On Road-Selfies.

7/10 people I pass on the road, exhibiting dangerous/inconsiderate driving behaviours, are on the phone. Is that tweet that important that you can't wait until you are NOT driving to send it? I get it, you people love selfies, and twitter, and instagram. You guys have loads of friends you absolutely have to talk to every second of every minute of the day, but are you seriously saying that the 10~20 minute journey from your workplace or school/college is just too long to go without a selfie/tweet/fb update?

I used to think it was mostly (if not exclusively) girls who had to have their 5" slabs of plastic in front of them as they drive along. But no, at least half of them are also dudes. Come on, don't be a road menace. When you're weaving about on the road because you're looking at your phone instead of the road ahead, you're not only going to kill yourself, but also that poor innocent guy beside/behind you (essentially, me). If you want to meet your maker ahead of schedule, or if you want to total your car so you can get a new one, try hitting a tree. Or a brick wall. Or yourself.

And if that tweet/text/selfie is a matter of life or death, go on the inside lane, or STOP for heaven's sake. But honestly, is there actually a life or death selfie? I don't think so. Especially when all your selfie poses look exactly the fucking same. Do you really want your next instagram OOTD to be you wrapped up like a mummy, unconscious on a hospital bed?


-RQ

On Romantic Comedies

Romantic comedies have always been a sort of...guilty pleasure of mine. It usually isn't a genre most guys watch, or even like, and I get why. Nothing blows up, usually. Nothing gets killed, usually. Nothing gets driven really fast, usually. Nothing invades earth, ever. So, no fighting, no blood, no gore, no graphically enhanced women body parts, no murder, no unrealistic sex scenes, no explosions, no car crashes all equals no fun. Well, for most guys at least.

Then I found out that quite a few girls don't watch rom coms either, so it made conversations a little awkward when I quote Definitely, Maybe and  all I get is a confused look, followed by a get-out-of-my-face look. But that's okay. It's who I am I suppose. Sure I like action movies and sci-fi and the Fast and the Furious franchise as much as the next guy, but there's always a place for rom coms.

I think it's affected my life in some way. I look at a pretty girl and think, yeah she's hot, got a booty that'll change the world, and a face that would knock you out without even needing to hit you, but would I like her immediately? No. Probably not. I'd have to get to know her first. Sure material beauty is a factor, but it's not the biggest factor. If she has a face like Scarlett Johansson's lips, and Rihanna's legs, but what if she has an emotional depth of a turd? What if the funniest joke she's ever heard was the one about a chicken crossing the road to get to the other side. What if I told her that "no, I'm not lame, because I still have full motor function in all my limbs" and all I see is a blank stare? Granted, even if someone got that, the most I'd get is a groan or an eye-roll, but that's still a reaction. Not a bewildered look of utter nothing-ness. I'm sorry but if that's the case, you can keep your assets.

Don't be fooled, a girl like that would be way out of my league irrespective of whether she had a sense of humour and an amazing personality, or if she thought Arnold Schwarzenegger had a sense of humour.

The appeal of rom coms is, to me, that it paints a picture of a fairytale life, where everything great came without the hard work. All the monotonous, hum drum, autopilot moments are fast-forwarded, and all we enjoy is the good stuff, the honeymoon stuff, the spectacular. What it does is let us escape to a world of what ifs, and in this awful existence we call reality, that is a very welcomed break.

But there is a but. There is always a but. My problem with rom coms is the twist. The climax. The turn. The heart of every rom com, because at the heart, there will always be a problem. Something will happen to tear the hero and heroine apart. A third guy, a lonely ex, oppressive parents, the world. Something will happen that'll see all that the characters have built up to that point, be torn down. Be destroyed.  Be scrubbed off.

"But why? That's what keeps the show interesting!" you might say. And I agree with you wholly. Who would want to watch a show where it is all good, good, good until the end? I wouldn't, that's for sure. But it still doesn't distract from the pain it causes, the fact that even in fantasy, there will always be a downfall. A chink in the armour of joy and love. A loose cannon. An unpredictable variable. It gives us a slice of reality. A smack in the face that when you set out to do something, to love something, there will always be people who will go against you and stop at nothing to tear you down just to watch you burn. And to be honest, that actually kinda sucks.

