| Hmmmmm |
[Sep. 6th, 2003|03:21 am] |
So I kind of want to start writing things in this journal.
I'm just not sure how.
I don't know what should go in here. Maybe I'll start thinking about it, and maybe I won't. We'll see, I guess. I never do things quickly.
-Justin |
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| Rez me up |
[Jan. 14th, 2003|02:23 am] |
So I've sort of got this routine going with Rez.
First, I play the game. Then I realize that this game is a masterpeice.
Then I put it back on the shelf for a month or two.
Putting it back in my PS2 on a whim, or a need, I once again realize it is a masterpeice.
Repeat.
This is the kind of gaming cycle I wouldn't mind staying with for a few more years or so. If anyone out there has another two hour senses/mind-blastathon, I'll be happy to give you fifty dollars for it. That goes double for you, Mr. Tetsuya Mizuguchi; maybe get Yuzo Koshiro to do some tunes for you.
Here we've got an interesting little article on Rez and erotica more or less. Sensory stimulation indeed.
I've got nothing else to say tonight, folks. I feel a big entry coming on sometime in the very near future, so hold the fuck on.
-Justin |
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| Set for Insanity |
[Jan. 11th, 2003|02:23 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  tired | ] |
OK, so I'm trying to learn Japanese, you see. Again. Shortly enough, I should be able to remove the "trying" part, and really get this shit going. After that, who knows? Maybe I'll get to say to someone "I know Japanese." That would be nice.
Yeah, I've said all this before, but even I'm surprised at the deep-seeded, apparent primal need for me to do this. I feel focused, and ready to do this shit in a sort of out of body way that is rare for me. It feels like someone else is forcing my head to cooperate--tying it down, pinning it's eyelids back, rolling with it. All I need is some Beethoven in the background, and I'm set for insanity. So far, I'm just getting some basics. I already know some of this shit actually, both from prior efforts, and the leg-up I get from watching reasonable amounts of anime.
This is all kind of necessary if I really feel like going to Japan, I figure. Some people can't wait to get out of the house when they're around my age--I can't wait to get out of the country. I don't want to hear anything about economic feasibility from anyone, either; Japan, Colorado, the moon--I can't make any money anywhere, so I might as well do it in a place that is...calling me.
More on this shit later. Much more, probably.
-Justin |
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| X-Men vs. My psyche |
[Jan. 7th, 2003|01:57 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  aggravated | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Excel Saga intro, stuck in my head | ] |
I am the mightiest procrastinator I have ever known, and I get the feeling you don't know anyone better at it either. For instance, I had decided at some point last month that I was going to start writing in this space once again. After a brief begining, I slipped into a nice little void for several months that I told myself on day one I ought not to do. Last month, I had to decide how I was going to start it up again--a procrastinator of my calibur simply can't just do something. It has to be far more calculated than that.
Writing in this journal is something I wanted to do back in September, when I was actually writing in it. In the supposed-to-be-cold months of October and December, I still wanted to do it (November was reserved for Vice City and Prime, you know), but...nothing.
Those of you in Internet-land that share my intense procrastination will know what I am talking about when I speak of delaying things you want to do. This was a phenomenon that I was altogether unfamiliar with for most of my life, and one that may sound absurd to the uninitiated even know, roughly six years after I discovered it's effect on my life. In stark contrast to everything before and since, it took someone else to shine a light on this aspect of my psyche.
Six years ago, I wanted to import a copy of X-Men vs. Street Fighter for my Saturn. I milled about it for far too long, failing to get off my ass and order the damn thing--maybe I didn't feel like bothering with importing games at the time. I don't know. What I do know, is I had an IM conversation with a friend that ended like this:
not me: So, have you got X-Men vs. Street Fighter, yet?
me: No, I haven't ordered it yet.
not me: You want it though, right?
me: Yeah.
not me: Why don't you have it then, idiot?
me: I don't know.
not me: You're just a big god damn procrastinator, you know.
This may seem innocuous enough, but I was fucking left numb. The first epiphany of my life (maybe).
Before that moment, I thought one could only be a procrastinator in regards to things he does not wish to do. I knew I was a procrastinator; I flaunted it, occasionally. But on that night, six years ago, I figured out I was very capable of delaying things I wanted to do, or even needed to do. It is a horrible thing, denizens of Internet-land, and one I think maybe I wish I was unaware of to this very day.
For the past six years, that fucking innocent little bastard of an IM conversation has haunted my life, in one way or the other. If I was to write a biography of my life tomorrow, I would open it with a paraphrased version of that conversation.
