I did it. I had finally done… but something seemed off. -

S-chan

kiwifarms.net
I was right…
It was just a dream… WHY?! Normally, my body gives me the luxury of dreaming of such wonderful things as travel or drugs or violence. Even if those dreams are always somewhat melancholic in making me long for that which I cannot have, they also serve as something of a sanctuary in allowing me to, even if only for a brief moment, entirely take my mind off the pain I experience for the rest of the day. What I had just however, was an exception. It is rarity for me to dream about videogames, but when I do, it hurts. That feeling of believing to have been triumphant only to have the rug swept out from under me is almost as bad as failing for real after coming close. I say “almost” because that hazy state of being in a dream generally leaves me feeling as if I am merely a spectator with no control over my actions, and that can never be as bad as failing entirely from my own conscious decisions. Of course, I have read before that I have no control over my actions even outside of dreams, but that would entirely undermine the thing I have chosen to dedicate the rest of my life to. And that seems like a good time to stop reflecting on this, lest I see there is no reason to continue living. Stop thinking; just do.
I sat up and, almost as if my prior thoughts were part of a dream within themselves, I suddenly became conscious of the excruciating pain in my chest. Without caring to turn on the lights, I turned my head to the trash bin that lay to the left of my bed in the pitch-black room. I leaned my head outwards and looked downwards at the trash bin, watching as a flood of mucus drizzled out of my mouth. I noticed that the bag had already almost been filled up from the prior nights I had done this and the stench was totally wretched, but I couldn’t be bothered to change the change the bag just yet. To deal with the smell, I focused on the sound made as each droplet of my body’s waste reached its desired destination. Somehow, they seemed to form some rhythm, as if I was listening to a once-in-a-life-time improvisation made exclusively for me. Even as my body had broken down, I could not help but appreciate the miracle of the life it had been granted and its mechanisms to maintain that life. As I spit out the last few drops, I took notice of the crickets chirping and the dogs howling outside. I remembered where I was. I turned towards the window and, though my chest remained in a horrible pain, the sight of the stars filled me with a strange feeling of contentment. I didn’t know what was causing my ailment or how long I had left to live, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The beautiful, seemingly infinite night sky assured me of that fact. I wanted to be a god but as the years had gone by I became increasingly certain that would never happen. My only choice seemed to be to reject this 3D projection surrounding me and play The Game. Just as Milton had wrote, there is no reason to serve in Heaven when I know Hell is waiting for its king to return. The time to begin my journey had begun.
I turned on the light to check what the clock said the time was. It was stuck at 6:50. Perhaps it was better this way. All I needed to know was that it was deep in the middle of night, the only time of a day that I truly felt at home. To worry about when that awful sun would rise and fill my house with its distracting light would only create more stress than I needed. For now, I opened the door to finally leave my room. As I wandered through the halls, I could not help but notice crosses and portraits of biblical scenes adorning the walls. Every day that I saw them, they would never fail in invoking a warm sense of familiarity. I didn’t know if Jesus had ever existed, but I didn’t care. The fact that he had inspired such great works of art was all I needed to know. I had never been religious, but neither were my parents, the ones who had placed the pictures there. While they alive, I always got the sense that they were only displaying such merchandise because it was what everyone else in this area was doing. That, and they were just some really cool paintings—I certainly haven’t though of anything in the years since their passing to replace my parents’ paintings. And as the years continue to pass, it looks increasingly likely that I will never replace the paintings as my appreciation continues to grow. I have begun to view each brush stroke from the nameless person behind the canvases as something special. To me, it represents the ultimate repudiation of the universe’s indifferent nature. They see the same night that I do and, unable to bear the crushing weight of their insignificance, they choose to dedicate the miracle of their life towards the hope that they will one day be transported to the land of their fantasies. I find it difficult to believe that these people spent so much time on making such incredible art as tribute to someone that they had never even met. I believe that they were predominately meant as an attempt to spread the love, to convince future generations that it is better to be enslaved by a manmade religion than by the default religion of Nature. It is like a prototypical version of what I strive for in playing videogames to become God.