I suppose that's what makes 500 Days of Summer so great as a movie, and I think more movies should try to take after what they did. It doesn't let you have that luxury of thinking that everything will be great. It starts out with a message, explicitly telling its viewers that this is not a love story. I thought that was great. It's an interesting take on numbing the message of reality that everything will fall to pieces at some point. It tells you a story of the bad and the good at the same time. To me, that makes it okay. People often say that the bad parts of life make the good parts all the better, and I guess it is true in this case. The good woven in with the bad does make the good parts even better, and the bad parts more tolerable.

I guess there is a life lesson here, if only I knew what it was. But I think it's got something to do with living each day for what the day really is, regardless of whether it is a good or a bad day, because in the end, what's good and what's bad is what you make of it.

"I just try to live every day as if I've deliberately come back to this one day, to enjoy it" - Tim, About Time

It's cheesy I know, but it doesn't make it any less of a good movie.

Of course, when all is said and done, there always is a happy ending. Somewhere, at some point in time we all get our happy ending, as Orson Welles once said, it just depends on where you want to stop the story. I guess that's why I like rom coms. It's funny, sure, but there's always that something that makes you happy after you've watched it. It gives me hope that life can really be that good.

-RQ

On Vampires.

I think this is a little late, since the vampire hype is long over, but there have been some concerns. Well, concerns concerning me concerning vampires, that is.

Now vampires have been given life - well I say given life, but they're actually very much dead things - in many, many forms. In some, they are mindless beasts, controlled only by their id desire to feast on human blood and sink their fangs into our necks and suck us dry - much like the government, really. In others, these vampires are cool (ha ha, geddit?), suave, and so impeccably well dressed, they should have their own reality TV show. Then there are the few odd ones where these undead dead actually sparkle.

All that is great.

Sure, explore your creativity. Go ham with the idea of vampires, because why not? The world is your oyster when you're a writer... except that it isn't. Not when the vampires end up sparkling brighter than the pearls in your oyster-world.

I don't get the obsession with cool vampires (ha ha I did it again). What possible concoction of weed would one have to smoke to arrive at the conclusion that vampires are better humans than humans? If they were so good at being human, how'd they end up dead in a ditch anyway? Then suddenly they wake up one morning and miraculously become better people? Come on, even humans suck at being humans, how much better could a dead human be?

What I think vampires should be like are the very things that they are - dead. Undead dead that is. These vampires shouldn't be allowed to have human cognition, considering that they died leaving mortality, and of course by extension humanity, behind. They shouldn't be allowed to smell good since they're essentially motorised corpses. They should smell awful. They should reek of dead so that the rest of us humans can smell one coming a mile away and get the hell out of there before we end up being turned into some dried up skin on a stick.

What vampires are, essentially, are mosquitoes. They walk around for a few days, then fill themselves up on blood, then walk around some more. It should be that simple.

There is however an argument raging inside my head regarding my version of vampires. If vampires were really to become like mosquitoes, then they would be stepping into zombie territory, since zombies pretty much do the same thing, except with brains. Then I decided "hey, why can't vampires just be the vegans/vegetarians of the zombie world?".

I mean they check of several key characteristics of vegans/vegetarians if you think about it. For starters, they don't kill the people they drain (well they don't have to, ref. Vampire Beach). Next, they love to let everyone know that they're vampires - or that they're cooler (ha ha, okay I promise, this is the last time) than you, which is in essence the same thing (ref. Twilight). And finally, they cringe when it comes to consuming solid food (ref. unfortunately also Twilight).

So there you have it, a startling revelation really. Vampires are actually vegetarian zombies that don't rot. Also bear in mind the next time you think "ooh how I wish I was dating a vampire", don't be surprised if he turns out to be very handy with a shovel. It's from all the burying of exsanguinated corpses.

