weird, funny, creepy co-incidental sorts of ways, both before and after the actual moment. Little echoes
So what did it mean when this started happening?
"You run for cover." His words exactly. Run for cover. "Because it's not really an echo. Not exactly."
"It's an air raid siren. And something is about to go off."
Well, I'm starting to get the feeling he might have been right.
You see, I found a package waiting for me on my doorstep when I came home this evening. Which, I know isn't exactly strange, things like that happen all the time. No, the strange part is who sent it. Which is to say, "me." My name was listed as the sender.
The return address was that house that burnt down.
Is someone playing a trick on me? Because I am not in the fucking mood.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
On the air
So a quick update then.
Sleep continues to be elusive. I can't count the nights I've fallen asleep after the timer on the TV kicks in at two in the morning and then lay awake at least another hour. You know, television stations used to go off the air at night. But now they run constantly. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Radio stations are the same ways. It's always on. There's always something on. But there's never anything to watch of course.
Spring break is a few weeks away now. God knows I could do with it. Lack of sleep certainly hasn't done any favours for my usually sunny and outgoing disposition.
That was sarcasm.
Fuck it. I'm going to go make some tea, see if I can't knock myself out a little earlier than three in the ante meridian.
Sleep continues to be elusive. I can't count the nights I've fallen asleep after the timer on the TV kicks in at two in the morning and then lay awake at least another hour. You know, television stations used to go off the air at night. But now they run constantly. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Radio stations are the same ways. It's always on. There's always something on. But there's never anything to watch of course.
Spring break is a few weeks away now. God knows I could do with it. Lack of sleep certainly hasn't done any favours for my usually sunny and outgoing disposition.
That was sarcasm.
Fuck it. I'm going to go make some tea, see if I can't knock myself out a little earlier than three in the ante meridian.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Dear Asshat
Whoever sent this?
Mr. Smith,I'm telling you once:
Have you taken a good look at those photographs? The ones that you continue to post. You must, since you seem to be using some form of discretion when selecting them. God knows what that is.
But I digress. You appear to have an uninvited guest.
Tell me if the description sounds familiar: tall fellow, thin, generally lanky build. Snappy dresser, lacking a face entirely?
It is time to face facts Mr. Smith. Time to start running.
Do not delay.
FUCK. OFF.
Of course I examine those pictures. That's why they're good. There's nothing funky in them. I mean, fuck, I avoid putting people in them all together when I can, so I don't know what you think you're seeing.
Is it the Loch Ness monster perhaps? Black Shuck? The Cu Sith? Granted, we're a little far afield for any of those so let's look a little more locally... a wendigo maybe, out to eat me? Or maybe it's dear Philip! Bigfoot? Nope, we're not on the west coast. It's really a shame, I'm not up to date on my folklore for this side of the pond. There's so terribly little of it.
Of course I'm being sarcastic you dumbfuck. Don't expect another response, I'm deleting those on sight now.
Sincerely,
Robin Smith
Friday, January 20, 2012
Mid-week Weekend
I wasn't terribly active yesterday, or the previous evening. Well, I didn't exactly announce my plans, since they just sort of 'happened'. I was out in the country side, tromping around in my big stompy boots taking pictures out in the woods and generally having a good time.
Also, there were cats.
It was absolutely fucking brilliant, the freezing rain we had the other evening made the whole place look absolutely gorgeous. The only thing I could have hoped for was some better light so the shine would be there, maybe actually get some use out of the new polarizing filter.
But that's done and over with. Results will be showing up on my tumblr in bits and pieces. The first batch is up already, but I really need to get back onto the Scream liveblog. Whole movie to go and there's only been one murder so far!
But let's deal with the troll while we're here.
WHY HELLO MR. BATTLE! AREN'T WE THE BORED LITTLE FUCK.
Actually. Nah. That's all you're getting.
Go hug a tree Ricky-boy, I'm busy.
Also, there were cats.