As the term “videogame” entered my mind, I suddenly exited the trance that I found myself in at the hands of the religious paintings. I dashed to the kitchen in hopes of finding some Adderall in the medicine cabinet to ensure that would be my only distraction of the day, but alas! it seems I had run out. I had a quick breakfast by drinking some canola oil with a caffeine tablet. I couldn’t forget to take L-Theanine as well, since I don’t have time to bother with a caffeine crash. I got myself a cup of water and made haste to the gaming. Every second was precious. Every run I didn’t play was a botched one. I switched on the light, driving out of my realm nature’s inconvenience with man’s great triumph over it. I walked up to my oversized chair fully knowing that there was no better place on Earth. I needed to face my destiny. I needed to turn on the TV. As the familiar lights of the console’s start-up flashed across the screen, I once more emptied my mucus into the small trash can I had next to my chair. It was finally time to become one with The Game.
Although I call it “The Game,” it has an alternate name that it is called by commoners. Much like the Christians who refuse to refer to their god as “Yahweh,” I feel that my relationship with the game has such a deep, spiritual level that it does The Game a disservice to call it by the name that shows up on its title screen. To call it by such a name is not only a form of sacrilege, but also a sign of inferior class, showing that one fails to see what The Game truly is about. For this account, the only specific details that need to be known about how The Game is played is that though it has a finite length, there constantly remains room to improve my highest score and a perfect score is likely impossible to obtain within a human lifetime. This is because of both sheer unlikelihood of a human managing a technically perfect run, and the fact that a great deal of the score purely comes down to chance. All of those random elements, overall forming astronomical odds of an entirely perfect run even with perfect execution, each represent a symbol of triumph over the dull 3D world and assurance that just continuing to play will offer me all the emotional support I need for a lifetime. Progress in the delusion known as “society” cannot continue forever, but it can in The Game, or, at least, it can continue as long as I need it to. The knowledge that human history will one day come to an end is a very difficult pill to swallow, particularly to someone who spends their life worrying about their meaningless legacy. To a gamer, however, the horrors of an absurd universe are irrelevant because The Game is Realer Than Real. Unlike Nature, it does not dump the agent with an impossible to satisfy desire to become God into a world with no discernable purpose. As I play The Game, I fully understand that it exists entirely to serve me and I, thus, exist in it as a God who aims only to achieve The Run. The Run. It is the carrot that constantly eludes the donkey. Every time I play, my desire to get The Run is what drives me to endure seemingly endless psychological torment, and though my suffering has, at times, led me to smelling it, tasting it, and even vaguely seeing it coming, I have yet to truly touch The Run. I don’t think I ever will. There were times I have set goals that I believed worthy of calling The Run, but after actually reaching said goals I realized how foolish I was to try to set up some arbitrary, human, definition to a divine concept. The edge of perfection cannot have an end. If it did, life would not be worth living.
As I thought these things, many hours passed and I endured the pain of failure countless times. As it often did, it began eat away at my mind, making me question if I had truly made the right decision. I thought about how simpler things would be if I just got a syringe and injected myself with a nice dose of potassium chloride to stop my heart. I wondered if it would be a better idea to use those welfare checks and the leftovers of my parents’ estate to buy a ton of meth and die in a grand overdose. Most of all, I wondered why I had been granted a privileged life. Was it actually privileged? Having tasted the good life, I could only go only through endless pains in thinking about how I could make it better. At least someone in Africa would be too busy thinking about their own survival to worry about if they should bother to continue living. Maybe things would have been different if I had been born in a place I actually had some attachment to and wasn’t just left to worship this stupid game. As these thoughts raced through my head, however, I could not help but notice that the caffeine was beginning to wear off. With that, a domino effect of my downfall began as I slipped out of my adrenaline-fueled craze and began to notice strong odor emitting from my body. I figured that since I had been playing so badly at this point a brief shower couldn’t do anything but help me play better by giving me an opportunity to clear my thoughts and focus on The Game.
