Living Life in the Friend Lane
Or, Loving You Is Strange and Involves a Lot More Teriyaki Sauce and Acid than I Typically Enjoy On a Routine Basis
an informative article by "Nasty" Ron Rotten
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
While snorting coke of a good friend of mine and strangling a cat the other day (which, let me tell you, is a lot more fun than those people on moveon.org will have you believe) I was interrupted by a girl. No ordinary girl, either -- I happen to like this one more than is considered safe. Well, this girl had stuck me in the friend zone pretty hard, so, naturally, my reaction was to smile wanly at her, excuse myself, and walk quickly outside to fume, bits of coke still falling from the nostril and rapidly drying cat blood clinging desperately to my wrist as though they were the jaws of life.
"Wait a moment, Ron. You seem to be really overreacting," you interrupt me to say. "Also, that cat isn't going to finish strangling itself."
Let's go ahead and set up a basic definition of the friend zone and what it means to you (the reader). I'll assume you're a male, or at least a lesbian. There is, of course, also the possibility that you are a curious little wanker who ignored my warning at the end of the article, but I'm going to completely ignore that scope of things. So, the friend zone: one of the oldest, most common and unintentionally diabolical traps women have set up which tricks gullible losers into an eternity of mental enslavement. Typically women who do this are in (or have had in the past) a relationship with a Real Man*. Given that the Real Man doesn't typically soak up their entire backlog of emotional problems into himself as though he were a slightly damp sponge, the girl has a need for someone who can act as that sponge.
Sometimes the girl is lucky and already has gullible losers as friends who can fill this need. If she doesn't, the time is ripe to find a spineless nice guy to put into the FRIEND ZONE.
The spineless nice guy in question will initially be lured in, via flirting or other undisclosed 'woman methods.' However, when he tries to act on a burgeoning love for the girl, she reacts with "I don't want a relationship right now" or something else. Check this handy chart for reference (close equivalents may also be used):
* "Thanks for listening, you are such a great guy."
* "Why can't more guys be like you?"
* "You're so cute!"
* "Someday you will make someone very happy."
* "You are like a brother to me."
The nice guy will assume that he is in the wrong -- probably believing himself to have 'come on too strong.' Outside of the 'you are like a brother to me,' most of the lines lead him to believe there is still hope. Immediately, he will back off -- leaving him ripe for the flirt, use as sponge, dispose of cycle all over again.
I'm sure some of you are now asking the question, "Is there hope?" The answer should be obvious to every optimist in the audience - NO. There is no hope. No hope at all. You have a better chance at singlehandedly curing cancer, world hunger and the problems of religion using nothing but a leaf, a dead bee, and your ingenuity**.
EDIT: I did some research. Girls I know tend to disbelieve or claim to be unaware of the friend zone. Men can safely ignore this kind of verbal crud. Treat it as you would the Lifetime cable network -- stamp it out when it floats into your field of vision and ignore it during all other times.
FOOTNOTES
* a Real Man cares deeply for the girl he's in a relationship with, but has better things to do than listen to her if she complains about how if he leaves the toilet seat configured improperly she will explode, how calling twice a day isn't nearly enough, and other shit nobody cares about.
** Pro tip: If you are a nice guy, or if you don't think this article applies to you, you have an ingenuity rating between zero and negative one.
*** Pro tip: It's not bacon.
WARNING
This article is intended for men -- bitter, cold-hearted, cynical men (so they can get a chuckle) and for spineless, wishy-washy nice guys (so they can wake up and smell the bacon***). Lesbians might get some enjoyment, I honestly don't know. Heterosexual women are discouraged from reading it. However, if you're here because you skipped to the end to see how it turned out, I personally commend you.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
A Death's Gate Metal #3
Link: The Writer's Mary Sue Test. Admittedly, many Mary Sue tests exist on this tenuous span of internet, but this one is my personal favorite and I stringently test every character I create before insertion.
--
Tobias had timed his approach carefully. The guard on duty, Dirk Feldstone, hated checking in and didn't realize that everyone else knew about it. His commanding officers made him check in every 60 seconds, and therefore he did. Tobias thought of his old magical-dueling instructor at the Academy, Professor Hurple (now a Kommandant), and smiled at the Kommandant's adage, visible to his soon-to-be assassin in light-gray sans serif atop the dark gray of the concrete bricks that made up 89% of the structures in the modern United States (if statistics were to be believed). The passage read "Routine is the lifeblood of the Union," but Tobias remembered a day when a book had informed him that, in fact, "Routine is a trap, and a losing game."