It was absolutely fucking brilliant, the freezing rain we had the other evening made the whole place look absolutely gorgeous. The only thing I could have hoped for was some better light so the shine would be there, maybe actually get some use out of the new polarizing filter.
But that's done and over with. Results will be showing up on my tumblr in bits and pieces. The first batch is up already, but I really need to get back onto the Scream liveblog. Whole movie to go and there's only been one murder so far!
But let's deal with the troll while we're here.
WHY HELLO MR. BATTLE! AREN'T WE THE BORED LITTLE FUCK.
Actually. Nah. That's all you're getting.
Go hug a tree Ricky-boy, I'm busy.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Creepers
Returning to last night's post.
The photos turned out alright, as seen on the tumblr. The obvious problem is that -10 in the dark and -10 in the sunlight are two very different things. As is -10 while walking and -10 while trying to hold very fucking still so that you can work with a slow exposure and still get a clear photo.
Saw some guy while I was on my way back last night. Looked like he was waving. Or she, I suppose. About a block up the road.
Brief explanation, my subdivision happens to be built on a god awful fucking grid that only includes streetlights along the roads that run out to the larger road, which from my perspective is those going "vertically" on a map. Which means there's four street lights on the entire road, one per intersection. No sidewalks either. Bit of a pain, but you get used to it, and it's a low traffic neighbourhood.
So I'm standing in one little pool of light cast by a street lamp, whoever the fuck this is, they're standing in the pool cast by the streetlight at the other end of the street. About a minute away. I don't have my telephoto, sadly. It's a wonderful lens but it's absolute fucking rubbish when it comes to shooting in low-light conditions. So no zoom to speak of on the camera, my fingers are numb. And frankly, I'm already a little creeped out by the dumbass who was following me back from the parking lot I'd been shooting in.
Not a fan of being watched, you understand. You know that feeling you can get, when you're in the house alone. And you fucking well know there's no one else in the house, but you still feel like there's someone behind a door, or around a corner keeping their fucking creepy-ass eye on you? Or following you around?
Me either.
In any case...
I start to walk over there. Intending to see what this idiot is about and maybe threaten him a little. I'm in the mood for it. And I've already got big stompy boots on. Gotta love those steel toes. Anyways, I get there, and I realize. He's vanished. Into fucking thin air. And it felt like it took a little less time than I expected to get there. Maybe I was doing an angry fast-walk? Weird night. Too cold to stick around to see if he's wandered off somewhere. I head back. Hot chocolate is good for the soul. Or at least for cold bones.
He didn't show up in the shot I'd snapped looking up the street a few seconds before. Maybe it was a quality issue?
The photos turned out alright, as seen on the tumblr. The obvious problem is that -10 in the dark and -10 in the sunlight are two very different things. As is -10 while walking and -10 while trying to hold very fucking still so that you can work with a slow exposure and still get a clear photo.
Saw some guy while I was on my way back last night. Looked like he was waving. Or she, I suppose. About a block up the road.
Brief explanation, my subdivision happens to be built on a god awful fucking grid that only includes streetlights along the roads that run out to the larger road, which from my perspective is those going "vertically" on a map. Which means there's four street lights on the entire road, one per intersection. No sidewalks either. Bit of a pain, but you get used to it, and it's a low traffic neighbourhood.
So I'm standing in one little pool of light cast by a street lamp, whoever the fuck this is, they're standing in the pool cast by the streetlight at the other end of the street. About a minute away. I don't have my telephoto, sadly. It's a wonderful lens but it's absolute fucking rubbish when it comes to shooting in low-light conditions. So no zoom to speak of on the camera, my fingers are numb. And frankly, I'm already a little creeped out by the dumbass who was following me back from the parking lot I'd been shooting in.
Not a fan of being watched, you understand. You know that feeling you can get, when you're in the house alone. And you fucking well know there's no one else in the house, but you still feel like there's someone behind a door, or around a corner keeping their fucking creepy-ass eye on you? Or following you around?
Me either.
In any case...