My walk through the halls went smoothly as I took care not to much attention to the details around me. As I got to the bathroom, I came across a horror I would never have imagined meeting. A grasshopper. “Who are you,” I asked. Perhaps it was The Grasshopper. The one that had long tormented me with its wild and unpredictable jumps in my bedroom and the hallways nearby. I have no idea how, but it managed to work its way into the bathtub. I caught me in a bind. How could I say I love my life if I were to rob the grasshopper of its own? To kill a sentient animal would be tantamount to supporter the delusional slavery of the common man that I want to break free from. I see The Game with the infinite opportunites it allows to retries as the one true democracy, one utterly impossible in the 3D world. By no fault of The Grasshopper it had been born the way it was, unable to enjoy any of the perks that come with being human. Yet, even with my allegiance to The Game, I felt an obligation to at least not go against making the 3D world as close to a true democracy as possible, and so I had to save The Grasshopper. As I peered a bit closer to try to pick it up, however, I found myself unable to overcome my racism against it. It was just so disgusting looking and icky. Still, it certainly deserved its life far more than the white trash next door. So, I decided I would grab a plastic cup and force it into it before throwing it outside. What could go wrong? So I made the plan a reality, though The Grasshopper put up quite a bit more of a struggle than I anticipated. Didn’t it understand that I was trying to save its life by returning it to its natural habitat? Of course it didn’t. There is nothing that intrinsically makes the arrangement of atoms I view as a bathtub a true, universal, bathtub. To the grasshopper, it was nothing more than another platform to live on. How did it view me? Was I nothing more than just another predator? Or, was it worse and I was nothing more than a natural force to it? Or was I a god? As I opened the door to let the grasshopper out, I concluded that it was likely none of those, because its brain is not wired in the same way mine is, so its futile to try to put thought processes incomprehensible to me into human terms. Yet, as I was preparing to wave good-bye, I noticed that one of its legs was missing. In that moment of realizing my awful mistake, the harsh realization of shame flooding almost caused me to faint. “Should I have just killed it,” I wondered. Then I saw it merrily go on its way as if nothing happened, venturing out into the harsh and indifferent world with only the hilt to its sword. I think he deserved my life even more than I deserve mine. Thank you, brave grasshopper, for showing who I should be.
I returned to take a shower and made sure to find the leg of the grasshopper so I could wash it down the drain. I wanted to get rid of the memento of my guilt as quickly as possible. It was in that moment, as I watched it swirl down into the steamy abyss, that I understood what I was actually. By running from the truth in this manner, I was no better than the common family man who dedicated his life to a child in some misguided quest for immortality. No, I can’t be that guy. Yet, I was, and it was like I was in the shower preparing to go waste my life in some office job that I hated. Then I would go and spend my leisure with a 6-pack of beer, destroying to miraculous gift of a brain that I had been granted. And then, like the quiet lick from a puppy on ones feet, I noticed the sun had crept in from the ceiling window. Maybe it was not such a bad turn of things to have been raised in a town that I hate. Otherwise, I likely would not have had the time to realize how horrible it is to be an office slave and would have succumbed to such a fate myself. And I noticed a feeling of emptiness had begun to swallow me since I had helped the grasshopper, only increasing as I was taking the shower. Was this… Boredom? Yes, that just may be the worst emotion of all to experience. As I exited the shower, I made sure flip the bird off the world. To me, the middle finger is the definitve gesture of all humanity, simplisticly expressing the uniquely human ability to defy all-mighty Nature. I don’t need a better life, for I already had the ultimate summation of humanity’s conquering over the indifferent universe in The Game. With this realization, I took a hammer and smashed the religious pictures I had left hanging on the halls since my parents had been alive. Lies, all of it! I went back to the kitchen and took some more caffeine and L-Theanine. I then returned triumphantly to saddle, fully ready to reunite with my one true love after having finally conquered the old barriers. Ancient wisdom says that there is nothing new under the sun, and so modern utility leads me to conclude that life is all about The Run.