Books tended to inform people about a lot of things, Tobias had noticed. Before too many books had crossed his path, he had earned the nickname "Tack" for his propensity to tack spell-sheets together on the fly. He had spent many days in independent study concerning Chaos Magic, and had copied the idea from G.P. Dowhouse, who had written many books in his heyday and even more afterward. Tack's spell-sheets had a marked tendency to be useless, or produce strange results, but he had applied himself in other areas (such as Witty Banter and Sociomagical Trends) well enough to make up for his deficit in Order magics. He had graduated the Academy at the middle of the class, and noone had really paid special attention to him. He was always amused.
Tack's smile gradually widened. He pulled out a spell-sheet and began to read. Moments later, flowers erupted from the stone pavement below and flew directly into the Kommandant's office when Dirk opened it. Tack knew that time was short, so, channeling the last energies of the spell, leapt atop the guard's neatly combed hair, down the stairs, and off into the night. Thinking of nothing, running with abandon, he found it odd that Dirk had not raised the alarm. As fast as he could scamper, he fled into the humid Southern air but soon fell short, gasping for breath. As a mage, he relied on spells to keep him fleet of foot, but these were scant and he simply did not have the energy. He dragged himself into the forest and fell into a peaceful sleep, undisturbed except by the cries of nocturnal birds and insects. The mosquitoes ate him alive, and the grassy forest was riddled with chlorophyll. "Better itchy than dead," Tack observed as he fell asleep, irritated but exhausted.
--
--
Tobias had timed his approach carefully. The guard on duty, Dirk Feldstone, hated checking in and didn't realize that everyone else knew about it. His commanding officers made him check in every 60 seconds, and therefore he did. Tobias thought of his old magical-dueling instructor at the Academy, Professor Hurple (now a Kommandant), and smiled at the Kommandant's adage, visible to his soon-to-be assassin in light-gray sans serif atop the dark gray of the concrete bricks that made up 89% of the structures in the modern United States (if statistics were to be believed). The passage read "Routine is the lifeblood of the Union," but Tobias remembered a day when a book had informed him that, in fact, "Routine is a trap, and a losing game."
Books tended to inform people about a lot of things, Tobias had noticed. Before too many books had crossed his path, he had earned the nickname "Tack" for his propensity to tack spell-sheets together on the fly. He had spent many days in independent study concerning Chaos Magic, and had copied the idea from G.P. Dowhouse, who had written many books in his heyday and even more afterward. Tack's spell-sheets had a marked tendency to be useless, or produce strange results, but he had applied himself in other areas (such as Witty Banter and Sociomagical Trends) well enough to make up for his deficit in Order magics. He had graduated the Academy at the middle of the class, and noone had really paid special attention to him. He was always amused.
Tack's smile gradually widened. He pulled out a spell-sheet and began to read. Moments later, flowers erupted from the stone pavement below and flew directly into the Kommandant's office when Dirk opened it. Tack knew that time was short, so, channeling the last energies of the spell, leapt atop the guard's neatly combed hair, down the stairs, and off into the night. Thinking of nothing, running with abandon, he found it odd that Dirk had not raised the alarm. As fast as he could scamper, he fled into the humid Southern air but soon fell short, gasping for breath. As a mage, he relied on spells to keep him fleet of foot, but these were scant and he simply did not have the energy. He dragged himself into the forest and fell into a peaceful sleep, undisturbed except by the cries of nocturnal birds and insects. The mosquitoes ate him alive, and the grassy forest was riddled with chlorophyll. "Better itchy than dead," Tack observed as he fell asleep, irritated but exhausted.
--
Thursday, August 23, 2007
A Death's Gate Metal #2
Link: the atari 2600 label generator. It generateth thy label with apparente dysdain.
--
In a house a mere ten miles south of the Union border and sixty yards from the next house over, a retired nineteen year old warrior of Order, who was also secretly a half-elf, lived. His name was Oren, a name which meant "pine tree" in Hebrew. Unlike the pine tree, Oren had managed to isolate himself completely from even those people whose house bordered his own. It had taken careful planning.
Six years ago he had announced his departure from society to the trees, the grass, and the spider who lived under his door-jamb. Unwittingly, his protestations and frequent sobbing during the interlude had attracted the attention of Tiffany, an unwitting servant-girl who lived next door. She had approached him, wearing the most comforting look she could muster. Oren's eyes became the size of embarrased dinner-plates, his almost-pointed ears flapped out directly sideways, his sweatband clenched his oddly clumped hair higher atop his head, and the last she saw of him was a flash of his Japanese-style wooden shoes. She vaguely remembered a shirt with an inexplicable red circle, and oddly gray sweat pants. His walk gave the impression of a stick-figure who had sprung to life and was remarkably spry but non-flexible. Confused, Tiffany went home and thought no more of the incident.
