Hey, I Have a Blog!
It occurs to me that I haven't written much of anything in the past... um, long time now. This is not to say that I haven't engaged in creative endeavors, certainly my life is rife with creativity. It's just that I don't really write for fun anymore, except for my D&D campaign which is more like "noting" for fun. I come up with a bunch of ideas and madly scribble little notes in my notebook so I will remember them for the next play session, but I know that a year from now I will have absolutely no idea what "winged monkeys!" and "Outers (BAD)" have to do with anything.
Anyway... stream of consciousness. The baby's sleeping. She played hard today while I drew 40 different versions of the 2 Handed battle-axe. I go through a lot of pencils these days. I need to buy some more. I like going to the art store. It always seems so full of potential projects, but then I know I won't really do them. I hate that about myself, how I talk myself out of projects that I know I won't finish. Maybe I just hate knowing that I won't finish them. I love starting projects.
Liz is giggling as she plays Warcraft. She missed the old guild that disbanded so we could join a larger guild that could raid the high-end instances where all the best loot dropped. Nobody talked to us in the new guild. They all knew each other, but we were just the guys from the little guild that got assimilated, and nobody wanted to group with me because I couldn't heal or tank. For those not in the proverbial know, tanking means to provoke the monsters to attack you so that they don't eat the more fragile members of the party. Tanking is usually done by the large, muscular, heavily armored types who can withstand the abuse of a roomful of angry monsters. Meanwhile the frail spell-caster types do all the damage to the distracted monsters. The irony of it all is that the steroid-laden muscle mass that is the focus of all their hate and rage does relatively little damage to them, whereas the gray-bearded ex-hippie wearing sandals and a bath robe is slinging balls of searing flame at their backsides.
Anyway, Liz is giggling. She's reformed the old guild with the people we like who liked us, and she's having fun. I guess I wanted the loot of the big dungeons, and she wanted friends to chat with. I'm such a power-hungry bastard... in the game world at least. I suppose I am different there... a bloodthirsty reaver raining steely death upon all foes in my path. It's silly really... but I love the slaughter. Must be the testosterone. Can't say that I'm really all that violent in real life, but you put that Grand Marshall's longbow in my hand, and I feel the arcane power coursing through my dragonhide armor, quenched in the blood of thousand fallen heroes, well, I just feeling like shootin' some orcs.
Everyone's desire to be a hero, I suppose. It's so easy to know what to do there. You know what you want, and you know how to get it. You know the rules of the game, and, if they won't let you get where you want to go, you know how to bend the rules and how to overcome the obstacles set before you. Not so easy here in the real world. You think you know the rules, and then it all gets kicked out from under you. Everybody has a quest for you, but none of them seem to go anywhere. It's like you keep completing epic quests, but they keep sending you back to Newbville. "Wow you did a great job slaying that dragon that no one thought could be slain, but what we really need you to do now is go down in the sewers and kill 20 rats... we'll give you a can of biscuits if you do."
So you're standing there with the head of yesterday's dragon at your feet, and those biscuits look pretty tasty.
Anyway... stream of consciousness. The baby's sleeping. She played hard today while I drew 40 different versions of the 2 Handed battle-axe. I go through a lot of pencils these days. I need to buy some more. I like going to the art store. It always seems so full of potential projects, but then I know I won't really do them. I hate that about myself, how I talk myself out of projects that I know I won't finish. Maybe I just hate knowing that I won't finish them. I love starting projects.
Liz is giggling as she plays Warcraft. She missed the old guild that disbanded so we could join a larger guild that could raid the high-end instances where all the best loot dropped. Nobody talked to us in the new guild. They all knew each other, but we were just the guys from the little guild that got assimilated, and nobody wanted to group with me because I couldn't heal or tank. For those not in the proverbial know, tanking means to provoke the monsters to attack you so that they don't eat the more fragile members of the party. Tanking is usually done by the large, muscular, heavily armored types who can withstand the abuse of a roomful of angry monsters. Meanwhile the frail spell-caster types do all the damage to the distracted monsters. The irony of it all is that the steroid-laden muscle mass that is the focus of all their hate and rage does relatively little damage to them, whereas the gray-bearded ex-hippie wearing sandals and a bath robe is slinging balls of searing flame at their backsides.
Anyway, Liz is giggling. She's reformed the old guild with the people we like who liked us, and she's having fun. I guess I wanted the loot of the big dungeons, and she wanted friends to chat with. I'm such a power-hungry bastard... in the game world at least. I suppose I am different there... a bloodthirsty reaver raining steely death upon all foes in my path. It's silly really... but I love the slaughter. Must be the testosterone. Can't say that I'm really all that violent in real life, but you put that Grand Marshall's longbow in my hand, and I feel the arcane power coursing through my dragonhide armor, quenched in the blood of thousand fallen heroes, well, I just feeling like shootin' some orcs.
Everyone's desire to be a hero, I suppose. It's so easy to know what to do there. You know what you want, and you know how to get it. You know the rules of the game, and, if they won't let you get where you want to go, you know how to bend the rules and how to overcome the obstacles set before you. Not so easy here in the real world. You think you know the rules, and then it all gets kicked out from under you. Everybody has a quest for you, but none of them seem to go anywhere. It's like you keep completing epic quests, but they keep sending you back to Newbville. "Wow you did a great job slaying that dragon that no one thought could be slain, but what we really need you to do now is go down in the sewers and kill 20 rats... we'll give you a can of biscuits if you do."
So you're standing there with the head of yesterday's dragon at your feet, and those biscuits look pretty tasty.
posted by Wormius at 11:30 PM
3 Comments:
I totally understand. After the rug has been repeatedly pulled out from under, you really start to develop an irrational fear and paranoia of rugs.
You know, I never have much liked rugs. They're really heavy, and they get dusty, and, sure, it's fun beating the dust out of them with a broom or one of them old-timey rug beater things you see in black and white movies (whose sale was subsequently banned upon the advent of color but which can still be found occasionaly in monochromatic antique shops), but you know the dust is still really there... waiting.
Heath prefers beating his soft furnishings with a curtain rod.
True story.
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