 

Jaimas

HUP HUP HUP HUP
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
I was right…
It was just a dream… WHY?! Normally, my body gives me the luxury of dreaming of such wonderful things as travel or drugs or violence. Even if those dreams are always somewhat melancholic in making me long for that which I cannot have, they also serve as something of a sanctuary in allowing me to, even if only for a brief moment, entirely take my mind off the pain I experience for the rest of the day. What I had just however, was an exception. It is rarity for me to dream about videogames, but when I do, it hurts. That feeling of believing to have been triumphant only to have the rug swept out from under me is almost as bad as failing for real after coming close. I say “almost” because that hazy state of being in a dream generally leaves me feeling as if I am merely a spectator with no control over my actions, and that can never be as bad as failing entirely from my own conscious decisions. Of course, I have read before that I have no control over my actions even outside of dreams, but that would entirely undermine the thing I have chosen to dedicate the rest of my life to. And that seems like a good time to stop reflecting on this, lest I see there is no reason to continue living. Stop thinking; just do.
I sat up and, almost as if my prior thoughts were part of a dream within themselves, I suddenly became conscious of the excruciating pain in my chest. Without caring to turn on the lights, I turned my head to the trash bin that lay to the left of my bed in the pitch-black room. I leaned my head outwards and looked downwards at the trash bin, watching as a flood of mucus drizzled out of my mouth. I noticed that the bag had already almost been filled up from the prior nights I had done this and the stench was totally wretched, but I couldn’t be bothered to change the change the bag just yet. To deal with the smell, I focused on the sound made as each droplet of my body’s waste reached its desired destination. Somehow, they seemed to form some rhythm, as if I was listening to a once-in-a-life-time improvisation made exclusively for me. Even as my body had broken down, I could not help but appreciate the miracle of the life it had been granted and its mechanisms to maintain that life. As I spit out the last few drops, I took notice of the crickets chirping and the dogs howling outside. I remembered where I was. I turned towards the window and, though my chest remained in a horrible pain, the sight of the stars filled me with a strange feeling of contentment. I didn’t know what was causing my ailment or how long I had left to live, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The beautiful, seemingly infinite night sky assured me of that fact. I wanted to be a god but as the years had gone by I became increasingly certain that would never happen. My only choice seemed to be to reject this 3D projection surrounding me and play The Game. Just as Milton had wrote, there is no reason to serve in Heaven when I know Hell is waiting for its king to return. The time to begin my journey had begun.
I turned on the light to check what the clock said the time was. It was stuck at 6:50. Perhaps it was better this way. All I needed to know was that it was deep in the middle of night, the only time of a day that I truly felt at home. To worry about when that awful sun would rise and fill my house with its distracting light would only create more stress than I needed. For now, I opened the door to finally leave my room. As I wandered through the halls, I could not help but notice crosses and portraits of biblical scenes adorning the walls. Every day that I saw them, they would never fail in invoking a warm sense of familiarity. I didn’t know if Jesus had ever existed, but I didn’t care. The fact that he had inspired such great works of art was all I needed to know. I had never been religious, but neither were my parents, the ones who had placed the pictures there. While they alive, I always got the sense that they were only displaying such merchandise because it was what everyone else in this area was doing. That, and they were just some really cool paintings—I certainly haven’t though of anything in the years since their passing to replace my parents’ paintings. And as the years continue to pass, it looks increasingly likely that I will never replace the paintings as my appreciation continues to grow. I have begun to view each brush stroke from the nameless person behind the canvases as something special. To me, it represents the ultimate repudiation of the universe’s indifferent nature. They see the same night that I do and, unable to bear the crushing weight of their insignificance, they choose to dedicate the miracle of their life towards the hope that they will one day be transported to the land of their fantasies. I find it difficult to believe that these people spent so much time on making such incredible art as tribute to someone that they had never even met. I believe that they were predominately meant as an attempt to spread the love, to convince future generations that it is better to be enslaved by a manmade religion than by the default religion of Nature. It is like a prototypical version of what I strive for in playing videogames to become God.