-RQ

if all our life is but a dream

I’ve had many nightmares in my life thus far, though I’m very glad that I have never had a night terror. However as of late, there is one recurring nightmare that seems to haunt me when I fall asleep. I write this because I’ve just woken up from one.

Roughly two years ago I stumbled on something amazing in my life, almost completely by accident. I did not intend for it, nor did I ever picture it to happen. But it did and ‘til this day I can still fondly recall how scared and happy I felt when it happened. But that’s alright. That fear was not the scary-jump-out-of-your-closet scary. It was good fear. I’m not entirely sure how to explain what good fear is but I’m sure most of us have had a taste of it at some point in our lives.

The fear that I’m talking about now, in my dreams, however is anything but good. It is said that a person’s sleep cycle consists of roughly four stages, and that the most important stage is the REM sleep. The stage when dreams happen. It is when your brain explores and does what it wants to do, and not what you want to do, and though that gives you a rejuvenated feeling when you wake up.

But what about nightmares? As I sit here typing this I’m feeling anything but rejuvenated. My heart is thumping and my neck is stiff from the awkward position I was trapped in somehow during my sleep. When I close my eyes I can still see the faint images from my dream – the highlight reel so to speak – and it scares me.

I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid of losing this one particular person who stumbled into my life, and for some apparent reason I’ve grown to not to be able to live without. I know I am selfish to say that because there are many people who are equally if not more important in my life. I know that this may not be a big fear by most general measures. I know that, but still, I fear it and it haunts my dreams much too often.

Perhaps I fear it because it is imminent. Perhaps I fear it because it’s inevitable. Perhaps it is because the scenarios in my dreams seem real. They seem entirely possible. And perhaps worst of all, they seem familiar.

What if one day I don’t wake up from it?

It is said that a man only cries three times in his life. Sure, I have cried before. I have cried several times before. But do I truly know what it is to cry? This, I cannot answer because I do not know. I do not know what will happen to me if or when I lose you.

And that scares me.

-RQ

It's a Sickness.

I can taste bile at the back of my throat. The sick, tugging feeling of everything churning and knotting in my stomach. Words fail to leave my lips as I gasp for air. Is this some sort of sick reminder? A messed up version of a B-Rated movie. Perhaps my life is only painted in strokes good enough to go straight to DVD, but to be frank, I don't believe that I am not capable of getting what I want.

Is this supposed to be a game? Aren't you tired of playing your sick little games? Toying with me, giving me glimpses of a perfect picture, only to shatter it when I am within reach. Am I destined to stay in this merry-go-round of underachievement, endlessly going around, leading nowhere?

No. I do not belong here. I will not stay here.


-RQ

A Tall Tale of a Small Boy.

So I finally got the marks for my short story which I submitted as part of my Creative Writing assignment, so I guess it is safe to publish it on my blog, without fear of self plagiarism. The criteria was to keep it under 3,000 words. I tried my best, and I hope it isn't too confusing.

I hope you have fun reading! Cheers.

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The fire in the fireplace was dim, barely embers, which kept the temperature warm and cozy. The rug spread out on the floor of the small den was so soft that you could stand there all day, and the walls were made of cobblestone and wood. All in all, the place was cozy. It was home.

Facing the fireplace were two lounge chairs, big enough to sit in comfortably, but not too big as to be mistaken as a sofa. On the walls hung pictures, family pictures depicting the happy family of a man, his wife and their son. The only thing was that the wife in the all the pictures never looked a day older than twenty. As the son and father grew older in the pictures, the wife disappeared from the pictures, leaving the pair a little lonelier and their smiles a little dimmer.

A young boy ran down the oak staircase from the first floor and walked into the den. He rubbed his eyes and padded across the soft rug towards the fireplace. “Dad? I can’t sleep,” said the boy.
There was man sitting in one of the two lounge chairs. He turned his head to face his son. He was a weathered man in his late thirties, the twinkle in his eyes suggested that he has seen things that regular folks wouldn’t have, and while his smile was warm, it was also pained. The man beckoned his son to come to him. The boy walked up to his father and sat on his lap.

