| Episode 354: It Got Better |
[Dec. 27th, 2009|10:10 am] |
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http://www.darthsanddroids.net/episodes/0354.html 
No GMing style is universally bad. There's always a player who appreciates a particular gaming style.
If you are seeking a new GM and gaming group to play with, and someone says that a particular GM is really good, make sure you know what
that person's preferred playing style is before you accept the review at face value and take the plunge.
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 26th, 2009|03:33 pm] |
we haven't talked in a few weeks but i'm afraid to say anything to him first
he always would initiate conversation, but lately he hasn't
i'm afraid he won't be interested in talking, because even when he initiates conversation, he's sort of withdrawn and nonchalant
should i just swallow my pride and say something? let him know that i still care? |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 25th, 2009|03:21 pm] |
Sometimes I feel like I'm a pile of dust in a world of rocks, like everything marks me more, I'm easier to break apart. When I am sad no one can put me back together because the pieces just don't fit together.
But at the same time I feel like when I love my heart burns brighter. So maybe this is a good thing. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 25th, 2009|01:20 am] |
For at least the last 12 years I have not been myself. I honestly don't even feel like the events that transpired in my life during that period even happened to me.
I've always been "impersonating people". Like I don't know how to "be myself". Everything that I say to others is really just something someone had said to me previously. I fake moods, jokes, opinions, I have no "genuine" personality to speak of.
When I'm around my best friend, I impersonate a combo of my sister/ brother in law. I say things either that they have said, or things that I'd think they would say. My opinions match theirs.
While around practically everyone else, I impersonate my best friend. I talk like him, act like him, copy his mannerisms, his humor. Even his facial expressions. People mistake us for brothers.
If im hanging out with someone and acting like my best friend, and then my best friend meets up with us, I'm screwed. Anxiety heightens, and I literally do not know what to do or how to act.
At some point when I was a child I was probably fully conscious of what I was doing and I could probably have reverted to myself much easier.
Now it is basically a hard-wired sub-conscious behavior that I do not feel normal unless I am engaged in.
Trying to trace back my steps I am coming to the realization that the "real me" is a quiet/sensitive boy. I have been faking being an adult (im 21), inside its like I quit developing at age 8 and have been in this hazy, fallacious reality. No action I make is genuine, but executed merely for a hopefully positive reaction from whoever is around.
If I try to "be myself" I will barely speak to people. All my passion/ joking/ all my blabbering, was fake. It was a defense. I feel vulnerable being myself and whenever I do, I usually succumb to the fear of impersonating people in order to prevent people's "concern" over "why is he so quiet?". |
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| 709: Christmas 1963 |
[Dec. 25th, 2009|10:48 pm] |
"Christmas 1963"
Joseph Enzweiler
Because we wanted much that year
and had little. Because the winter phone
for days stayed silent that would call
our father back to work, and he
kept silent too with our mother,
fearfully proud before us.
Because I was young that morning
in gray light untouched on the rug
and our gifts were so few, propped
along the furniture, for a second
my heart fell, then saw how large
they made the spaces between them
to take the place of less. Because
the curtained sun rose brightly
on our discarded paper and the things
themselves, these forty years,
have grown too small to see, the emptiness
measured out remains the gift,
fills the whole room now, that whole year
out across the snowy lawn. Because
a drop of shame burned quietly
in the province of love. Because
we had little that year
and were given much.
Merry Christmas. |
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| 708: little tree |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|10:47 pm] |
"little tree"
E. E. Cummings
little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel" |
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| 707: Making the Best of the Holidays |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|10:43 pm] |
"Making the Best of the Holidays"
James Tate
Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, "We're
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you're
still alive." She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
"Sleep it off, Hugh," I said, "I can barely under-
stand you, you're slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas." The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. "I hate you," she said. "You're the most
disgusting human being on the planet." "You're
absolutely right," I said, "and I've always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie."