As the term “videogame” entered my mind, I suddenly exited the trance that I found myself in at the hands of the religious paintings. I dashed to the kitchen in hopes of finding some Adderall in the medicine cabinet to ensure that would be my only distraction of the day, but alas! it seems I had run out. I had a quick breakfast by drinking some canola oil with a caffeine tablet. I couldn’t forget to take L-Theanine as well, since I don’t have time to bother with a caffeine crash. I got myself a cup of water and made haste to the gaming. Every second was precious. Every run I didn’t play was a botched one. I switched on the light, driving out of my realm nature’s inconvenience with man’s great triumph over it. I walked up to my oversized chair fully knowing that there was no better place on Earth. I needed to face my destiny. I needed to turn on the TV. As the familiar lights of the console’s start-up flashed across the screen, I once more emptied my mucus into the small trash can I had next to my chair. It was finally time to become one with The Game.
Although I call it “The Game,” it has an alternate name that it is called by commoners. Much like the Christians who refuse to refer to their god as “Yahweh,” I feel that my relationship with the game has such a deep, spiritual level that it does The Game a disservice to call it by the name that shows up on its title screen. To call it by such a name is not only a form of sacrilege, but also a sign of inferior class, showing that one fails to see what The Game truly is about. For this account, the only specific details that need to be known about how The Game is played is that though it has a finite length, there constantly remains room to improve my highest score and a perfect score is likely impossible to obtain within a human lifetime. This is because of both sheer unlikelihood of a human managing a technically perfect run, and the fact that a great deal of the score purely comes down to chance. All of those random elements, overall forming astronomical odds of an entirely perfect run even with perfect execution, each represent a symbol of triumph over the dull 3D world and assurance that just continuing to play will offer me all the emotional support I need for a lifetime. Progress in the delusion known as “society” cannot continue forever, but it can in The Game, or, at least, it can continue as long as I need it to. The knowledge that human history will one day come to an end is a very difficult pill to swallow, particularly to someone who spends their life worrying about their meaningless legacy. To a gamer, however, the horrors of an absurd universe are irrelevant because The Game is Realer Than Real. Unlike Nature, it does not dump the agent with an impossible to satisfy desire to become God into a world with no discernable purpose. As I play The Game, I fully understand that it exists entirely to serve me and I, thus, exist in it as a God who aims only to achieve The Run. The Run. It is the carrot that constantly eludes the donkey. Every time I play, my desire to get The Run is what drives me to endure seemingly endless psychological torment, and though my suffering has, at times, led me to smelling it, tasting it, and even vaguely seeing it coming, I have yet to truly touch The Run. I don’t think I ever will. There were times I have set goals that I believed worthy of calling The Run, but after actually reaching said goals I realized how foolish I was to try to set up some arbitrary, human, definition to a divine concept. The edge of perfection cannot have an end. If it did, life would not be worth living.
As I thought these things, many hours passed and I endured the pain of failure countless times. As it often did, it began eat away at my mind, making me question if I had truly made the right decision. I thought about how simpler things would be if I just got a syringe and injected myself with a nice dose of potassium chloride to stop my heart. I wondered if it would be a better idea to use those welfare checks and the leftovers of my parents’ estate to buy a ton of meth and die in a grand overdose. Most of all, I wondered why I had been granted a privileged life. Was it actually privileged? Having tasted the good life, I could only go only through endless pains in thinking about how I could make it better. At least someone in Africa would be too busy thinking about their own survival to worry about if they should bother to continue living. Maybe things would have been different if I had been born in a place I actually had some attachment to and wasn’t just left to worship this stupid game. As these thoughts raced through my head, however, I could not help but notice that the caffeine was beginning to wear off. With that, a domino effect of my downfall began as I slipped out of my adrenaline-fueled craze and began to notice strong odor emitting from my body. I figured that since I had been playing so badly at this point a brief shower couldn’t do anything but help me play better by giving me an opportunity to clear my thoughts and focus on The Game.
