SIlent Hill for Pretentious Smartasses Part 1 (introduction).

     You may or may not heard of Silent Hill. You may not know what it is, but you probably heard it is a thing that exists. You may know it's a game franchise and two movies based on such.

     Let's get the enormous elephant out of way: first 4 games are good, everything else is shit.

     There.

     There is much to talk about when discussing Silent Hill games (that aren't shit) (see above). But the most hotly debated topic is the nature of the games' story itself. Is it real, or all IN TEH MAYNDZ OF THE PROTAHGONEESTS???

     Well, when it comes to this debate I side with the folks behind Twin Perfect. If you consider yourself a HARDCOOOORE FAN and never heard of Twin Perfect and their shenanigans, you fucking lie.

     However, these posts (the title does say part one) will not be about proving what was already proven better by more passionate and knowledgeable people than me. Rather, they will deal with the people who prefer the "psychological" explanation of the events of Silent Hill(s). I will be listing the most likely reasons they prefer this explanation.

     So, if you are one of these people, prepare to be OFFENDED on the INTERNET!



     To be continued.................

I hate the Di$ney Corporation.

     I love Lilo & Stitch. It's my favorite Disney movie. Of all the ones the company pushed out, this one addressed the overplayed theme of family the best. Extended family over biological one, and no one gets left behind. Perfect. Simply perfect. Nothing is going to ruin this gem of a movie. Not even an unnecessary sequel with a cheesy moral that is fucking stupid. Not even a pokémon-wannabe unnecessary TV show. Not even ANOTHER TV show where Stitch gets mad at Lilo because of some misunderstanding bullshit and leaves his Ohana orever and goes to Japa... FUCK DISNEY!

     I heard many good things about Peter Pan & The Pirates. I watched some clips online and got intrigued. Must have been quite a show if people still talk about it. Wonder if I can watch it somehow... hmmm, what is this? The show cannot be released? I wonder why. Apparently, Disney owns the rights now, and does not want the general public to pay money for anything aside from their "official" animated clas... FUCK DISNEY!

     I liked Disney Afternoon shows. Hell, I still like a good chunk of them. When a deal was signed with Boom! Studios in 2010 to produce NEW COMICS that will be a continuation of Darkwing Duck I could not be happier. But I got happier still, because the creative team did an amazing job keeping both the tone, and quality of the original, while making it awesome in its own way. And what's that? A RESCUE RANGERS comic??? Wow! That is awesome! The first 4-issue arc was great! What about the next one? Also great! Hey, have they got any more co... what's that? Contract expired? No more Rescue Rangers? And no Tale Spin comic? And all because Disney does not really care for anything other its "animated cla... FUCK DISNEY!


     You know, I've been thinking. It seems The Di$ney Corporation is mostly busy with only a few things: raising awareness of its theatrical animated films amongst the world's population, and milking those as much as possible, with shitty sequels, shitty spin offs, and unnecessary re-re-re-releases (just how many times do you need to release a movie on Blu-Ray?). This corporation is NOT concerned with leaving the good movies alone. It does NOT respect art, or artists responsible for its actual creation. It is NOT concerned for the feelings of people those movies touched. Only promoting the "classics", pushing their fucking princess shit, and latching onto the latest thing to be hip and trendy, like CGI and 3D.

     Occasionally, Di$ney hires talented people to do art for them. Occasionally, some creative freedom is allowed for them. Occasionally, a good thing is made. If it is family friendly enough, Di$ney will market the shit out of it, not really honoring anyone who worked on it (whatever it is). When was the last time you seen a Disny movie cover/poster, where the name of the director/writer was higher or bigger than the Disney logo?

     That's what I thought.

     Fuck Disney. They are a shit company that occasionally allows talented people do good things. Fuck Disney.

     I hate them.

It's Hi-Fi, dammit!

     HD radio you say? HD headphones? Well I say bullshit.

     Allow me to explain using as few words as possible.

