As I write this, I realise that in a space of approximately two months, I have written about a hundred posts, each averaging around two thousand words.
This is about the length of two medium-length novels. Publishers like to set certain limits on the sizes of novels they put into print or into electronic channels, and probably have done since I was a boy. A hundred thousand words is the maximum that publisher like to put into print, unless the author happens to be really well-known or has a strong following (Stephen King for example). At one point in Stephen King‘s career, all he had to do was submit a manuscript, participate in a brief editorial process, and then he and publisher alike could sit back and watch the gold roll in. Well, not quite that easily but you get the idea. So the fact that the unabridged version of The Stand may well clock in at near to three hundred thousand words should give you some idea of how big a deal it is to have written a hundred journal entries with an average length of roughly two thousand words. No, I do not precisely calculate the averages or what the total word count of the journal is. I am not that obsessive, at least not about online stuff. You already know that the online would needs serious improvement if it is to have any chance of replacing most of the real-world stuff that we do. But I digress. From the time I was a very small boy to the time I left the mainstream schooling system in a misdirected fit of anger and violence, I could not crap without being told what a bright and sunny future I had as a writer. I would like to say that the “everything online” culture has gotten in the way of that, but so too has the fact that I have seriously difficulty with initiative, and have received less than no help in terms of overcoming that. As is written in The Stand, the blame really extends so far in so many different directions that placing it all on one individual is really a pointless exercise.
What does the future, and the next hundred entries, hold for I Still Find It So Hard…? I only wish I could clearly tell you. As is also said by one character in The Stand as they rebel against increasing “government” tyranny as the society that we know breaks down, I am doing this all on my own. I cannot make any promises, meaningful ones, concerning what I do in the next few months. However, I always have a small queue of ideas and projects on my mind that at certain points I pick up, dust off, and then suddenly barrel into like a man possessed. One such project in the very near future will be the writing of an open letter to Playboy magazine, explaing to them why they should tell one Jenny McCarthy to just go and pound sand. That will happen pretty definitely, and soon. Another idea floating in the abyss of my mind is to pick up a story that I wrote, left on the shelf for years after my male parent discovered a hard copy lying around and then made the stupid mistake of revealing to me that he had read without my express invitation, and give it the fine-tooth comb treatment. Said story will be refined to flow as best it can and possibly be posted here. I have also considered tweaking it in order to serve as a kind of prologue or support to a lengthier, punchier novel. One about how one of my proxy characters puts an end to Terra (aka this world) as a living planet forever. I have an ending in mind for that longer version of the story that combines Christopher Reeve‘s big anguished scream towards the end of Superman (and the reason for it, which I will not detail here so the people who have yet to see the film can find out for themselves) with imagery I visualise when I listen to the Black Sabbath song called Electric Funeral. Maybe I will throw in a dash of Julie Christmas‘ version of I Just Destroyed The World in the aftermath. Who knows?
Concerning the mention I made of Playboy and Jenny McCarthy, or the Ilsa-wannabe as I will call her to convey my meaning (I find it hard to figure out a good derision that sticks in the long term), I will summarise the problem here for now. Jenny McMoron has publicised that she will take her clothes off for Playboy (again) so that they will donate two million dollars to “autism research”. I will get the less civilised parts of my feelings about this out of the way here in the hopes that I can assemble a proper open letter to Playboy magazine in the very near future. First of all, calling Jenny McNazi a moron is like calling Adolf Hitler intolerant or Pol Pot anti-progress. It is an understatement of biblical proportions. I simply cannot believe that a company that has the abundance of resources that the Playboy company does would not have the time and energy to check on whether indulging one extremely retarded woman’s wish that another two million go towards the genocide of the autistic is a good idea or not. So whilst my open letter to them is only an idea at this stage, I would encourage every autistic adult, especially if they happen to be male, heterosexual, and in possession of working bits, to start doing the same. You know that saying that the homosexual civil rights movement has about silence meaning death? Or silence being the same thing as death? That is true in the most literal sense for the autistic. If enough of us remain silent for long enough, we will have nowhere to turn when governments decide it is okay for the McCarthy secret police to come barging down our doors, taking away anyone who even looks autistic to them, and taking them off to some camp to never be seen again.
(Oh, and if you “person first” gerbils are out there reading this, have you ever stopped to consider that shoving “person first” language into the mouths of the autistic increases the power that Jenny McUgly has in our media? You should think long and hard about that.)
In other news, I was one of the idiots who signed up for an annual commitment to World Of Wank… sorry, World Of Warcraft after the temptation of a free download of Diablo III proved too much. So, nearly a week ago, after tribulation and annoyance, I finally downloaded and installed the Diablo III program.
