Gaming 101

13 November 2012

I'm quite the professional when it comes to collecting shelfware: software (in my case, video games) that only get played for the first three hours then left on the shelf to gather dust.

Right now, I have 25 Xbox titles, only four of which I have been able to finish till the end: Splinter Cell: Conviction, Halo: Reach, and the Left 4 Dead duo.

Yeah, I really couldn't play this character much.
Saying that I'm a casual gamer would be the understatement of the century. Don't get me wrong, I got all giddy and hopped all over the place when Halo 4 was released, I drooled over the gameplay of Final Fantasy XIII, but I couldn't seem to get myself to finish an entire game within a week, which is the norm... I think.

Talk about taking slacking off to a whole new level. If there's a game I always play, it would be the multiplayer games of Left 4 Dead 2, mainly because it always changes with the dumbness level of your coplayers, and because you get to shoot things that don't shoot back.

Now I'm in the penultimate mission for Halo 4, and I'm having a rough time with it. This is usually the time when I put it in the shelf to gather dust. But then again, it's fucking Halo 4, the first in the Reclaimer trilogy. I should at least finish it on Normal difficulty.

So when my buddies ask me what video game I like best, I typically reply with nothing, and when asked which one I'm good at, I reply, "Uhm... Spy? At uhm... Team Fortress 2?" Yeah, because the Spy's only job in the whole game is to hide until he can backstab someone.

Frex, I suck at video games. Hopefully it would come off with more practice.

I put on my robe and wizard hat.

The megaphone

05 November 2012

Sometimes when I write a post in this blog, it feels as if I'm talking to no one. That I'm just a small squeak amongst the thundering voices around me.

It's red. I like red.
Sometimes I miss the activity. The buzz of comments around my posts, the countless eyes that read my thoughts and my cryptic messages. I was quite the popular kid when I was in elementary, so I took this for granted. Because everyone had their eyes on me. Because in the same school where I studied, my mom was a teacher. Because I was favored, studied, liked, investigated. Every move I make is observed.

The attention was all mine.

And now, here I am, writing to a blog that anyone barely notices. Like in the real world, my voice is a dot in the myriad dots that punctuate the internet. A small contributor to the vast knowledge of society, the massive archive of human thoughs and feelings, all within the bits and bytes of the digital world.

But maybe then I liked the solace. Maybe, I liked how only I can read my blogs, that it just serves as a personal archive of my own thoughts, unblemished by the pressure of pleasing my audience everytime I click Publish. That in my own little space on the internet, I could be me.

Then I shrug all these thoughts, and think, Whether my blog is popular or not, I still have trouble expressing my feelings plain and bare on the internet, anyway. That I still hide my thoughts in cryptic forms, that I still take pleasure in bewildering my readers so as for them not to have an actual glimpse of what I'm talking about.


Good luck finding the meaning behind that. In the end, it doesn't matter how popular or unpopular I am, it's whether or not I trust anyone with my thoughts that matter.


Unspoken words and inducted thoughts

Many have I written blogposts that touch a specific topic so personal I feel that writing them is an invasion of my personal space. If my drafts folder ever get published, you'd view me as a different person.

I mean, this blog *is* meant to be personal, it's just that some things I want to talk about are not really the stuff you would like to say to a random stranger across the street. Just think of it this way: would you just go up to a random passerby and interject, "I'm going commando today!"? I don't think so.

But then, I'm not implying that my personal, most private thoughts consist of my preference for wearing underwear, or lack thereof, but it just goes to show that I need someone to tell stuff to, without prejudice or any other judgment. A confidant. A breathing journal. And probably, a friend.

I have written posts about trust and love and freedom and independence, but they never see the light of day. Probably I was playing the role of the cryptic connoisseur a bit too much, probably my real intentions are muddled up in a sea of confusing lexicon that nobody would understand. But then again, nobody *would* understand. I'm a Scorpio, the most secretive, most misunderstood sign of the zodiac.

I was once punished for my own honesty. Writing my thoughts down led me into serious trouble, something that reminded me of pain and crying and all that desperation. Then I vowed never to write my emotions again: that never would I ever put my feelings down on a piece of paper where everyone could read it. I must lock up all my feelings in my mind, compose long blog posts in the recesses of my consciousness, where only I could read.

I have stories I dare not tell anyone. Not publicly, at least. I think it's justified for me to think that everybody has one: that one fact about them that they don't want just about anyone to know. Like a vegetarian who adores bacon, or a football player who longs for the loving comfort of a gentle woman. Unlike others, though, I don't have anyone to share it with. But probably I didn't need one anyway.

If only opening the lock was this easy.
But maybe I *do* have someone, I just don't trust them enough. Probably, somewhere out there, one of the people I know are having the exact same thoughts as I do, just waiting for someone like me to trust them with all of their spirit. An unbreakable friendship. Where you tell someone that one thing that will destroy you and trust them not to use it against you.