     There are certain terms that describe quality of sound and moving picture. Distortion, aspect ratio, signal-to-noise ratio, etc. Smart individuals know them, and use them properly in the right situations. Dumb fucks who cannot count to 50, on the other hand, don’t know shit.

     A brief overview of two technical terms important for this reading: high fidelity and high definition.


     High Fidelity, or Hi-Fi
     This terms addresses quality of audio equipment: microphones, speakers, cables, players. Fidelity deals with the frequency range of sound (lowest possible to highest possible), distortion os sound (accuracy of its recording/reproduction) and bit and sample rate of digital audio. Fidelity also refers to other sound-related things, but those are not important here.


     High Definition, or HD

     Definition, whether high or low, refers to the amount of pixels used to make an frame of a digital video file. There are several industry standards of definition:
240
360
480
540
576
are considered low to standard definition.

720+
is considered high definition.


     If you can comprehend English, and do not need glasses (or have them on), by now you should understand and fidelity deals with SOUND, while definition with VIDEO.

     If so, then why the FUCK are people using HD to describe audio? HD radio?? HD Headphones??? What is this bullshit?!

     The reasons for this trend is either because the world’s population is getting dumber, or idiots being granted a voice. No one who knows about audio and video will use the term “high definition” everywhere it does not belong. And yet a lot of people do. Because a lot of people are fucking stupid.

     And the worst thing? The industry EMBRACED this stupidity, and started to cater to idiots, because those idiots are not a large portion of the consumer base. That is why we have HD radios, HD headphones, and HD audio in general.  THE TERM IS HI-FI! THE WORD IS HIGH FIDELITY!! FUCKING DUMB FUCKS!!! GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!~!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




     So, yes. Stop being retarded, and use proper terms.

     What’s that? I cannot tell you what to do? I am not your dad?

     Well, that’s just another place where you’re wrong. I do, in fact have a time machine. I went into the past, and fucked your mom. So yes, I AM your dad. Not stop being such an uneducated retard!

Satyrday: a Fable. Monday, parts 3 & 4.

