-Feanor.Net :: Deeper Magic from the Dawn of Time-

Shit is solid phucked. Things have been occasionally screwed of late, what with Mama having her kidney implode (++its imminent extraction here in a couple weeks) and now... my cosmic twin blondie cousin is in, quite honestly, desperate shape up in Madison. The kid is attractive, successful, hilarious, pompously dominate, and has spawned the best of the bestest young gent that I've encountered in vast chunks of years. She's in trouble, ok. The Badgertowne docs are using terms like fifty/fifty which was, is, a shocking epiphany that I had not yet experienced, as some vein of human devastation was excavated from me.

It was, is, quite terrible. Nobody in my fam has been within a light year of the next life since I was barely ten or so. And now the knockout blonde, my arranged cyberland marriage of convenience, the mamacita de grandiosa herself, is melded to a respirator and perhaps a feeding tube as the night unfolds. It's puke inducing; it's unthinkable. It's Sumnertowne, as well, the Three Has, Indeed, Been Drawn, and we're toxifying, and we're plowing through season numero uno of The Wire, and we're antsy. Well, I'm increasingly neurotic, expecting the worse, so as to push fate through temptation to overturn the inevitable, if it be that said inevitable jives with the fear I'm harboring for my beautiful cuz-cuz.

I'm anticipating a late-night chill outdoors. Druid style, with a side of dryad... bong hits of tree bark, as a razor-fashioned, frosted moon stares down, accompanied by stars which are wholly impossible to spot in the city. We'll need all of the magic of an impossibly quiet Iowan winter overnight. Every, last, drop.

You'll see that she pulls through, won't you, Master Liotta?

Because this Dungeon Siege presentation is a really, really good **movie......

**disastrously pitiful collection of upper C-actor degeneratives.
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Hello please. Hello please.

Instead of injecting dark matter into this facility for the whole of this year of apparent freshness, I'm probably going to annihilate Sephiroth legitimately for the first time ever. I've made it to the end of VII twice, and have been subsequently embarrassed via a supernovae binge as my horses spun around, confused, poisoned, blinded, silenced, and on their respective periods, or something. So with these updated life schematics, I've got the following going on, and I'll break them down via priority...

i) repairing hacked PCs for a grand a piece
ii) mastering the art of banana bread creation
iii) snowboarding without shattering limbs
iv) watching Freaks & Greeks and Undeclared repeatedly
v) eating and digesting chicken and tomato paste
vi) bathing and shaving everything attached to my heart muscle
vii) devising squirrel trap 'n' catapult apparatti
viii) beating FF three through seven before the vernal equinox**
ix) saving for a decent piece of shit training sail(ormoon)boat
x) reading The Silmarillion without skipping a single syllable

Mams/Paps- good news! You can now tell everyone on the planetoid third that your oldest baby 'Removes Hit Points From Fake, Menacing Animalia & Varied Self-Aware Technologies' for a living.
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Even after that relevant unveiling, I'd really rather be a resident of the sprawling megacity of Midgar. Well, during the winter months at least. Because the slums would be perfect right about now. Lukewarm, filthy, filled with trashy one of a kind sculptures and various furnishings, tended to by busty baristas, stocked to the brim with a bevy of affectable half-asian orphans, and a predestined guidance towards pulse-pounding mercenary work. This is what I desire, and I'm not sure of how to procure these factorials inside of the boundaries governed by Sir Rodimus Blagojevich, who by comparison, lofts Sir Rufus Shinra a few thousand pegs higher on the radness detector, if that were even possible.

I'm sure you'll recall, he's a pretty damn good shot with a (hybrid tri-barreled john connor-era platinum) .45...

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Believe it.

There are girls(NON WHALES) here. People are going to drink, and eat, and pass out(ON ME ZLOL), and cheer for the Iowa Hawkeyes Football Club in the morning. Ten in the morning, sharp, ok... ( ? )

I'd like to say more but I don't want to ruin the surprise.

All you need is.

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Which is to say, 98.5948% of said flora instantly transformed into a green rug before being suctioned into oblivion.

The holiday has been defeated, one.

And now I've run, very nearly, precisely empty on avenues of distraction from the indisputable truth of being completely useless in every possible route of providing any fragment of contribution to Society...

For crissakes, Papa Rich of the anti-genetic family wing questioned me on said productivity, just yesterday. I'm quite thoroughly irrelevant, and there's nothing that can be done. Funds are required for survival, and what funds existed originally have been pummeled quite permanently into the upper mantle of the planet, Earth. I don't know what to do aside from writing, and I barely even do that... instead, the days are flipping by in the crudest form of inconsequentiality. It's a flickering brainmatter EKG that's gaining on a flatline, due to zero challenges, stress, anomalies, pitfalls, reverses, cataclysms, and unthinkable triumphs. To be sure, I expected a star to fall, brightsteel, perhaps even Anglachel, itself... as the elder Tolkien does handstands in his expectedly-glorious tomb due to the most heinous example of Paolini-Plagiarism to-date... it's apparent that amidst this current state of dimension-spanning handcuffery, I'm going to have to be a bit more proactive, with a side of selflessness, steadiness, and patience. I've essentially none of these prized attributes these days, and adjustments appear to be imminent, lest I sail westward towards Taniquetil.

If only, right.
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Verdu(uuUUuuUuUu).

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