“Daddy, will you tell me a story?” the boy asked. “A scary one, like mom used to.”

“Alright,” said the father after some thought. “I’ll tell you a tale that happened a long time ago, but you must promise to not interrupt me, okay?”

The son, Derek, nodded excitedly.

“Once upon a time, there was a young boy, not much older than you, Derek,” began the father. “He lived in a small cottage perched on the side of an adorable green hill filled with dandelions, not unlike this one…”


***

He was just that, a boy, young and full of life with not a care in the world. He lived a simple life with his carpenter father, always eager to learn the traits of the trade. They were almost a perfect family, almost. The young boy, Aiden, had lost his mother when he was very young and his father never liked to talk about what happened to his mother. One day Aiden just woke up and his mother was gone, no explanation, no reason.

But Aiden knew better. He could see the void left by his mother in his father’s eyes, always pained and filled with something dark. If only he knew what really happened, he felt that he could help his father through this hard time. But he knew better than to ask about what happened. The saying goes that time heals all wounds, and all Aiden could do now was just hope that it would get better over time.

A few years after his mother’s death, his father seemed to be getting better. He was smiling more, and they were slowly but surely easing back into becoming a happy family again. His father had stopped drinking and was outside more, the rhythmic thwacking of the carpenter’s axe on wood was comforting to Aiden’s ears. It meant his father was finally moving on, and he couldn’t be happier. He felt that the rough patch was over, that they were heading towards a better future.
He could not have been more wrong.

Everything changed on Aiden’s 10th birthday. His father had prepared a glorious meal to celebrate, well, glorious for a carpenter that is. That meant an entire roasted chicken with freshly baked bread from the baker in town. But the best part was the cake, a blueberry cheesecake, Aiden’s favourite, and although it was only a small slice, Aiden thought it was the best birthday cake ever.

Aiden and his father sat down at the dining table ready to eat. The single birthday candle in the cake illuminated the food on the table, giving it a delicious yellow hue. They held hands and bowed their head in silent prayer. Aiden prayed that his mother could see all of this, and be happy that his father was finally moving on. Aiden smiled at the thought of his mother’s smiling face, his only visible memory of her. The rest were all just feelings and emotions he felt around her, and that was better than anything a photo could capture.

They released each other’s hands and were ready to eat when suddenly, in a glaring spectacle, every glass window in the cottage exploded inwards. Aiden was dazed, he wasn’t sure what happened, but when he opened his eyes, he was on the ground under the table, with his father’s arms wrapped around him.

“Aiden, are you okay?” asked his father. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no dad, I’m fine,” said Aiden. “What happened?”

The temperature in the room dropped drastically, and shadows started to seep in through the windows. The front door of the cottage exploded open and there, in the moonlight, was a silhouette of something sinister, someone sinister. As Aiden’s eyes grew accustomed to the low lighting, he could see that it was a witch, and the look in her eyes screamed evil.

The witch smirked. The shadows beside the witch curled into two hounds, black as night, with blood red eyes.

“Get him,” she commanded, pointing towards Aiden and his father.

The hounds growled and lunged, but Aiden’s father had surprisingly quick reflexes. He reached for his hammer by the wall and swung with all his might at the hounds. The hammer struck, with a deafening crack, and sent both hounds flying across the room into the fireplace. The witch shrieked.

Wow, dad would’ve been a great baseball player, thought Aiden. But before he could ponder his father’s baseball prospects any longer, his father swept him off his feet and raced out of the living room into the stable and threw Aiden into the back of the carriage. Then he took off his beautiful silver and gold ring handed it to Aiden.

“Keep this safe, son,” said his father. “It will protect you.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“No, I’ll keep her busy, distract her long enough for you to escape. Please, trust me.”