I don't think I'm even making a persuasive blogpost here. I just wanted to write what I feel about things, which is not my forte, because coming from a scientific background, I always write something with a conclusion. Not all this sappy boo-hooing shit you're reading right now. Is it ever so wrong for me not to just tell anyone how my day went and not go delving into waist-deep philosophical ramblings about life? Probably not.

I guess being cryptic has its disadvantages after all. By hiding my emotions, my real intentions, in the comforting illusion of deception, I shut myself out to the world. Then I go like this, complaining how no one understands me. It's probably my fault then, being so shut out to the people who want to reach out their hands to me, to offer their listening ear to my stories, because maybe, just maybe, one of the people I know sees me as an infinitely interesting person, one whose stories never get stale.

Something nags at me and tells me I might be right. Maybe it's time to break the lock. It might be weird, but I'll try. At least if this blog doesn't work, I hope I have someone to tell it to. I don't say "find" someone because I may have found him/her and not just realized it, but still.

Here's to hopefully getting my trust in the world back again.

Crisp letters on yellow pages

04 November 2012

Books. People never really stop loving books. Fifty-first century. By now you've got holovids, direct-to-brain downloads, fiction mist. But you need the smell. The smell of books, Donna. Deep breath! 

That's from a TV show I watch about a time traveller (Hint: he's a Doctor). He was commenting on the persistence of books even in a very advanced civilization like the 51st century. And indeed, it rings true even until today. Nothing better represents the repertoire of the human experience as much as black ink sharply embossed onto white paper.

I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and I should say, it was a very excellent read. The ending left on a very bittersweet note, with me undecided as to be happy or sad for the character. You see, the protagonist of the novel, 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, is being contested with the love of two men, each of who has a significant impact in her life.

In the end, he has to choose one. And she did. But my point here is not to glorify the work of the author but to... marvel on how the written word can as easily move a person into feeling such emotions, how black ink sharply embossed onto gritty paper can evoke sympathy or hate or love or happiness.

In this age of increasingly technological advances, people getting less and less attention spans are slowly deviating from the methodical patience, the gradual build-up of a book's plot. Within its pages, we establish a link with the characters, we see what they see, and feel what they feel.

Through the written word, we do not just simply gloss our eyes over black ink sharply embossed onto crisp paper, but we become part of the story, we see their lives unfold; their lives exist in our hands as we turn the pages and learn more about them.

It's this... deep connection that we have with a book's characters that cannot be done in any other form of media. While music is medicine for the soul and movies are an escape from reality, books are the doorways to another world. Whether it be a post-apocalyptic Earth governed by a Capitol or a Time Lord who merrily skips all throughout time and space, there's no adventure more exciting than reading from black ink sharply embossed in smooth paper.

We read, then we sympathize with the characters. Then we begin to read more, as our sense of adventure is piqued, until we come to a single book that just strikes us the most. We then read it over and over, trying to absorb every little detail in this one little book that is our all-time favorite. This book which we grew fond of shapes our perception of life in some way. We realize that their stories persist and resonate in the real world, and the black ink sharply embossed onto yellow paper becomes our life's beacon.

I close Mockingjay with a faint smile on my face, and grab the next book on my shelf. Another adventure awaits, as I flip through the first chapter.


11 October 2012

I'm back. So my last post was in February, which wasa shitload of months ago.

I have a feeling that I should post more on this blog, partly because I have an awesome keyboard that sounds like a typewriter, but partly because some thoughts are just to complex to be squeezed in 140 characters.

Yes, I have been active in Twitter lately, and I am finding it as an awesome medium to have a laugh about life. It really actually depends on your timeline and the people you follow. On my first Twitter account, I only followed two people who regularly have their faces on my timeline. Now my timeline is a mess of retweets, original tweets, and favorites.

In the sea of short bursts of comedic wisdom and hilarious responses, I sometimes find myself composing a tweet, hitting send, and reflecting that I could have expanded on this one idea.

Also, I'm back to probably get some more oomph out of my life. I have since realized something new these past few days; an epiphany, if you will, which I will write about some time in the future. I would like to believe I have slightly changed my view in life.

Indeed, I am still the cryptic connoisseur, hiding true meaning in indecipherable words and contexts, but I will try to make this blog not just as a pillow to weep on but also as a happy listener to tell adventures about. Besides, I will come back to this blog from time to time and remember those memories that I either wanted to change or I wished would last forever.

And yes, you have met me at a strange time in my life.