My walk through the halls went smoothly as I took care not to much attention to the details around me. As I got to the bathroom, I came across a horror I would never have imagined meeting. A grasshopper. “Who are you,” I asked. Perhaps it was The Grasshopper. The one that had long tormented me with its wild and unpredictable jumps in my bedroom and the hallways nearby. I have no idea how, but it managed to work its way into the bathtub. I caught me in a bind. How could I say I love my life if I were to rob the grasshopper of its own? To kill a sentient animal would be tantamount to supporter the delusional slavery of the common man that I want to break free from. I see The Game with the infinite opportunites it allows to retries as the one true democracy, one utterly impossible in the 3D world. By no fault of The Grasshopper it had been born the way it was, unable to enjoy any of the perks that come with being human. Yet, even with my allegiance to The Game, I felt an obligation to at least not go against making the 3D world as close to a true democracy as possible, and so I had to save The Grasshopper. As I peered a bit closer to try to pick it up, however, I found myself unable to overcome my racism against it. It was just so disgusting looking and icky. Still, it certainly deserved its life far more than the white trash next door. So, I decided I would grab a plastic cup and force it into it before throwing it outside. What could go wrong? So I made the plan a reality, though The Grasshopper put up quite a bit more of a struggle than I anticipated. Didn’t it understand that I was trying to save its life by returning it to its natural habitat? Of course it didn’t. There is nothing that intrinsically makes the arrangement of atoms I view as a bathtub a true, universal, bathtub. To the grasshopper, it was nothing more than another platform to live on. How did it view me? Was I nothing more than just another predator? Or, was it worse and I was nothing more than a natural force to it? Or was I a god? As I opened the door to let the grasshopper out, I concluded that it was likely none of those, because its brain is not wired in the same way mine is, so its futile to try to put thought processes incomprehensible to me into human terms. Yet, as I was preparing to wave good-bye, I noticed that one of its legs was missing. In that moment of realizing my awful mistake, the harsh realization of shame flooding almost caused me to faint. “Should I have just killed it,” I wondered. Then I saw it merrily go on its way as if nothing happened, venturing out into the harsh and indifferent world with only the hilt to its sword. I think he deserved my life even more than I deserve mine. Thank you, brave grasshopper, for showing who I should be.
I returned to take a shower and made sure to find the leg of the grasshopper so I could wash it down the drain. I wanted to get rid of the memento of my guilt as quickly as possible. It was in that moment, as I watched it swirl down into the steamy abyss, that I understood what I was actually. By running from the truth in this manner, I was no better than the common family man who dedicated his life to a child in some misguided quest for immortality. No, I can’t be that guy. Yet, I was, and it was like I was in the shower preparing to go waste my life in some office job that I hated. Then I would go and spend my leisure with a 6-pack of beer, destroying to miraculous gift of a brain that I had been granted. And then, like the quiet lick from a puppy on ones feet, I noticed the sun had crept in from the ceiling window. Maybe it was not such a bad turn of things to have been raised in a town that I hate. Otherwise, I likely would not have had the time to realize how horrible it is to be an office slave and would have succumbed to such a fate myself. And I noticed a feeling of emptiness had begun to swallow me since I had helped the grasshopper, only increasing as I was taking the shower. Was this… Boredom? Yes, that just may be the worst emotion of all to experience. As I exited the shower, I made sure flip the bird off the world. To me, the middle finger is the definitve gesture of all humanity, simplisticly expressing the uniquely human ability to defy all-mighty Nature. I don’t need a better life, for I already had the ultimate summation of humanity’s conquering over the indifferent universe in The Game. With this realization, I took a hammer and smashed the religious pictures I had left hanging on the halls since my parents had been alive. Lies, all of it! I went back to the kitchen and took some more caffeine and L-Theanine. I then returned triumphantly to saddle, fully ready to reunite with my one true love after having finally conquered the old barriers. Ancient wisdom says that there is nothing new under the sun, and so modern utility leads me to conclude that life is all about The Run.

I've read worse. Three stars.
 
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