“I’m not going to leave you dad! Please, come with me”

“There isn’t enough time. I love you son!” And with that, his father struck the mighty black steed, Windjammer, and it
pulled out of the barn.

“I love you too, Dad,” whispered Aiden, as he sped down the hill. All he remembered after that was passing out into the pile of hay in the carriage.


***


“And then what happened, dad?” asked the son.

The father chuckled, amused by his ever eager son. “Well, let’s fast forward to about ten years from that night. Young Aiden was all grown up, and now a knight serving in the Royal Guard of the Kingdom.”


***


The midday sun was high in the sky as Aiden galloped into the small village on his mighty white steed Deviant. He had been tasked to investigate a curious incident here in Dodgerville, bloodless murders. Maybe they were murdered by a sponge? Aiden thought as he approached the city square. There was a large group of people gathering around the steps leading to what seemed to be the library, while the town guards were trying their best to prevent the people from contaminating the crime scene. Aiden dismounted from Deviant, tied him to a nearby tree, and strode over to the crowd.

He was dressed in official knight garments; a black trench coat with a matching black and red shirt buttoned at the shoulder decorated with medals and the insignia of the Kingdom, a black pair of jeans with a pair of black boots. The only jewelry he wore on him was his father’s gold and silver ring, which he wore on his right index finger. One would think he was a singer for a punk metal band, well except for the fact that he had a sword and a crossbow strapped to his belt, but the King thought black was a colour that would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.

As Aiden approached the crowd, they parted for him, some gasping and pointing, whispering “Oh my, look, he’s a knight!” while others shied away, probably worried that they might get caught for something they did in the past. As he approached the crime scene, he saw two dead and bloodless bodies lying face up on the steps, one was male, the other female. Both had shocked expressions on their faces. When he reached the circle of guards, he was greeted by a young lady with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes.

“Good day, sir knight, my name is Adelaide, and I am the Captain of the Guard. Thank you for coming down to our small town to help us with this case,” said Adelaide.

“Please, call me Aiden,” Aiden responded. Adelaide led him past the circle of guards and toward another group of older looking gentlemen. All but one of gentlemen turned and walked away as Aiden approached, neither wanting to meet a knight of the Royal Guard. Looks like black does strike fear into the hearts of his Majesty’s enemies, thought Aiden with a smile.

“This is Mayor McKinnon,” said Adelaide. “Mayor, this is knight Aiden of the Royal Guard.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said McKinnon as he shook Aiden’s hand. McKinnon was a healthy man, probably in his forties with just a few streaks of grey in his black hair. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. When I first saw this, I didn't know what else to do but to inform his Majesty.”

“His Majesty cares greatly for his people, he dispatched me almost immediately after he got the news,” said Aiden. He nodded towards the crime scene. “I’ve seen this before.

“Notice how the cuts are precise, almost surgical. This person knew what he or she was doing,” said Aiden. He knelt down for a closer look at the bodies. “The thing that stuns most people is the lack of blood, which is usually the result of a death spell, but that distracts them from the real problem. The real key to understanding what happened to these people is that their bodies have no shadows. This is definitely the work of Shadowmancers, a group of highly dangerous mages who have power over the shadows.”

The colour drained from the Mayor’s face and Adelaide’s jaw clenched.

“So what do we do?” asked McKinnon.

“I’ll take over from here, Mayor,” said Aiden as he stood up, glancing at the ever growing crowd of people, before turning to Adelaide. “Captain, do you have any witnesses?”

“Yes sir. There is a girl here who says she has information on where the murderers are,” replied Adelaide promptly. “Please follow me.”

She led Aiden to the left of the crime scene towards the top of the stairs where several guards were stationed around a young girl with auburn hair who was sitting at the top of the staircase. As Aiden got closer, he recognised her distinctive kaleidoscopic eye colour; the colours seem to change from green to blue to brown.

“Emma?” said Aiden. “Wow, I haven’t seen you in forever. I didn’t know you lived here!”