     The light which reached the southern sections of the Deadwood Forest illuminated a strange world. Deirdre still slept on her branch. But around her, the forest began to stir.
     Covering some of the trees was a reddish slime, like mold. It quaked, rising and falling, sounding very much like a distant ocean. Moss blanketed the lower trunks of other trees, odd brown moss which sent out tentative streamers perpendicular to the bark on which it grew. The forest floor was thick with ferns, black and shaped like grotesque hands. Among them bulbous mushrooms sprouted, poking their poisonous white caps between the fronds. Frogs hopped under the ferns, and there were worms, long as the raven's wingspan and tinged a pale pink.
     On the trunk of the tree where Deirdre sat, two starfish, or animals like them, slowly inched their way toward her. They hunched forward in a sickening roll, pointed long arms up, grabbed the bark, and pulled themselves along.
     The starfish reached Deirdre's branch and began to slither toward her. They hung below it, gripping the branch with their five pointed arms, their bodies dim grey sacks. One by one, they extended a point, took hold, and perilously inched town the branch. Gradually they came closer until one was near enough.
     It reached out, fastened itself to her far claw, and wrapped itself around the branch. With a snap, the second followed, moving with unexpected swiftness. And Deirdre awoke from her sleep with a start, both of her claws cemented to the branch, two round rasping mouths trying to swallow her feet.
     Groggy with sleep, she looked below her. The ferns, black as her feathers, waved in the mountain air. For a dizzying moment she thought she was about to fall into water, and then she made out their shapes, foreign and seductive, but recognizable. The mushrooms glinted in the grey light as if they were wet with sweat. And under this ground cover she saw the flash and glitter of the frogs and worms.
     Her feet were being sucked and the sensation made her reel with disgust. She spread her wings and beat them frantically, but she couldn't move from the branch. The starfish held tight, their underbellies gripping with enormous suction. She cawed loudly, the ferns below her writhed in response.
     She tried again. Slowly she began flapping her wings, attempting through sheer strength to pull herself free. She felt the starfish begin to release, but just when she thought she would leave the branch, they contracted and her claws were sucked back, so tightly this time she was afraid they dug into the wood.
     Wings outstretched, she ducked her head and pecked at the fat stubby bodies. They were tough, rubbery, and the sharp point of her tightly curved beak bounced back at her. Shaking with rage, Deirdre stretched her neck as high as she could and brought her beak down in a tremendous blow. She felt the leathery skin break and her beak sink into the animal's body. A white ooze spread from the point she'd punctured. She pecked harder, her head jerking madly. The one grabbing her right claw let go, hung by one point from the branch, and then fell, somersaulting through the air until it disappeared among the ferns.
     She turned her attention to the other. She pecked again, frantic, until she thought she's given herself a concussion, but try as she might, she couldn't break its skin.
     Deirdre breathed heavily and her heart beat within her chest as if it had gone crazy. She spread her wings again, tried to fly free, but with one claw still held tightly she was lopsided, and almost lost her balance. She imagined hanging upside down from this branch, being held there by this animal. Perhaps then it would release her, and then it would release her, and as she fell, she could catch herself and fly. Instead, the took her free foot, and with as much power as she had left, stuck the talons deep into its sluglike center, and all five points let go at once.
     She was free! A shudder racked her sleek black body. She rose in the air, her wings flapping, the starfish gripped in her claw. When she was twenty feet off the branch, she realized she still held the thing and her leg twitched, shaking the starfish loose. It fell like the other, turning circles in the air. It hit a branch, its five wounded points wrapping themselves around the bark, and clung with prehensile strength.
     Deirdre was filled with such revulsion she thought she would fall dead. But the idea of what would happen to her if she fell, plummeting beneath the ferns to make a meal for those for those flabby groping creatures, restored her. She soared above the trees. Below her the faint oceanic roar and suck of the slime receded. The undulation of the treetops continued to one side, and to the other the rolling fell away, became flat as the Plain of Desiccation. Remembering her exhaustion of the night before and her plan to live out her life in isolation, there in the southern forest, she wondered at herself. She must have been deranged.
     And she knew her directions again. She flew as fast as she'd ever flown, in the upper reaches of the air where the clouds were beginning to settle. She didn't know what it was she was leaving behind; perhaps it was some place of punishment and purgation, some gratuitous prison the owl had constructed in his madness; perhaps she had merely imagined it. But no, she was awake, it was no dream, it had been real. As if to make valid that thought, she caught a glimpse of her left claw, now tucked tightly against the underside of her body. On it a drop of white ooze glistened like dew, and hardened there, a calcified knob.
     The wracked trunks of the familiar sections of the Deadwood Forest soon lay beneath her. Never before had it seemed so much like home.