I will go into the positives first, because they are fewer. If World Of Warcraft had similar aesthetic design to Diablo III, then I would probably get bored with it less easily and be more enthusiastic about playing. Although my belief is that gameplay should be emphasised about the visuals, the gameplay is a subject I will address later. In terms of appearance, superficial appearance, Diablo III looks great. It is to World Of Warcraft‘s relatively Hello Kitty-esque visuals what Tim Burton‘s 1989 production of Batman was to the godawful 1966 television series. But that is a minor concern. Another point of comparison with World Of Warcraft is that Blizzard must have been listening when I said in many chats on that game that were it not for the chance to log in and connect with certain people for chatting, I would probably have uninstalled the game and gone to find something else to do now. Given that World Of Warcraft has been on my computer and getting played for somewhere near to six years now, that says a lot about how effective the social “network” aspect of the game has proven. Because believe me, I stopped being in it for the gameplay long after the game’s progression aspect proved a big case of throwing players into a pool of stagnant water and saying “here you are, sink or swim”.
Alas, the negatives. Diablo III is nothing more than a new coat of paint on Diablo II. In fact, there is significantly more change between Diablo and Diablo II in terms of gameplay and mechanics than is the case between Diablo II and Diablo III. And the one change between the two games that is the most significant is also a potential can of worms like all of the changes between Windows 3.11 and Windows ’95. Specifically, I mean the auction house. In Diablo and Diablo II, if you picked up an item that was of no real use to you, your only recourse was to sell it to one of the in-game vedors for in-game money. In Diablo III, one has the option to offer the item for sale in the auction house. Alas, the manner in which that auction house system has been designed is pretty much like the one in World Of Warcraft, only without any options that make determining a good price for an item possible. Basically, the entire system only allows the strategy of putting the item up for sale, guessing as to a good price for it, and then waiting with one’s fingers crossed. I will be brief about the control system in the game. It sucks. Pointing and clicking for movement might have seemed like a good idea in the original Diablo, but even there, in practice it ended up being more like trying to steer a sports car at full pelt with your feet. You see, between Diablo II and Diablo III, Blizzard decided to make it a requirement to use both the mouse (or trackball in my case) and the keyboard to effectively control one’s character. I do not know about others, but I really would rather drive a car by bashing my head on the steering wheel and seeing which way said wheel spins. Yes, the control interface in World Of Warcraft has problems (if the United States Armed Services had targeting systems that changed targets the way World Of Warcraft‘s does, fatalities, and a large number of them, would directly result). But Diablo III‘s control interface makes World Of Warcraft’s look like TIE Fighter‘s or Gunship 2000‘s.
So the question of why I write all of this stuff comes up once again. And it is a fair one. As strange as it might sound, I am still trying to hold out a hand for shaking to the normie world. Because as much as they would like to forget the fact, when two factions are determined to ignore each other and not work things out, it stunts the growth of both in many ways.
Actually, this reminds me of an idea that one person put forth in a thread that was devoted to discussing how disgusted we are with McIgnorant and her latest attempt to stab us in the back for her own gain. Believe it or not, there are women out there who are models and happen to be autistic. In a time I wish I could go back to now, I dated two women who have since been told that whilst they do not meet the criteria to be called autistic, they only fail to meet it by a small percentage. One was born in Rome, the other Oslo. Both are very pleasant to look at. The Italian one is not much taller than I was when I was nearly thirteen years old, and has natural curvature the like of which most of the women who have appeared in Playboy go to surgeons in order to replicate. The Norwegian one is a bit less curvacious, but when I say that if I remade the world to be fairer to the autistic, I would be its CLU, and she would be my Rinzler. And let me tell you something. If brainpower were any form of explosive, McNormalist would be the equivalent of a defective firecracker, and each of these two I have just mentioned the equivalent of the nuclear disasters in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Chernobyl, and Fukushima Daiichi combined. That alone makes me prefer seeing them naked to Jenny McDaft. Unless seeing Jenny McValleyGirl naked also means I get to see her with her skin peeled off and her innards neatly arranged on a table nearby. That would be something I would pay good money, and lots of it, to see. I think I speak for a lot of Powell types of both sexes when I say that.
So after a hundred posts about this and that, and in only a couple of months at that, I have to concede that I am surprised by how it has all gone. In spite of the number of posts, I am fully aware that it is only the first couple of steps in what I hope will be a long and fascinating journey. To all those who have come along with me at least part of the way, thank you. And to those who think that Jenny McGutless has anything of worth to say, be warned: a hundred posts might seem like a lot, even if they only had a few hundred words a piece. But there will be hundreds, if not thousands, more coming.
I love the names you call her!
But, as a matter of personal preference, I’d definitely rather see her naked with embarrassing body paint on than see her naked and gorily dead.
To be honest, I am still trying to think of a one-word derision for her that properly conveys what I think. I am unsure that English is the right language for it, on reflection. Spanish and Italian, from the bits I have heard from others, offer a far better variety of words that convey the subject’s being lower than shit both in meaning and sound. “Infamita” might work, I do not know.
I am sure we could come up with a laundry list of things we would like to do to her. Making her walk a mile to the front of the Town Hall in Sydney where we can have a number of “low functioning” autistic adults smear her with their fecal matter would work. But the reason I like to think of peering off her skin and pouring salt on what’s left, or opening her stomach and pouring acid into it, is because of something The Drake says during Hobo With A Shotgun. If we go for revenge, more curebies will come to take her place. If we go for *fear*, curebies will be scared to try and take her place.
At least, that is how I am seeing it at the moment.