And so, I have not written in this journal in months.
In December, I figured maybe I should give myself something to do in January to give this year of mine a kick in the ass. Seven days into January, here we are, starting a self ass-kicking. Seven days from now, I should have more than one, or even two updates to share with no one in particular. Seven months from now, I don't even know where I'll be living, or how I will be making money, so I'm not going to say shit about this journal.
Tomorrow just may be a bad day. It's easier to write about the bad than the good, so hold on, be good, and you might see some things materialize in this space as soon as twenty-four hours from now.
-Justin |
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| Random controlled chaos |
[Oct. 7th, 2002|04:19 pm] |
Up until the point it exceeded 4200 characters, the following entry was meant to be posted as a loose response to Pyramid108 and his journal entry that was supposed to be a response to a post of mine in regards to an earlier post of </i>his</i> before it, too, went over the character limit. Confused yet? Just check out this shit and you'll be good to go.
***
For me, sports HAVE to be team based in order to be interesting enough for me to officially declare myself a fan. Inside the team framework, there is a lot of room for preferance and whatnot, but the presence of more than one person per side is essential.
Why?
Well, let's look at it this way. Would you like to know who in the world is the absolute BEST at spitting sunflower seeds? Are you concerned with how well the average man can use only his tongue to tie a knot? How fast someone can cut down a tree with a saw?
You see, without a team, ANYTHING can become a sport. In this sense, sport is merely reduced to competition. If I am not interested in who can quickly eat snails, why should I be interested in who is the absolute BEST at hitting a ball? Should I care who the fastest man alive is, or who is smart enough to pace themselves in a distance race?
Someone is going to read this and look at it as my inherent need for strategy in my definition of sport. That same person will likely point at chess and declare smugly that I don't know what I'm talking about. It's full of strategy!
Here is what I will say to that:
IT IS STILL ONE ON ONE.
There is no element of randomness, or surprise. If you are good at chess, you are good at chess. You don't have to worry about the peices not doing what they're told. Your Queen will not have an off day. Being a good chess player means knowing EXACTLY what the opponent can do at any given time...five moves ahead of where he/she is. In competetive chess, there is no element of surprise, nothing unaccounted for, no variables; no...STRATEGY.
Human involvement in team sports mucks things up a great deal. When things break down, when strategy fails, it comes down to a bunch of different people seeing who can hit each other harder, or whatever. When things don't brake down, you end up with an uneasy planned attack. It's the best of both worlds.
The greatest thing about hockey is how one person, or one team can simply RISE ABOVE the underlying chess game, and render it all useless.
It is very easy, particularly in this day and age, to get caught up in looking at hockey as a chess match. It is so defensive, every player is going to be in a certain position, doing a certain thing at any given time. Hockey is built around not letting the opponent score, and NHL teams are getting damn good at this.
So, last year in the playoffs while watching a crucial game three between the Avalanche and the Sharks--two teams that are more or less EXACTLY even on paper, playing EXTRODINARY defensive hockey, it's easy to get caught up in the game within the game. And then it happens.
The Sharks are playing perfect defense, and the game is neck and neck. In the offensive zone, Chris Drury of the Avalance has the puck harmlessly at the blue line. Suddenly, he makes a move, stops on a dime, twirls around, splits the D, and puts the puck top shelf over a perfectly positioned Evgeni Nabokov.
BAM.
You will not see that in chess.
Similarly, you will not see the often referred to "chess-like" moments in a sport like Tennis, in which you will see PLENTY of "Drury moves".
Team sports COMBINE strategy with human randomness and skill. Watching a sport that you really know can be a fascinating experience.
Football is as popular as it is in American because it employs this powerful combination FAR more visibly than any other sport. Teams LINE UP like the board of a game every TWENTY SECONDS, for christs sake. Each position is WILDLY different from each other, much like chess peices.
So, why don't other countries like football? Most other countries like sports purely for COMPETITION. That's why individual sports are more popular in other countries (and they are). The Australians love rugby because it's all about a bunch of guys BEATING THE FUCK OUT OF EACH OTHER. It might as well not have rules or strategy of any sort. This is also why Americans tend to be rather tame (comparatively) with their fandom. It isn't pure, distilled competitive fire like it is in some other parts of the world.
Now why does America--a largely anti-intellectual country, mind you--put so much of an emphasis on strategy and team play, while other countries wish for pure competition? Beats me.