“Aiden!” exclaimed Emma as she rushed up to hug him

“Thank goodness you’re here. I saw what happened, I saw the shadows come up and attack those people, I saw them die. Oh Aiden, it was horrible,” she sobbed. “I know where they are, the shadow people who did this. I saw them that other time in the market I followed them to the forest because I thought they looked weird. B-but it turns out they WERE weird! And then I-I-”

“Slow down Emma,” said Aiden, trying to calm her. “Can you show me where they are?”

Emma nodded.

“I’ll go check it out,” said Aiden, then he turned to Adelaide. “Captain, you stay here and make sure the people are calm safe okay? We need to contain the situation.”

Adelaide nodded. Aiden led Emma to Deviant and they both traveled into the forest, towards the Shadowmancer’s camp.

When the camp was in sight, Aiden could feel in his gut that something was wrong. He got down from his horse and told Emma to wait with the horse. Aiden pulled out his crossbow and his sword and advanced carefully towards the opening. As he got closer to the camp, he saw that the Shadowmancers were all already dead. Aiden could tell from the debris gathering around them that these Shadowmancers have been dead a long time, and they definitely did not kill those people at the library.

But that was when everything went horribly wrong.

The emergency alarm sounded in the town, and it suddenly struck Aiden. This was a trap. Emma had betrayed him. She lured him away from the city so that whoever was responsible for the murders could get what they were really after. Aiden rushed back to Deviant, and sure enough, Emma was gone. He got on Deviant and rode back to the town as fast as he could.

Upon arriving, he could see the whole town had descended into chaos. Stalls were destroyed and there were dead bodies strewn all over the town. Giant shadow dogs were running around killing everyone in sight. Adelaide ran up to him and yelled “It was a trick! The witch has kidnapped the Mayor’s daughter! Hurry you can save her, she just left through the south entrance. I’ll defend the town, you go! I’ll send backup when I can!”

Aiden nodded and spurred Deviant. He rode as fast as he could out the south entrance and caught sight of the black carriage further down the path. He trailed it until he arrived at a huge keep that was suspended over what appeared to be a lava pit.

Aiden strode through the front doors of the throne room, weapons drawn, expecting a confrontation with a thousand armed guards, but nothing happened. Instead, there was a lone woman sitting at the throne. The Mayor’s daughter was nowhere in sight. The woman was staring at him intently. Somehow, Aiden felt like he recognized her. Then it dawned on him, she was the witch who murdered his father.

“You!” Aiden yelled, “You murdered my father, and now you plan on destroying the entire village? I’m going to kill you, witch.”

“My my, little Aiden, how noble, but I have no intention of destroying anything,” said the witch, smirking. “You really don’t recognise me? Well maybe if I do this-” and in a loud hiss, she released the shadows surrounding her, and then in the witch’s place, stood Aiden’s mother.

“Mom?” said Aiden, perplexed.

“Why yes dear,” answered his mother calmly like nothing happened. “Well, what are you waiting for, kill me.”

“What? How can I kill you? How could you have killed all those people? And dad? Ugh, this is too much,” Aiden groaned as he dropped to the floor.

“I had to, dear. It was all part of the plan. It was all to lure you here so that you could kill me and complete the cycle.”

“What cycle?”

“Our bloodline has been keeping a dark power in check for a very long time through these sacrifices. Our sons kill their mothers to be sacrificed as tribute to the dark power so they would not rise to destroy the earth.”

The keep started rumbling.

“How could you ask me to do this? No, I’ll break the cycle. I won’t kill you! I just got you back!”

“But you have no choice.”

“We always have a choice, and my choice is to not kill you. To hell with it, if we all die, then we all die, I’m NOT going to kill you.”

There was a pause, then Aiden’s mother smiled, a tear in her eye. “That’s my boy. I love you so much.” She looked around. “Then I guess this is the end.”


***


“The building came crashing down, its foundations shattered and the whole structure fell into the pit of lava,” said the father.

“What happened to Aiden, dad?” asked Derek diligently. “Did he manage to do it? Did he save the world? Did he break the cycle?”