I start to walk over there. Intending to see what this idiot is about and maybe threaten him a little. I'm in the mood for it. And I've already got big stompy boots on. Gotta love those steel toes. Anyways, I get there, and I realize. He's vanished. Into fucking thin air. And it felt like it took a little less time than I expected to get there. Maybe I was doing an angry fast-walk? Weird night. Too cold to stick around to see if he's wandered off somewhere. I head back. Hot chocolate is good for the soul. Or at least for cold bones.
He didn't show up in the shot I'd snapped looking up the street a few seconds before. Maybe it was a quality issue?
Monday, January 16, 2012
Photos
Going out on another photo shoot while the dark is still a little ways off. It's a least -20 out there at the moment, thankfully relatively free of wind, which is what always kills me.
Obviously I am mad.
Oh well! I've got a flashlight and big stompy boots!
I'll get plenty of interesting stuff wednesday and thursday though.
Obviously I am mad.
Oh well! I've got a flashlight and big stompy boots!
I'll get plenty of interesting stuff wednesday and thursday though.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
So, winter is actually here, negative temperatures, about a foot of snow and BLINDING AS FUCK ALL if you decide to look outside while the sun is up. Fucking albedo.
I'm not going to starve to death, which is nice. On the other hand, I had to deal with the Grocery Store which was simply lovely. See the link for my earlier notes about that particular establishment.
Also, I have a new follower. Well that's interesting.
Let's see... I'm going to guess this is about trolling, judging by the timing, so if you intend to upbraid me for it SOD OFF.
Is that clear? Granted, if anyone else has bothered to find their way over here, feel free to try to troll me back.
Or, I suppose it would be more appropriate to say:
Come at me bro.
I'm not going to starve to death, which is nice. On the other hand, I had to deal with the Grocery Store which was simply lovely. See the link for my earlier notes about that particular establishment.
Also, I have a new follower. Well that's interesting.
Let's see... I'm going to guess this is about trolling, judging by the timing, so if you intend to upbraid me for it SOD OFF.
Is that clear? Granted, if anyone else has bothered to find their way over here, feel free to try to troll me back.
Or, I suppose it would be more appropriate to say:
Come at me bro.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Hanlon's Razor
"Never mistake for malice, that which can be adequately explained by stupidity."
News then. Miranda finally decided to answer her phone. Montreal. She was in montreal. That took all of two seconds to mention. Seriously. You break into my account, post a cryptic comment and... are the blogs getting to you or something Mir?
It's snowing again. Plenty of it. If you read the tumblr (don't know why not) you'll have seen the photo this morning.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Miranda
Where in the everloving fuck are you? You broke into my account? To post a fucking comment? You can fucking well do that without guessing at my password. SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK? Answer your goddamned phone. I'm not even kidding at this point. You weren't at class yesterday? Yes I checked.
Just answer the phone.
Just answer the phone.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
AWOL
My own bed again. And if you'd believe it, I still haven't bothered unpacking. Haven't really had the time.
Went by Miranda's house yesterday.
Actually, let me preface this by saying that she hasn't answered her phone in two days. She always answers the phone. Even if it's just to say "busy now, talk later."
So I walk to her house. We've got plenty of snow here, nice and crunchy where it hasn't turned to slush. Knock on the front door. No answer. Maybe she's gone somewhere? Don't recall her having any plans though. And there's a shit-ton of mail piled up. I took a look, she's got one of those flap/slot things on her door for mail.
At least a week's worth.
Of course, the neighbours seemed a little wary of some short white dude in a jacket looking through someone's front door. Threatened to call the cops on me, so I scrammed.
Went back that night, there's no lights on in the whole house. Where the everloving fuck are you hiding Miranda?
Hey, Mir? If you read this, pick up your fucking phone. So I can punch you through it. I will find a way to do it. Disappearing is not fucking cool.
Went by Miranda's house yesterday.
Actually, let me preface this by saying that she hasn't answered her phone in two days. She always answers the phone. Even if it's just to say "busy now, talk later."