Extending my ideas, I'll put forth hockey as the perfect sport. Like Tim said, it is very similar to soccer in practice. In hockey, strategy and positioning are so very crucial that one lapse often WILL mean the difference in a game. A bad team can be made good with some discipline and focus. It is like football in this respect. People unfamiliar with the game will find this notion preposterious for one reasons:
HOCKEY IS CHAOS.
The hits are vicious, and they come very often. The stereotypical hockey player is one missing his four front teeth, playing with a broken arm and starting LEGALLY SANCTIONED BRAWLS. People get cut to peices with large wooden sticks. Rubber is flying around at upwards of a hundred miles an hour. Hits occur at 20+ MPH. In this respect, hockey is like rugby.
Occuring in tandem with the disciplined strategy and unrelenting chaos is the simple transcendental grace of the "Drury moves". Some players at some times simply look at feel above everything else that the seasoned fan's eyes will simply widen with glee. This last and perhaps most crucial element is the above-mentioned randomness inherent in a team sport.
Sport is less of a microcosm of what life is and more of a microcosm of what people want life to be.
Problems are easily identifiable, and immediately addressed. A good problem-solver in sports will notice improved results instantaneously. There is a pre-defined simple goal, and a fierce desire to reach it.
Sports are controlled experiments in life. Good sports throw in a touch of the real in human form.
-Justin Freeman |
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| Round 1: Fight! |
[Oct. 6th, 2002|02:44 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  nerdy | ] |
I am convinced that the majority of things you would want to know about any given person can be discerned by playing said person in a game of Tekken.
I'm not about to say everything can be learned be beating some virtual ass, because that, my friends, would be a lie that I ain't about to perpetrate on your asses. For instance, the experiment is altered significantly if the person in question is not a gamer. BUT-- if they don't at least casually game, do you really need to know anything else? The nebulous "non-gamer" is of no concern today.
Now, it is both easy and tempting to think the crucial distinction between people that Tekken would bring to light is based on whether they "button-mash", or whether they attempt to learn the game. This, I'm afraid (truly), is not the case. It is, however, a part of the "base" one could psychologically construct of a Tekken player. To obtain this base, one must take a combination of the follow four things:
1. Does one button-mash, or does one attempt to learn each individual move and play-style?
2. Does one attempt to learn the game system--and thus win with cunning and guile--or does one attempt to learn the most damaging combos and power moves--thus winning with force and intimidation.
3. How serious does one take the bought? This is tricky, because it is obviously influenced by the circumstances. For instance, it is far more common to be jovial around friends than enemies, and far more common to be reserved and respectful around strangers than people you are familiar with. Thus, this is a difficult parameter to gauge. Some guesswork is going to be involved (Note: do not attempt guess work if you are an idiot).
4. Does one blame him/herself for technical ineptitude, or does one blame the opponent, controller malfunction, outside influences, or the presence of homosexuality in one form or another?
Once the base is obtained, it is necessary to discover the gaming habits of the person in question. Does the player often engage in competitive games? Are they disinterested in the fighting genre in general? Do they play games strictly for fun, or for something more?
Once everything is taken into consideration, it becomes easier to meld all the factors into one readable image of the Tekken player. How just anyone could do this is something I can't answer. I'm interested in recreational psychology, not procedural, hardcore psychology. You need to have a knack for this shit. And yes, this only works for Tekken. Don't ask me why.
I was going to talk more about Spirited Away today--like, as in the actual movie itself--but that kinda went by the wayside while I try to formulate it all in my head. You can't accuse me of slacking off though, because I DID go see it again tonight. All in the name of research, I assure you.
-Justin Freeman can feel</> Spirited Away. Can you? |
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| Spirited ten miles down the road |
[Oct. 5th, 2002|04:14 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  happy | ] |
So, I saw Spirited Away last night...in a THEATRE. This marks the second time in my life that I have seen a Miyazaki film in a theatre, which ain't all that bad for a guy living in Parker, Colorado, I think.
People always want to know what the atmosphere of the theatre was like for things like this. Did people like it? Think it will get a wide release? Here, then, is my demographical breakdown of the particular theatre I was at:
1. Japanese people. Nothing like Miyazaki to draw out the meager Japanese population of a city. As one would expect, they gave off the distinct impression that they had seen the movie numerous times before, which might explain why they were laughing a LOT. I hear Japanese people laugh at things in movies that us crazy Americans wouldn't/don't laugh at. Just seemed like they were having a good time to me.