There was a pause.

“It’s getting late, son,” said the father, averting his gaze for a moment, before looking back into his son’s sky blue eyes. “You should get some sleep. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

“But da-ad! I’m turning ten tomorrow! I’m practically an adult now,” whined the son.

“No buts! Go to sleep now, young man.”

The son looked like he wanted to protest, but he saw the look on his father’s face and decided against it. He shuffled out of the den and plodded up the stairs. Halfway up, he paused. “Dad?”

“Yeah, buddy?” answered the father.

“I miss her. I miss mom so much. I wish she didn’t have to go.”

“You and I both,” sighed the father.

“Also, that story wasn’t scary at all. Goodnight dad, I love you.”

The father chuckled. “Goodnight son, I love you too.”

As his son reached the top of the staircase the father stood and walked over to one of the windows in the den overlooking the hillside. No, it isn’t scary at all. Well, not yet, thought the father as he twisted the gold and silver wedding band on his finger.

But soon, my son, you’ll know how scary some stories can be.

Tears welled in the man’s eyes as he saw a silhouette of a woman appear among the shadows at the foot of the hill.





-RQ

Shackled

I’ve recently come to realize that I may unconsciously be an emotionally masochistic person. Without realizing it, I often allow myself to suffer emotionally, especially through an affectionate attachment to something, someone, or some feeling that I may have come across or experienced at any point in my life. The problem with this is that these things are almost always fantasy.

I will be emotionally shackled to that particular object, person, or feeling. I would allow myself to relive that feeling, to experience it over and over again, only for it to end in disappointment on my part, because of the unreality of the object, person, or feeling that I was attached to.

Take for example this one time when I was a young boy, I yearned for a new PC. One day, I had a dream that I had the most powerful PC one could ever imagine. But there was one flaw to the PC; it could not turn on. So off I went in the car with my father, mind you this is still during the dream, and we drove to the nearest PC repair shop to get it fixed. However the roads were completely congested, filled with cars and trucks that just didn’t want to move. So I sat there hugging my beloved PC, patiently waiting and hoping that I would reach the PC repair shop soon.

Sadly, I never did arrive at the PC repair shop. I woke up halfway to the PC repair shop and discovered it was all just a dream. But instead of dismissing it, I rushed downstairs to see if I really did have what I wanted. I remembered trying to relive that dream over and over again, hoping that it would eventually come true. It never did. I would then replay those emotions, allowing myself to feel that happiness, that false hope and all the excitement that filled little dream me’s body. Then reality would smack me in the face and I would be depressed for a few days.

The process repeated itself several times.

This is just one example, one of the first times that this has happened. Soon it didn’t even need to be a dream; just a thought would be enough. As I grew older, these emotional shackles to false reality just grew stronger, and evolved according to my predicament. This then resulted in stronger emotional heartbreak when I “wake up” to reality.

Why do I do this? I have no idea, but I can’t seem to stop. I wonder what would happen if I faced real heartbreak.


-RQ

We're All Looking For Something, To Take Away The Pain.

You know how in Inception, the dude says that the best way to find out whether you're in a dream or not is to try and think about how you got to where you are?

Well, he did.

So one day I was thinking(yes, hard as it may be to believe) do any of us remember how we got to where we are today? I don't mean what happened yesterday, or the day before or a few years before, but how did we come into this world? Do you remember?

So what if all this is just a dream? What if we're all just trapped in some poor sod's subconscious? What if this is just one long ass dream, did you ever think of that?

This is me, dropping some philosophy.


-RQ

Pickles.

I just realized this, but I think the hardest form social interaction for me is when you meet someone you once knew, but have not seen in a really, really long time.

I mean, what do you say in a situation like that? Oh, uh hi. It's been so long, how're you? or Oh hey, I thought you looked familiar! I heard your gerbil is doing fantastic.?

