Karma

When ice skating: the time spent on your feet is well worth all the time you spend on your ass.

When I swipe my badge at work, it says IN-SHF on the little display, and it always makes me think of ’shff’ as being the sound effect of the badge being swiped, like… ‘in.. shfff!’ and ‘out… shfff!’

This is as bad as showing up to school without pants on. This is, in fact, worse than showing up to school with no clothes on. Saying the wrong thing to the person that means more to you than anyone in the world, and not being able to talk to them to apologize or explain, leaves you feeling cold, empty, dark, and sick, hoping you wake up from this terribly realistic nightmare.
It isn’t a feeling I’m new to. But it is a feeling that never gets easier, and never stops looking for a way to creep into my life and take over my consciousness.
Inwardly, it is impossible to remain optimistic when the pain seems so hopelessly unavoidable. Outwardly, it must be shoved back inside, filling me with nothing but more emptiness.
And it is through the fault of none other than myself, through my own idiocy and inadequacy. The capacity to carve, on a whim and to my specification, the awkward and graceless facets of this, the english language, used to be something on which I could pride myself. Now it seems that I have lost any propensity whatsoever for poetic consolation, and can only find means in prose to lament.
Even here, I assure you, a sentence has managed to reverse itself in the journey from my mind’s intent to the twisted will of these fingers and now implies some unknown thing which I had never designed.
Will this torturous waiting pass? Of course. But it makes it no easier to know that there is a point in the future that may free me from this pain, when I cannot expedite its approach.
By the time this has ended, at least three hours - perhaps six or more, even - of this hell with my own contemplation will have elapsed. Once it ends, these words will seem even more childish than the very act of mistranslating my own native language. But perhaps the next time this aching finds its way to me, I will have something to look back on and remind me that it is neither the first time nor the last.

I’m trying to pay attention, but I keep waking up from class.

Where do all the good features go when they get taken out of the sequels to really great games? Is there a gamer nostalgia heaven somewhere? That would mean there is a hell, too…