2. Old people. This came as a bit of a surprise, I must say. When I say "old people", I don't mean "35 years old"-- I mean more like "60 years old".
2. Kids. This was a nice surprise, as I wasn't all that sure any parents looking to take their kids to see a movie would have any idea Spirited Away even existed. Despite a few murmurs, they seemed to take the slow pacing and long length in stride, and not a one was scared by the movies apparant "scary moments". In particular, they didn't mind when Haku was bleeding and writhing all over the place, and a good amount of them seemed to be concered. Distraught cries of "Haku!" were not uncommon.
3. Ed McCaffrey of the Denver Broncos. If I was an ass, I might've asked for an autograph. And yes, I do realize a man's signature don't mean SHIT, so lay off.
It's also worth mentioning the the theatre was PACKED, even if it was pretty small.
I don't much feel like commenting on the movie or the dub at length, so I'll leave all that for later. Lets just say anyone waiting with baited breath for the opinions of others regarding whether or not they should see it is a fucking idiot. It'd Miyazaki. Take a guess.
-Justin Freeman |
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| Tainted Ivory |
[Oct. 2nd, 2002|11:52 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  discontent | ] |
Ever had moments--even days--where you felt like you should be doing something in particular, but you're not exactly sure what, or how? I get that a lot.
Realistically speaking, I think this journal is going to turn into something for me to do during those times. See what sticks to the wall, and all that.
When I was younger, education was really a pretty simple thing. I was supposed to show people that I knew what everyone was talking about, and then I could go learn about what I wanted to. This was a fairly easy process in elementary school, and thus I spent most of my fifth and sixth grade years kinda doing my own thing. This was an acceptable act for me for a very simple reason:
My parents and my teachers were all very certain I was going to go to Harvard. I just thought it was pretty cool that I didn't have to do all the work the other kids were doing. Nice deal, this Harvard thing was.
In fact, everyone thought I was so fucking good that they didn't feel the need to pull me out of Public school and put me someplace where I might actually accomplish something. I have since discovered that it was at this very point in time that everything started to go to shit. Public school and Harvard teamed up to kick my 11 (10?) year old ass. So hard was this beatdown, I failed to learn anything in a classroom after the 6th grade that I couldn't have learned better on my own. There were exceptions, but they had nothing to do with the material presented in class, or anything of that nature.
Still, I have often told myself continuing in public school was a good thing. Surely, I would be a learned, narrowminded callow automaton had I undergone a more "special" education.
Unfortunately, not learning anything in public school meant I didn't do anything in public school either, which kinda isn't helping me out right now. Instead of doing my homework or listening to the teacher, I would amuse myself by studying the social tendencies of the people in my classes. Then I would sleep. Not exactly a good way to motivate myself, eh? Now I have to wonder just what it is my brain is telling me I should probably be doing on any given day simply because I couldn't be bothered. Probably missed out on a lot of cool stuff in there. Someone so concerned with time shouldn't be such a big procrastinator, I'm thinking.
But you know what? Fuck it. I taught myself some pretty cool shit, and I don't think Harvard seems like such a nice place anyway.
Then again, fuck public schools too.
"Hey, teacher! Leave those kids alone!"
"We don't need no education!"
Man, High School kids probably loved Pink Floyd back in the day.
Final thought: If America is so anti-intellectual, why are there so many movies about stupid people cheating there way into Ivy League schools? Are we supposed to be stupid and educated at the same time? I think maybe most Ivy League students are really stupid too, just not as crass as everyone else.
-Justin Freeman |
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| Slacking in pink |
[Oct. 2nd, 2002|12:51 am] |
Well, today was mildly interesting.
I was supposed to talk to a counseler at school today about my grades. Namely, he said I had a "low C" in my Chemistry class. I said he was full of shit, and came prepared to smack that ass down, hardcore style.
I am far too old to be in need of academic counseling, and this man was far too old to be giving it. I was not looking forward to my meeting. Did I mention this little episode forced me to remove my peacefull ass from sleep a full forty minutes earlier than normal? How about the fact that I am so adverse to mornings, and waking up with an alarm clock (or rather five minutes before it. I'll save that for later), that I dread going to bed simply because it means I will have to wake up?
Yeah.
Turns out this man did not want to speak of why he percieved I was not oxidizing sodium chloride as many times as I should be anyway. Turns out he's a dillusional, power-tripping veritable case fucking study of how staggeringly retarded a large portion of our population can be.