So I walk to her house. We've got plenty of snow here, nice and crunchy where it hasn't turned to slush. Knock on the front door. No answer. Maybe she's gone somewhere? Don't recall her having any plans though. And there's a shit-ton of mail piled up. I took a look, she's got one of those flap/slot things on her door for mail.
At least a week's worth.
Of course, the neighbours seemed a little wary of some short white dude in a jacket looking through someone's front door. Threatened to call the cops on me, so I scrammed.
Went back that night, there's no lights on in the whole house. Where the everloving fuck are you hiding Miranda?
Hey, Mir? If you read this, pick up your fucking phone. So I can punch you through it. I will find a way to do it. Disappearing is not fucking cool.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Back in Ottawa
What it says on the fucking tin. A little miserable. Forgot my boots here, and don't you know it snowed here while I was away. Lugging a suitcase through the slush is an exercise in fucking futility.
Been ditched by Miranda for the evening. Lovely girl most of the time, but she seems to be in a bit of a state. Not sure why. We hardly talked over the break.
My sleeping is still wildly fucked up. I've got two nights to get it back under control before classes start up again.
I dropped by the coffee shop on my way to the train. Bad idea, since, the Coffee Shop, and because it fucked my schedule (along with the subway) and I nearly missed the damn train. Train ride was nice though. But anyways, one of the guys in there said the two longcoat dorks were back in, end of November. Figures, right?
Glad I'm not fucking working there any more.
Been ditched by Miranda for the evening. Lovely girl most of the time, but she seems to be in a bit of a state. Not sure why. We hardly talked over the break.
My sleeping is still wildly fucked up. I've got two nights to get it back under control before classes start up again.
I dropped by the coffee shop on my way to the train. Bad idea, since, the Coffee Shop, and because it fucked my schedule (along with the subway) and I nearly missed the damn train. Train ride was nice though. But anyways, one of the guys in there said the two longcoat dorks were back in, end of November. Figures, right?
Glad I'm not fucking working there any more.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Happy Fucking New Year
Yes, you read that right.
Hello 2012, we're off to a great start aren't we?
Fuck you too, new year. I did not ask for sleep problems.
Maybe these'll clear the hell out when I get back to Ottawa.
So what have I been up to? Photos, among other things. Went out and got some good ones, one is even a decent photo of myself, if anyone's interested. However, while I was out, of course it hadn't snowed here when I left Ottawa so I only brought my running shoes. So outside, in the cold, running shoes and a camera, I happen across some ice. One foot slips, the other goes too, and I manage to bang my shins pretty nicely on the ice. Little bit of bruising, but I'll be a little more careful.
But yes. sleeping problems. Sleeping too much, not sleeping enough. My whole sleep cycle is a little fucked right now. Expect posts (like this one) at odd hours of the morning. Of course, all the problems that go along with not getting proper sleep have tagged along for the ride. Irritability, problems remembering things, I've spaced out a few times, general lethargic behaviour, poor appetite. The whole nine yards.
I leave on the sixth. And I will be happy to do so.
Hello 2012, we're off to a great start aren't we?
Fuck you too, new year. I did not ask for sleep problems.
Maybe these'll clear the hell out when I get back to Ottawa.
So what have I been up to? Photos, among other things. Went out and got some good ones, one is even a decent photo of myself, if anyone's interested. However, while I was out, of course it hadn't snowed here when I left Ottawa so I only brought my running shoes. So outside, in the cold, running shoes and a camera, I happen across some ice. One foot slips, the other goes too, and I manage to bang my shins pretty nicely on the ice. Little bit of bruising, but I'll be a little more careful.
But yes. sleeping problems. Sleeping too much, not sleeping enough. My whole sleep cycle is a little fucked right now. Expect posts (like this one) at odd hours of the morning. Of course, all the problems that go along with not getting proper sleep have tagged along for the ride. Irritability, problems remembering things, I've spaced out a few times, general lethargic behaviour, poor appetite. The whole nine yards.
I leave on the sixth. And I will be happy to do so.
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