                                                                  *                   *                   *


     It was Monday, the moon's day, but she was utterly disenfranchised. It was truly the owl's day, she knew, and tomorrow would be owl's day as well. She fell calmer now that she was rested, but the new morning promised no more hope of escape than had the light of the previous day. She looked to the east for some sign of the sun, but there was none to be seen. The sky was a different color today, a different grey. It looked like the silver lining of a mussel. In its own way it was quite beautiful, but the moon would have given anything for a glimpse of blue, a hole in the clouds through which an arm of sun might streak like a battering ram.
     Above her, the sky darkened and a large cloud descended. The air was filled with deadly roaring. As she watched, the color took shape, its brown barred feathers furred in the grey light. The owl's head was bent, his beak pressed tightly against his bloody bib. Like a thunderbolt he fell to the clearing, thudding against the ground with such force he buried his talons in the dark loam. One by one, he extracted his claws and cleaned them. Behind him, a host of falcons settled, leaving him plenty of room.
     "My one failing," the owl said to the moon, mildly staring up into the oaken cage. "I can't land without sinking a bit. It's my imposing size, don't you know."
     The moon struggled against here gag, but only muffled noises escaped her. "How thoughtless of me," the owl said. "You must think of me a beast of a host. Ungag her."
     Three falcons flew to the oak. Two of them separated the branches enough to let the tird inside the cage. He flew around the moon until she was quite dizzy. On one of his swoops behind her, the falcon nimbly snipped the back of the gag and it fell to the ground. In a single motion, the two outside parted the branches, the third slipped through, and all three returned to their previous positions around the owl.
     The moon groaned with relief. Her mouth was parched and sore and she swallowed painfully, trying to rid her throat of the dryness.
     As soon as she found her voice, she let loose. The owl sat tranquilly, almost smiling, as she ranted at him. And when she finished swearing, she began with curses. "May your talons curse in the night and silence your curdled brain. May you sink so deeply in the ground you suffocate on filth. May you live to old age a crippled one-winged toothless starving.  .  .  ."
     "Sticks and stones," the owl said, in a voice of the deadliest calm. "It is nothing for me to have my friends here gag you again."
     The moon shut her mouth. Her chest was heaving so deeply the air around her glowed, a nimbus of fury.
     "I thought you might be lonely and in need of conversation. After all, you're intelligent, I'm intelligent. I thought we could talk. Your rudeness wounds me deeply. I thought you might like to hear the news. So keep a civil tongue, if you will."
     "I'm in no need of your conversation," the moon said.
     "But I think you are," the owl said.
     "I know my own mind."
     "We are huffy today," he said and turned to one of the falcons who stood behind him. "How should I speak to her royal moonness? Perhaps her moonness is insulted by my diction. Perhaps I never learned the proper forms of address." The falcon stared dumbly at the owl. There seemed little reason to offer his opinion. "My flicker of light," the owl crooned. "My twin-horned lovely. Thou ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas."
     Emotions welled up in the moon she found difficult to name. She was enraged, of course, but the edge of her anger was muffled by the mortification she felt. Shame, yes, and powerlessness, but there was something else besides.
     "Stop your wretched poetry before I.  .  .  ." she said.
     "Before you what?" the owl asked, intent. "Before you spit? Not so genteel after all, eh? Finish your sentence."
     "No," she said. "No, I will not. You make me forget myself. You may have humiliated me, but I shall not give you the satisfaction of watching me humiliate myself."
     "Bravely said," the owl cheered. "Well put! Bravissima! But let me make one thing perfectly clear. Your courage will not get you very far. Your cooperation will. Do you understand me?"
     "No," the moon said.
     "That is your prerogative. You are ill-advised. I will never lie to you. To the others I will lie, if it suits my purpose, but never to you."
     The moon tried to think of a comeback, some flippancy she could hurl at him, but nothing formed.
     "You will have noticed the absence of the sun these two days past. You may count on her continued absence. Thick clouds cover the arc of heaven and the sun cannot penetrate them. She grows weak without you, you see, and in a few days, the earth will know only darkness. It is then I will send the falcons, my emissaries, to receive the world's acclaim. It will be a very different place to live, I promise you. And I need do nothing more than wait. You, or course, will remain my special guest. You should decide just one thing. If you want a stake in my imminent kingdom—and there are ways in which you could be useful to me—you have only to tell me this: I want to know where your sister spends her nights."
     The moon was stunned, not so much by the news of her sister as by the thought of betrayal.
     "I will leave you now," the owl said. "But be aware you will be watched. My falcons will return by nightfall to replace your gag."
     He spread his wings and they began to shiver in the clearing. Small leaves and twigs eddied in the fierce air currents his wings created. They began to flap and he rose, straight into the air above her, with so little effort the moon was filled with awe. The falcons left with him, and she was alone again.
     "Help!" she screamed. "Someone help me!" She screamed until her breath was gone and her fire was nearly out. The forest lay around her, silent as a cave. And yet there were presences there. If the owl said she was being watched, she knew she was being watched. Perhaps the trees had eyes. Perhaps this very oak had a life she didn't begin to suspect.
     The smell of the owl hung in the clearing, an unclean odor that would not disperse. Suddenly she pinned it down, that inchoate feeling she had experienced before. There was anger, yes, and shame, and even a bit of awe. But there was also—could she admit it to herself?—a ripe plum of envy. In his way, he was magnificent and truly terrible.
     And all these years she hadn't had a thought of competition.