Instead of talking about Chemistry, this man wanted to bore a hole in my head and extract the juicy insides. He tried to give me a personality test. He tried to get me to fill out a sheet that might tell him if I was crazy. Sample question:
Do you suffer from any of the following? (check all that apply)
-Anxiety
-Loneliness
-Poor health
-Schizophrenia
...and it goes on
He wanted to know if I was less intelligent than your average single-celled organism. Again, sample question:
BIG means the same as:
Bright, Simple, Light, Large.
My mood (and facial complexsion, I'm sure) vascilated between utter shock and reserved irreverance. I didn't know if he was being serious or not. Then he brought out the heavy stuff.
"I want you to take one of these sheets here..." he started to trail off, fumbling through a few stacks of paper. His hands were plump and useless; I imagined Mario without his gloves. I wondered if perhaps he was finally running out of staggeringly pointless documents to vomit onto me.
"This," he said almost triumphantly, crushing my hopes, "is a time sheet. You've probably had one for a first..err...ummm...a full time job before."
He was losing steam.
"I want you to fill this out for the next week for every hour of the day. You should be studying for 30 hours everyweek, and I want you to get eight hours of sleep a day. It's important for a full time student..."
I blinked.
It was at this point I really stopped listening. This man wanted to know if I could read, if I had any mental problems, and just how much sleep I was getting. He wanted to know what I was doing at 4:18 pm on October the 5th.
"These are some sheets other students have done for me. You can arrange your time by color if you like. This person used red for work, green for study and orange for sleeping."
I could imagine this man covering the walls of his house with colored time sheets. Beeming with pride, he would tell his wife what joy the colors of juvenile production would bring him. Emily Johnson was dreaming in purple at 3:46 am on November the 18th, 2000. Doug Chavez must have been exhausted April the 3rd at 7:06 pm, after a vigerous nine hours of work. He chose red because the pizza place he worked at required a red shirt for all those making deliveries. Company policy; sorry, no exceptions.
"You should reserve your week days for going to class and studying, Justin. You'll also need one of these." He gave me the model number of a particular brand of voice activated tape recorder. I should use it to assist in taking notes. It's best to review immediately after the lecture ends. I want to buy this at Best Buy or Office Depot, not K-Mart.
"You can have Friday night and all of Saturday to do other things."
I wondered how this man could see out of glasses perched that low on his nose. It would drive me crazy.
"...Sunday should be for Church and preparing for the lecture on Monday."
I'm an atheist.
I'm also late for class, I thought.
Maybe I just won't go. Don't tell Mr. Padilla, the stalker counselor in room 2725 that my color at 10:21 am, October the first went from brown for "in class" to pink for "slacking the fuck off".
-Justin Freeman witnessed some fine window reality |
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| Clean slate, and nothing to write with |
[Oct. 1st, 2002|01:19 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  blank | ] |
I was looking at my "interests" list in my profile earlier today, trying to find ways to fill the white space.
Suddenly I realized I really don't have any interests. None.
Sure, I have a few things I kind of like, but I'm not big into anything. I used to be big into video games until I discovered that video games were a pretty stupid thing to be into that much. This was at least a year ago.
Now I ain't got shit.
Furthermore, I'm fast becoming a fierce nihilist, which I guess is better than being an apathetic nihilist. It just isn't better than anything else.
Hmmmm.
I think I need to get out of "here". |
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| Computational error |
[Sep. 30th, 2002|03:02 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | drained | ] |
Shit, I'm not always this angsty. I do, however, have a mathematical relationship for it all. It goes like this:
....
Well shit, I thought I could express it mathematically. Turns out the act of not caring about them much has not raised them a bit above the "nothing" they used to sit at.
Anyway, my angst level raises expotentially based on the relationship between the amount of time I've been awake, and the amount of people I have been around in a given time frame. That is, if I've been awake for most of the day, and I've had a large amount of interaction with people I don't like, I will move closer to "Goth poet mode" than I could ever deem desirable.
Fuck crazy goths.
And if you are a crazy goth that happens to be reading this, well, fuck you to. I advise you make good on all the suicide threats.
*ahem*
I'm just not a fan of fake melodrama. Irreverance makes so much more sense in the hands of one capable enough.
-Justin Freeman, off to Never-Never Land (and I'm not talking Kingdom Hearts style) |
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| Three times the speed of light equals four utils |
[Sep. 30th, 2002|02:35 am] |
I have just deleted four peices of spam from my inbox three times in a row in the span of thirty seconds. Last week, my computer froze up while loading a pop-up add that appeared while I was being assualted by another add telling me that I can, in fact, block adds.