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. "Who was it?" I
asked. "It was my mother," she said. "And what
did she say?" I asked. "She said she wasn't my
mother," she said. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|04:08 pm] |
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merry christmas, everyone. you guys are great. |
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| Episode 353: Session Wrap-Up |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|09:53 pm] |
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http://www.darthsanddroids.net/episodes/0353.html 
Even we couldn't come up with a particularly good reason why Anakin didn't just switch on his laser sword when his hand was trapped, in order to
cut his way out. Seriously, we discussed and argued over this for something like 30 minutes during the writing session, and the best we could
come up with was that Anakin might have been holding the sword in such a way that if he turned it on, it would slice his own arm off. But just imagine
gripping a sword hilt and then contort your wrist in such a way that the blade is slicing your own forearm (the rest of his body doesn't matter,
since only his forearm was immobilised). Yeah, that's highly unlikely.
But rather than just ignore the question (like the movie does), we decided to
lampshade it. After all, it's part of our
raison d'être to make some sort of sense of all the little inexplicable things in the movies, so ignoring it completely would be bad form.
We must presume that Annie was so flustered by or disinterested in Pete's style of GMing that she didn't bother trying to think of a way to escape,
since if she'd expended half a brain cell on the problem the answer would have been obvious.
It's better than a bare bulb, after all.
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| Tai Is A Secret Girl |
[Dec. 24th, 2009|12:23 am] |
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http://questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=1564 
D'awww. Say it with me now: D'AWWWWWWW.
That's it for this week! Tune in tomorrow for a SPECIAL CHRISTMAS SURPRISE, and next week will be a weird little stand-alone story featuring the much-asked-about Sweet Tits.
Time to go frantically wrap presents and pack before our drive down to MD tomorrow. Have a safe holiday everybody! |
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| 706: Without |
[Dec. 23rd, 2009|11:33 pm] |
"Without"
Donald Hall
He hovered beside Jane's bed,
solicitous: "What can I do?"
It must have been unbearable
while she suffered her private hurts
to see his worried face
looming above her, always anxious to do
something when there was
exactly nothing to do. Inside him,
some four-year-old
understood that if he was good -- thoughtful,
considerate, beyond
reproach, perfect -- she would not leave him. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 23rd, 2009|06:48 pm] |
ok so i'm not the usual girly 19 year old, so i don't get hit on too often; and having just been dumped, i was pretty depressed going into work this morning.
then the highlight of my day was when this cute guy came from another store to help us because we were busy (i work at a pizza place). he was flirting with me all day, but i am oblivious when it comes to flirting, so i didn't realize it until i left and he did the cutest thing. i told him it was nice meeting him and he said "yeah it was so cool meeting you! have a nate grite," instead of great night. then he blushed. :)
i just wanted to share that because this week has been horrible. i wish he knew that he made my day. |
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| You Called Me Out Of Darkness |
[Dec. 23rd, 2009|01:49 pm] |
(previously: http://lypiphera-poet.livejournal.com/66791.html)
touching my tongue to honeysuckle stamens,
the bland, burning flower,
pale spots of gold,
sweet as a strummed lyre
and in that golden note I see
her outstretched hand receding,
a white trumpet flower in the night -
not the allegorical night
but the grimy, roaches-on-the-sidewalk night -
and he returning to sunlight,
the memory of the queen's tears
like diamonds, like all the magic
in the world in his song.
What happens to our myths if we've
been told the wrong side all along?
What if Orpheus meant to turn? |
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| Amethyst Nocturne, v3 |
[Dec. 23rd, 2009|01:43 pm] |
(previous version: http://lypiphera-poet.livejournal.com/68350.html )
For our book of jewel poems,
you were meant, at first, to write the amethyst:
the kisses Bacchus trails along your throat;
your print of Frampton's lyrics, painted
in rich shades of violet: “Woke up
this morning, with a wineglass in my hand.”
Instead, I have claimed this gem
to send to you:
I find myself craving
the too-sweet Arbor Mist we drank
out of real wineglasses, as though it mattered;
I read Francesca Lia Block's Ecstasia
aloud to my empty room,
your favorite passages underlined
in smeared purple ink.
What visions do you see now,
my Calliope? What songs
do you sing, and with whom?
I miss our polished-glass evenings,
cool to the touch and chime-clear,
halfway to the brim with saturated red. |
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