May 18th, 2003

goblin sneak

(no subject)

sid cobweb, technogenius & mechanocraft savant, has of this date perpetrated brain surgery on himself- the psychoempathic heuristic buffer drip with pin hex output. suffice to say, this device grants him a plus two (+2) to intellegence (int) & a plus three (+3) to will saves. it appears as a clear window anchored in his skull where pins & staples can be seen to tug at his grey matter; next to this is the ever so well punned "cog-nition (tm) amplifier" which employs some sort of clockwork & gears. finally, the pin hex output is a series of pins which plunge into his brain in a complicated algorithmic sequence. part of the reason for this out of game was to allow sid some leeway in dealing with an increasingly immoral party. not only is sid part machine & less hyazin now, but the device itself aids him by adding a layer of dissasociating to his actions. his life is almost like a comic book now, to him; something he watches happen. i also went out of my way to bond with the two characters sid was most alienated from before- myalin, the sociopathic killer; & talmarith the demonist. & i may have successfully turned talmarith's eye towards the technomagical; a coup for science! also, more & more i think sid is actually intrested in being the one to successfully plunder mizer- at least, for enough raw material to construct his submersible nautical creation. anyhow; today's adventure included sid losing his virginity (i miss my girlfriend) & "the dream of the knife" as brought about by hallucinagenic goblin honey.
  • Current Mood
    i lost my cartalige piercing.
nailpolish

(no subject)

thing is, i don't really care if i win or a lose. i just want to be able to say "yeah, well, you should see the other guy" when the fighting is over. or i want to fucking obliterate & make unrecognizable the pavement where i pulped you to a stain. & the way i hear it, every street in new york is empty & lonely. even the prostitutes have started giving it away to just have someone next to them. the lamps on cornors all petal apart from the autumn of my departure. because thing is. knuckle is a staccato entrance. it holds hands with bike chain & they write sonnets out of each other.

& morbid lip biting curiosity leads me to stray into burning cornfields. because who doesn't want to know what the last guy before you she was in love with looks like. & even before i think them i edit the slashy text that climbs out of my teeth. lips & tongue too soft for words, so incisors & sharky row on row get thaumagenic. i think real had about black miracles. but the knots arn't on the rope ladder between out pirate ships. it doesn't matter. that whole gig is goodbye moon. there is no sulfur of smell of belly crawling drakes. just fingernail marks on the inside lid of a coffin. call me fucking dracula. we're back from the fucking dead. hallelujah.

i don't know how i feel about how everyone shrugs & accepts that we're back together, though. i mean, bonnie & clyde, don't get me wrong. but i counted the heiroglyphics in this tomb. we slid together like machinary, but it's gears were oiled with each other's blood. to act as though this was forgone or inevitable is to degrade it. things worked out because we got milliary genius. there ais the syllibant humming of the bee, but the fucker has its stinger. it stung once. but it took soldiers to pick the hypodermic stinger back up & plunge it into our own hearts. what i'm saying is: we fought for this.
  • Current Mood
    glass eye junga nailed it.