The Internet has turned me into a desired commodity for all manner of product. On any given day I can expect to become a horny male teenager, a pregnant women, a lonely middle aged man, and a lady struggling with the effects of menopause. I can be rich and poor; smart and stupid. Is my child a slow learner? Would I like to earn a diploma online while masterbating to the nude pictures Mandy and Jessica told I could have for FREE! NO PASSWORD! ?
But mostly I can be one amphorphous consumeristic whore who's tendencys millionares in board rooms could only wish to know.
And so they send shit to my inbox. And I send it to the trash. Then maybe they try to eat my hard drive with a virus--I don't know.
You know, I'm a lousy consumer. I don't buy much shit, and I usually don't want to buy much shit. People that measure their self-worth by counting the amount of DVD's they own usually don't understand this. I usually don't understand why they are unwilling to type whole fucking words.
Some people get mad at adds telling them to buy specific goods or services, because they have--in their boundless cleverness--already procured a similar good/service at a price less than what is being touted. They feel proud. America has done a good job of turning people into consumers, and it must be said that this is in some ways comendable. Afterall, has there ever been anything in history more powerful than the American consumer? This shit pays off.
Did you know Economists have a unit for measuring self-satisfaction? They base it on material worth; it's called a "Util". This is the kind of shit I couldn't even bother making up, so you're just going to have to believe me. Here I was, doing my best not to go mentally numb in the one place a person is supposed to pretend to have some sort of knowledge--school--as I was taught how to measure and graph self-satisfaction based on how much money a person would save by purchasing hot dogs over potato chips. This particular concept did not seem to register in the processing centers of the automatons I happened to be sharing the classroom with. I shrugged off the obsurdity and attempted to write a story about a narcoleptic psychologist as I filed the idea of a utilstick in the back of my head for later use. I haven't gone back to it since.
The teacher began to relate a tale pitting "Utils" vs. the amount of alcohol one might consume and who she might sleep with as a consequence of her drunkeness.
She was talking about being drunk on alcohol. I was thinking about being drunk on America
-Justin Freeman is not interested in free phone sex at the moment |
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| Death of the Seahawk, and the machine that would not quit |
[Sep. 30th, 2002|01:18 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  apathetic | ] |
Sundays are the very best days for systematically destroying time.
Specifically, Sundays between the first week of September, and the last week of January.
Today was one such Sunday. Or more accurately, yesterday was one such Sunday.
If there's one thing you would ever want to know about me, it's that I'm intimately concerned with time. Frankly, I'm not that big a fan of it most of the time, and it, in turn, would rather I leave it the fuck alone. It's either really slow, or really fast, taking the form of what I don't want it to be.
So, fuck time.
Fall Sundays are the days that aren't so much aware of time. In fact, time will routinely stop, slow down, or mysteriously gain a few seconds.
This, my friends, is because Fall Sundays concern themselves with Football games. Masked men beating the FUCK out of each other over the pride of kitsche uniforms and animal names. On Sunday, September the 29th, I get to watch the clock stop for a large black man proclaiming himself to be a Viking (they were all white, you know) give a Seahawk a concussion. Ain't it great?
I get to do this for around Nine hours if everything goes according to plan. I can make money doing it, and I can lose money doing it. But mainly I get to see people try to kill each other in a legally sanctioned event, while a man can control the clock--of all things--by altering how well he throws a chunck of pigskin. I love this shit. Go Broncos.
I suppose I should mention that I play video games. This is worth mentioning simply because there isn't much else that is. When I am bored, or lazy, or sick, or drained, or unmotivated, I tend to play video games. That's not to say I shouldn't be playing them so much as they shouldn't be playing me.
It's like this:
Everyone has a base set of things they do that run in an infinte loop underneat everything else.
If you aren't particularly engaged in anything else, you will predictably start running through your list of base actions. If you don't feel like much of anything, and aren't thinking of anything, you pass time on that level.
I don't like that level.
I do like video games.
See the problem?
I want my base level to be include things like sleeping and keeping myself alive. I want to be playing games when I have a particular reason to be playing them.
In other news, I can definitively say I don't much like things like "oxidation-reduction reactions", "chemistry", or "school". I need to find a way to do them in my sleep.
Of perhaps less import, I have a name: it happens to be Justin Freeman. Pleased to meet you.
-Justin Freeman likes pink, hates spiders, and often wonders if he would like a pink spider |
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extralife's journal