                                                           *                       *                       *


That's all for now. If you're still reading, a few words worth of comment will give me the strength to write faster, and write more.

Satyrday: a Fable. Monday, parts 1 & 2.

MONDAY

     The moon had not relaxed in twenty-four hours, and by midnight she was fast asleep. All afternoon of the previous day she had struggled against her bondage; the gag was no looser after her effort, no gap appeared in the oak's enclosure, and her need to rest became monumental. If nothing ever changes, she thought, why must I sleep? But she was too fuzzy to think out the finer points of a philosophical argument, and her eyes, heavy with worry and doubt, closed.
     Deidre, too, was asleep. She had feared her fall into that soft familiar darkness—she should have been sleeping all day, like the others, and wondered if any would suspect her if she rested while they were awake—but her need overcame her trepidation. In her dreams, she was flying, always flying, back and forth from the Deadwood Forest to the meadowlands, ceaselessly, carelessly, buffeted by forces she could not control.
     She awoke, exhausted. The forest was black as the ink of a squid. She blinked her eyes, trying to see if other ravens were about, but she saw nothing. She had joined them earlier, sat among them, invisible, listening to their idle vicious conversation, until she could no longer maintain a façade of wakefulness. And now she was alone. Where had they gone?
     She understood more clearly one of the dangers she had taken upon herself. Doubtless, events had transpired while she's been gone, things she had no knowledge of, and no way of discovering. She knew an offhand remark inquiring about the night's occurrences would create suspicion and distrust. The owl's plans were important for her to know, and right now, even as she sat there, attempting to clear her mind of the dust of sleep, he could be holding a meeting. Most troubling to her was the absence of the ravens. Wherever they were, she should be with them.
     She climbed above the forest's branches to attain a better vantage point. Further to the west, she saw a faint glow, rising and falling, like breath; it must be the moon, she thought, and the meager quality of the light filled her with pity. She would be sleeping, poor thing, and there seemed little reason to fly in her direction.
     Thus Deidre, for the second time that day, flew east. She came to the edge of the forest and hovered in the air as if caught in an updraft. Before her, the mountains rose, formidable and bleak, and she could make out no movement below her on the short barren plain between where the mountains crashed to the earth and the first wall of forest began.
     Floating like a leaf, eddying on the currents of the air, she let herself drift to earth. She landed on a rock and listened. No sound greeted her, none of the noises common to the forest at night. She was filled with apprehension. It seemed as though the great wood were inhabited only by herself and the moon.
     She rose again and pointed south. The trees passed beneath her in a blur. She flew until she thought her wings would give out, until the very thought of returning from where she'd come was impossible. Then, imperceptibly to an eye less trained then hers, the terrain began to change. This was a part of the forest she had never visited before. The trees were still the same, stark outlines of the splendid oaks and hemlocks which grew in the meadowlands, but the utter flatness of the familiar sections of forest gave way to a slight undulation.
     The trees rose and fell with the rolling of the earth. Like waves, Deidre thought, like the ocean. Her stomach felt queasy; she found herself rising and falling along with the terrain. Her head hurt and her breath came in short spasms. She was badly in need of rest.
     As though she'd been hit, she arrested her flight, tucked her wings and dove on a diagonal toward the trees below her. Near the top of the forest, she spread her wings and softly landed. Immersed in that darkness, she cocked an ear and listened. It was the ocean, or something very like it, the faint roar of waves and the hollow sluice which follow their breaking. But the ocean lay far to the east. Was she hearing things now?
     "Let's face it," she said aloud to nothing in particular. "I'm lost." There seemed no way around her assessment, but no panic either. She was simply on alien ground.
     She began to laugh, filled with a sense of relief she hadn't felt in weeks. Perhaps she would stay here, eking out a paltry existence, far from the responsibilities she had placed on herself. Perhaps she had no choice.
     She had thought of Derin and Matthew whom she had visited—when?—the previous afternoon? It seemed ages ago, foreign as someone else's life. Even now they should be readying for the journey she had given them so little to prepare for. She didn't entirely trust them. The satyr was flippant and stubborn, the boy new to her. Still, they were her only hope. The animals in the Forest had been lulled into a passivity which bordered on sleep, and those who lived in the meadowlands would not understand. She would have to depend on those two upright creatures.
     Too tired to think any more, she slept the uneasy sleep of the lost, a self-imposed exile. The ocean sounds grew fainter, and hunched in her feathers, it seemed she grew smaller, until she was almost a child again, until she sat on the great seacliff and watched her mother and father soar over the ocean on wings of steel, hunting food for her.