Six years later, as Oren stared over the door-jamb, something confronted his eyes which did not sit right with him. He took a mental inventory of things in the yard he was used to: there were the trees, the grass, and the spider corpse who lived under his door-jamb (the spider had always studied necromancy, but Oren felt that it had gone too far this time, and therefore they had not spoken in a year). Everything seemed present. This was important, he knew that. Suddenly, inspiration struck him a sharp blow to the side of the head. While he took a short breath to recover, he realized that the problem with his yard was not anything missing, but rather, something EXTRA.
The skeleton warband's encampment had definitely not been there the night before. Oren was sure. He had checked the immaculate records he kept of what was in the yard. A long time ago, Oren had also kept records of what was not in the yard, but as these records quickly grew lengthy as he discovered entirely new things his yard did not have every day, he had given it up.
Oren opened his battered copy of The Order Warrior's Guidebook, vol. II, to page 81: unwanted infestations of evil. Carefully, he read over the directions. Each step he took was purposeful, each breath methodical, as he took his polished pike in hand and proceeded outside.
--
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A Death's Gate Metal #1 (serial)
If this is your first time here, you may wish to check the Map of the Blag.
Today's recommendation: Your webcomic is bad and you should feel bad.
Remain tuned to this network for more crucial information. The first in a serial begins now.
A Death's Gate Metal #1
--
Dirk Feldstone could not remember the last time he had been happy. No matter how he went or where he looked, he saw enjoyment and happiness. The drugged citizenry wore crazed little half-smiles. His superior officers had a wonderful time telling him how to went and if to look. His standard-issue wife sometimes sighed, which stirred small memories in him, but these were faint echoes when compared to the constant instructions from his superiors, the lack of decent conversation from his fellow soldiers, and the blasted check-ins. Dirk Feldstone was a Union soldier stationed at the border between the United States and the Confederacy, and there was nothing he hated more than radioing in to his superiors every sixty seconds.
"But I love the sixty-second check in," lied Dirk, outskirting his teeth. "Aren't we friends, Dirk?" asked Kommandant Hurple, staring at Dirk with those potentially green eyes, "You can tell me, you know. Feel comfortable. Tell me anything." Dirk couldn't tell him, felt uncomfortable, and said again "But Jer--, er, sorry-- Kommandant, I watch the border. I should only radio in to you if something's wrong, shouldn't I? Anyway, noone ever crosses the border legally anyway, right?"
Kommandant Hurple drew himself up to his full height, coming up almost to Dirk's shoulders, and did his best to look affronted. However, he failed miserably and barely came off as fronted. A great sigh escaped his lips and searched for somewhere to canter about, but found only the muted gray of the Kommandant's office walls. The sigh escaped outside only to find that the outside was also a muted gray, although admittedly the rooms here were larger. Kommandant Hurple had not known the walls when they were a bright, lively gray celebrating the return of the Union soldiers after General Mayhem -- a sorcerous bastard who knew more offensive spells than the typical comedian --had driven them out of the South.
Dirk knew by the looks of the sigh and the feel of the air constricting around his neck that he had
made a serious mistake. The odd pair, officer and soldier, stood framed for a moment until their awkwardness was brutally interrupted by the sound of an officer radioing in, who gave Dirk Feldstone's ID number and designation and assured them that everything was fine and nothing was wrong. Kommandant Hurple took a moment to reflect. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. Dirk Feldstone had just radioed in to him, and yet Dirk Feldstone was also in his office. With a sudden flash of inspiration, his amiable sense of deduction served him well and he knew exactly what was wrong.
The Kommandant slapped Dirk upside the shoulder and said "Get out there! Noone else has radioed in! Something is horribly wrong!" Dirk sighed softly at the thought of more refugee killing, opened the door, and was just missed by the flash of what may have been white light but was later revealed by the security camera to be a cavalcade of flowers which flung themselves through the window and filled the Kommandant's lungs until they burst into gray puddles noone saw until the autopsy.
Dirk felt simultaneously relieved and worried. The Kommandant was dead, but Dirk hadn't killed him. If he was ever going to get good at this rising through the ranks thing, he needed to anticipate these moments and kill the officer. It said so in his soldier's handbook.
He ran outside and looked down off of the battlements. Sudden pressure atop his head brought about the fear of death in him, and he sank to the ground only to notice that what had landed on him was not death, but rather, a grinning man with a head rather like a pumpkin and a hat that wasn't anything like a pumpkin at all. He saw a mere flash of coat-tails and the man was gone, vanished into the Confederacy. Dirk searched for him for close to two seconds before he gave up and hoped that the man was a Chaos Mage. Chaos Magi were going to be rounded up and killed the next morning. He had seen the special order on the Kommandant's desk.
--
Today's recommendation: Your webcomic is bad and you should feel bad.
Remain tuned to this network for more crucial information. The first in a serial begins now.