Coke slushies

09 February 2012

One thing you can say about me: I'm a sucker for Coke slushies.
You know how you can mix everything up in the Slurpee machine just so you have a wicked cool-looking fucking Slurpee? Not for me. I'd run to the Coke dispenser and fucking fill my cup with it. No, no Slurpee art with double straws for me. Just plain Coke. Not even Pepsi either. But that's a different story.
My friends go, "You're boring." and I just reply with an apathetic "You don't have my tongue. Fuck off." I like to keep things as simple as possible. If it can be shortened, it will be shortened. That's why I write small, I'm trying to conserve paper. Trees are a valuable natural resource, you know.
They deserve more treatment (idk, maybe like cleaning the air we breathe) than being transformed into paper that you wipe your ass with.
And with that, it kinda makes me sad today. I feel... alone. I try to bypass it by reading about the ramblings of idiots posting in Facebook groups, or the crazy stupid banter of a message board. I looked into my Tumblr profile, played hopscotch with the janitor, watched 2 episodes of my TV show, but something still feels incomplete.
Sometimes being so simple can be so sad. Sometimes... I wish my life would have a shitload of colors, a fucking rainbow of memories and experiences with people who range from the utterly droll to the annoyingly obnoxious. Sometimes, I just wish my Slurpee cup would be extremely huge with fucking slushie art in it made with all the fucking colors of their fucking store.
But then again, I only have a coke slushie.
And I'm perfectly fine with that.
Maybe somewhere out there, someone also likes plain Coke slushies as much as I do.
I still have mine to share.

I'm on fire.

24 January 2012

Thing is, I never get bullied. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones who don't. Most of the time, I just sit there, watching everything that's happening. But I'm not a clammy type shy-guy student either. Here's the plaintext.

I don't get bullied because everyone knows me. Yea, I'm one of the popular kids at school, but not to a walk-down-the-centre-of-the-aisle kind of popular. I... just am.

I am smart. Perhaps this is one of the reasons behind my popularity, but who knows? I always come up with clever ideas and comebacks ranging from the witty to the utterly sardonic. One of my classmates confessed being too shy to talk to me because she was afraid I might "diss her off".

So much for Mr. Popular Nice Guy right there. But seriously, I'm a nice boy.

--this is where I start talking to the people this blog is dedicated to--

The Internet is another thing. It's where the roles are reversed. A feeling of online superiority dominates everyone on the Internet. In real life, they are the kids who are oppressed, belonging to a group that is considered the "other guys".

Sorry but I don't need to participate in your acts. Yes, that guy doesn't deserve to be on the Internet, but it's a different thing to band together and shame the fellow.

Everything can be posted on the Internet, and anonymity is why everyone can comment about anything. To that I agree, however, there is a degree of moral decency to which airing your thoughts is limited to. Post too much criticisms, and you'll be merely seen as a jerk.

Besides, most of you might even be posting just because you're riding the bandwagon.

I understand your insatiable need to be known, your desire to be popular. I think it's bad rep though, if your popularity is just earned because you are a "insecure jerk-face who is so full of himself he'll never go hungry."

A little insult here and there is good, but there is a limit to everything. I could stop being such an ethical prude right now and go start bitching on people online. Trust me, you would not like that. So I should stop ranting right now about how wrong you guys are, and retreat to the shadows again.
Sorry, but my Biology teacher told me to be kind to animals.
P.S. Someday, that attitude is what's gonna crush you. 

Star light, star bright.

22 January 2012

This is the Pleiades. It is so bright it can be seen even in the busiest cities of the world.

Only thing is, this star cluster is so far away that light itself takes 391 years to reach Earth. Yes, when we look at the Pleiades, we are looking at the light of a star cluster which is older than us.

Even the Sun is quite far away. The light of the Sun takes 8 minutes to reach Earth.

The closest star from our solar system, Proxima Centauri, is so still so far (4 light-years) that if you made a scale model of the Sun with a radius of 30cm, Proxima Centauri needs to be 8514 kilometers away to be accurate. The distance between New York and Los Angeles is 3961 kilometers.

Stars shine so bright and they illuminate our night sky. But what's actually happening is we're looking back in time. Looking at the Pleaides means looking at the light generated 391 years ago. These are the lights of a time way before us, back in the day when we were still young, or probably nonexistent.

And who knows, the star might be a supernova now and we wouldn't even know. If Proxima Centauri dies, we would not know it did until 4 years after, when its light stops shining.
So all these years--since when?--he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.
I am looking at a dead star. What I thought was shining for me, beaming at me, is actually the remnant of a love long due. It's the light from years ago, way back, probably even more. I am looking at the light of a dead star, of a love lost and forgotten.

I remember the memories we had, of the good times we shared. They're all gone now, the light of my sweet little star will vanish sometime.

I look out the window and see the light of Pleiades from 391 years ago.And I think to myself,

It's time to move on.