                                                           *                    *                     *


     By the time Derin opened his eyes, Matthew was already up. The satyr whistled as he cleaned out his wooden bowl and stooped under the overhang to place his few remaining belongings in his knapsack. The boy's back ached from sleeping on the forest floor. He'd twisted in the night and an unfamiliar coldness had seeped into his bones, chilling him through. His neck was stiff, and one of his arms was asleep.
     He got up and huddled by the fire Matthew had built, stretching his hands toward it to warm them. His sleep had disturbed him, its rhythms still ruling his thoughts. The old dream had returned, the one that haunted him as a child.
     He was lost, wandering through an unfamiliar landscape, and everywhere he turned, the branches of trees seemed to close around him, to restrain him. The journey was endless, and although he was always moving, he never got anywhere. And then, just before he woke, a dark hooded figure loomed from behind a tree, a faceless apparition, reaching for him.
     "Well look who's up," the satyr said. "I was going to kick you awake but thought better of it. How did you sleep?"
     Derin didn't answer for a moment, stared at the flames. "I had that dream I used to have. I thought I'd outgrown it."
     The satyr looked at him strangely. "Quite a night," he said. "Two humdingers. Always sleep so well?" He began lacing his knapsack closed with a strip of rawhide. "That's it," the satyr said as he finished. "We're almost ready. You must be hungry."
     Derin admitted he was. "I've been to the meadow," Matthew said. "Look what I've found." he showed the boy four duck eggs, pulled a large flat rock from the perimeter of the fire and broke the eggs upon it. They sizzled and spat, their edges curling up like dried leaves.
     The boy ate quickly, without speaking. Matthew looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. "Friends of yours want to talk to you before we leave," he said.
     Derin glanced up from his breakfast. "What do you mean?" he asked, his mouth full of egg.
     "I told you I went to the meadow. Ran into two of your friends. Go ahead; I'll straighten up here."
      The boy stood, uncertain. "Go," Matthew said. "You're wasting time."
     Derin handed Matthew his bowl and took off on the path to the meadow. It seemed like the day before. Overhead, the sky hung low and grey. The trees drooped, their leaves dusty. And the forest was deserted.
     When he entered the meadow, he saw two animals by the stream, waiting for him. He approached, and the chattering he had heard stopped. There was the badger with whom he'd spoken yesterday and the blue jay he thought so beautiful.
     "What's this about?" Derin asked. "What's on your minds?"
     "We wanted to say good-bye," the badger said solemnly. "We heard you were going away."
     "Matthew told you?"
     The jay began to chatter. "He was here this morning. He stole some eggs from the duck. Said he was making breakfast. Eggs for breakfast? Worms for me, that's what I like, or grubs. Nice juicy grubs. Said you were going on a trip. The moon is in trouble. I'll say she's in trouble. Been loafing, didn't do her job last night. Nowhere to be seen. What I want to know is.   .   .   ."
     "The moon really is in trouble," Derin said. "Night before last, she was stolen from the sky."
     "A fine story," the jay said.
     "It's much more trouble, traveling. Who knows where you'll wind up?" the badger said.
     "Did you hear me?" the boy asked. "I said the moon's been taken from the sky. Kidnapped. Besides, we'll only be gone a few days."
     "That's not what Matthew told us. I heard him. He said it. Gone, gone, gone. Right after breakfast. Right after those duck eggs. But what will you eat next, that's what I want to know. Me, I'm staying here, right here in the meadow. Lots of grubs, nice, white juicy.   .   .   ."
     "Please, jay," Derin said, smiling. "I can't listen to all that now."
     "I've never trusted him," the badger said. "What's he up to now?"
     "Matthew isn't up to anything," Derin said, growing angry. "You said it yourself, badger. 'Something is terribly wrong.' You told me that yesterday."
     "Fiddlesticks," the jay said. "Balderdash. Poppycock, brouhaha. Bullfinch."
     "It's just the weather," the badger said. "We're in for a drought."
     "You may be able to fool yourselves," the boy said. "But I can't. A raven flew east from the Deadwood Forest to tell us about the moon."
     "The deadwood what?" the jay asked. "A raisin?"
     "Nothing good will come of it," the badger said. "I did say something was wrong. I'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice how odd things are today, but what can any of us do about it?"
     "Who was this bird?" the jay wanted to know. "Some cockamamy crazy with persecution complex. I've never heard of such a thing. Staling the moon. What a story. I thought I had a vivid imagination. You'd tell me what to do with my tongue if I ever.   .   .   ."
     "But I have to," Derin said. "Can't you see? I've never left the meadowlands."
     "Seeing is believing," the jay said. "Now don't be long. When you get back, I'll throw you a party. I'll invite the world. And there'll be lots to eat. Watercress and mushrooms, filberts and pears. And grubs. Nice, juicy.   .   .   ."
     "Good bye," Derin said. "I've got to go."