A Death's Gate Metal #1
--
Dirk Feldstone could not remember the last time he had been happy. No matter how he went or where he looked, he saw enjoyment and happiness. The drugged citizenry wore crazed little half-smiles. His superior officers had a wonderful time telling him how to went and if to look. His standard-issue wife sometimes sighed, which stirred small memories in him, but these were faint echoes when compared to the constant instructions from his superiors, the lack of decent conversation from his fellow soldiers, and the blasted check-ins. Dirk Feldstone was a Union soldier stationed at the border between the United States and the Confederacy, and there was nothing he hated more than radioing in to his superiors every sixty seconds.
"But I love the sixty-second check in," lied Dirk, outskirting his teeth. "Aren't we friends, Dirk?" asked Kommandant Hurple, staring at Dirk with those potentially green eyes, "You can tell me, you know. Feel comfortable. Tell me anything." Dirk couldn't tell him, felt uncomfortable, and said again "But Jer--, er, sorry-- Kommandant, I watch the border. I should only radio in to you if something's wrong, shouldn't I? Anyway, noone ever crosses the border legally anyway, right?"
Kommandant Hurple drew himself up to his full height, coming up almost to Dirk's shoulders, and did his best to look affronted. However, he failed miserably and barely came off as fronted. A great sigh escaped his lips and searched for somewhere to canter about, but found only the muted gray of the Kommandant's office walls. The sigh escaped outside only to find that the outside was also a muted gray, although admittedly the rooms here were larger. Kommandant Hurple had not known the walls when they were a bright, lively gray celebrating the return of the Union soldiers after General Mayhem -- a sorcerous bastard who knew more offensive spells than the typical comedian --had driven them out of the South.
Dirk knew by the looks of the sigh and the feel of the air constricting around his neck that he had
made a serious mistake. The odd pair, officer and soldier, stood framed for a moment until their awkwardness was brutally interrupted by the sound of an officer radioing in, who gave Dirk Feldstone's ID number and designation and assured them that everything was fine and nothing was wrong. Kommandant Hurple took a moment to reflect. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. Dirk Feldstone had just radioed in to him, and yet Dirk Feldstone was also in his office. With a sudden flash of inspiration, his amiable sense of deduction served him well and he knew exactly what was wrong.
The Kommandant slapped Dirk upside the shoulder and said "Get out there! Noone else has radioed in! Something is horribly wrong!" Dirk sighed softly at the thought of more refugee killing, opened the door, and was just missed by the flash of what may have been white light but was later revealed by the security camera to be a cavalcade of flowers which flung themselves through the window and filled the Kommandant's lungs until they burst into gray puddles noone saw until the autopsy.
Dirk felt simultaneously relieved and worried. The Kommandant was dead, but Dirk hadn't killed him. If he was ever going to get good at this rising through the ranks thing, he needed to anticipate these moments and kill the officer. It said so in his soldier's handbook.
He ran outside and looked down off of the battlements. Sudden pressure atop his head brought about the fear of death in him, and he sank to the ground only to notice that what had landed on him was not death, but rather, a grinning man with a head rather like a pumpkin and a hat that wasn't anything like a pumpkin at all. He saw a mere flash of coat-tails and the man was gone, vanished into the Confederacy. Dirk searched for him for close to two seconds before he gave up and hoped that the man was a Chaos Mage. Chaos Magi were going to be rounded up and killed the next morning. He had seen the special order on the Kommandant's desk.
--
Map of the Blag (If it's your first time...)
Hi.
I'm Byron.
What you are about to read may disturb, shock and/or terrify you. It may even cause heart attacks or other serious medical conditions. This is unlikely, especially concerning the completely non-shocking nature of the contents which follow, but I feel like covering my bases in the event of a lawsuit.
Serialized or short stories I write find their home here, when I'm feeling interesting. Sometimes I might review games (of all varieties), comics / webcomics, and whatever the hell else I feel like. Other times it will be just something humorous.
I will be avoiding personal postings, as the world has plenty of "i had a nap it was fun but then my 'rents are like totally LOL and im all kthx ROFLAMO" blogs.
I'm Byron.
What you are about to read may disturb, shock and/or terrify you. It may even cause heart attacks or other serious medical conditions. This is unlikely, especially concerning the completely non-shocking nature of the contents which follow, but I feel like covering my bases in the event of a lawsuit.
Serialized or short stories I write find their home here, when I'm feeling interesting. Sometimes I might review games (of all varieties), comics / webcomics, and whatever the hell else I feel like. Other times it will be just something humorous.
I will be avoiding personal postings, as the world has plenty of "i had a nap it was fun but then my 'rents are like totally LOL and im all kthx ROFLAMO" blogs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)