                                                          *                     *                      *

More: later! I'll allow comments for some time. Would like to see if that one person still cares.

Love, Part Deux.

     All people want to be loved; in that we are all the same.

     However, only some of us are smart.

     Stupid people do stupid things to get love. They mostly fail, often causing horrible things through doing so.

     Smart people think a lot first, and then do their best to get love the way they believe to be proper. They seldom succeed.

Pacifists are HYPOCRITES.

     How many time have you heard the word "pacifist"? At least a hundred times, I bet. And you thought about them (or becoming one) at least once or twice. Well, allow me to crush some dreams!

     "Pacifist" generally means "opposed to any kinds of violence or war". That is the simplest, and most accepted definition, so let's stick with it for this little article.

     There are two kinds of pacifists: ones who refuse to fight back when physically abused (i.e. punched in the nose or kicked in the balls), and ones who refuse to kill any living being. Both types do (or don't do) what they do because they believe any violence is immoral, and they will get beat up by some Big God after they kick the bucket, or get "bad karma" stuff. Yes, that's right: turn the other cheek, or go to Hell, bitch!

     Now, when I (sort of) established who pacifists are and why they do what they do, I will explain why all pacifists in the world are hypocrites.

     How many of you got sick at least once? I am pretty sure those who didn't are the legendary humans of legend, CAUSE EVERYONE GET SICK AT LEAST ONCE. Alright, with that established, how many of you wish to not get sick? Probably every single one of you. How many of you would like to have better health and better immune system? Again, everyone. Good. Health. Immune system. How does the latter work, again? Oh yes, it is a DEFENSE MECHANISM THAT KILLS MICROSCOPIC LIFEFORMS AND PARASITES THAT TRY TO KILL YOU. You kill millions of bacteria (and viruses and parasites) each day to stay healthy and alive.

     Now, you might say that bacteria, viruses and parasites are somehow different from other lifeforms, and totally okay to kill, so your karma does not care. BULLSHIT. You are trying to weasel out of your own contract. To be a pacifist, you must NEVER kill in defense.

     So, "true pacifists" out there, hear me out. To keep your namesake, turn off your immune system... now! Allow microscopic lifeforms slowly kill your body. Do not fight back. Do not kill them. Allow them to kill YOU.

     That is the only way to Buddha Heaven, amirite?




:P