You see, I have never really been great at socializing with people, be it with people I currently know or people I want to get to know. However, I think I am more at ease when I'm talking to a stranger, rather than someone I've known since I was a young boy. I just don't know what to say when I meet said person from my past, and that's saying something coming from a guy who can talk endlessly about the art of not being able to say something because you have nothing to say during that moment of speechlessness.

I guess, it's just easier for me to make a first impression, rather than try to rekindle some kind of friendly atmosphere that just isn't there any more.

I suppose, given time and some effort, things could still go back to the way they were before the... uh, for lack of a better word, hiatus, but the thing is, I find it so much easier to make a first impression on someone who doesn't know the whole story of your childhood. People who've known you since you were this tall, sort of sees you in a different light. Matters are made worse because during the period of the...hiatus, there is an absence of growth, or maturation in said person's eyes. The process where I transform from an awkward primary school student to a, slightly less awkward, college dude is completely omitted. This then leads to awkward recollections of "how you were back then" and papa don't digg that.

Excuse the expression, I've been watching far too much HIMYM for my own good.

Anyway, to me, there is that chance of starting from scratch, with a new person. That clean slate where the other person won't judge you for anything other than how you walk over, the time it takes you to walk over, what you're wearing, and what drink you are holding in your hand during said process of walking over, is true gold.

Of course, this is just an example, the real situation may differ in a slightly opposite fashion.

Don't get me wrong, I love meeting old friends who I have not seen in a long time, I just wish I could be less awkward and know what to say to not make the other person feel awkward too. Most of the time I seem to jumble up my words forming odd, and slightly amusing sentences. If only I wasn't such a social pickle.

Wait, is that the correct expression?



-RQ

Smoke and Mirrors.

Life has a funny sense of humour. It craps on everything you love, then it gives you so much more to love, just so it can crap on it all over again. This endless cycle is something none of us can escape. Sure, people will say they're happy, content, and whatever the new hip synonym is for those words, but very few are truly happy. Then again, this could be only my opinion, and all those jolly bunnies would complain and cry that I am an "emo" person who only sees the cup as half empty. Well, fuck the cup, I like to drink milk straight out of the carton.

Yet despite all that, I have never been one to handle truths well. I may say that I want the truth, but honestly, I think a part of me doesn't want the truth, rather, it wants the good truth, or to believe a lie that could substitute the cruel, scumbag of a truth. It's all smoke and mirrors, we humans, love the lie, or rather, we love to believe that a lie is the truth.

However, the paragon of honesty side of my oh-so-twisted-and-self-contradictory personality simply cant handle lies. It has the greatest tendency to assume that everything is a lie. The up side of this monumental flaw is that it contributes to the truth seeking half of that portion of my personality. Doesn't mean it's good in any way however, it just means I can be really, really annoying sometimes.

Maybe my life would be easier if I just believed what people told me. Maybe. Or, I might just end up as "that gullible guy" who just blindly believes everything he's told. I don't think I can be that guy though, I'm far too damaged. Sure, I think my life is pretty fucked up right now, but I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one whose life is fucked up.

I guess I don't have it too bad, I've got friends who do crazy shit with me, I've got people to back me up(I hope) if I ever get into a bar brawl, and I've got somebody to kiss, at the end of the day. Besides that, everything else seems to be a huge mess. How does one get his shit together, I wonder. Too bad all the wise gurus that live on mountain tops have been suffocated, and/or poisoned, by the wondrous quality of dear mother earth's breathable air. Though, if anyone of you ever find one, please give me his number, I want to touch his/her/it's obviously magnificent beard. Yes, stereotype exists even towards wise gurus that live on mountain tops. Take Skyrim for example, what are the wise old men who life in High Hrothgar called? Yep, Greybeards.

-RQ

The Hardest Thing To Say.

Seeking and providing forgiveness has to be one of the most common occurrences in any social group or interaction. Based on my observations, no matter the relationship, there are bound to be disagreements. Be it small ones, like who gets to use the bathroom at what time, or big problems, like breaking someone's trust.

Sometimes, it will result in one party realizing that the relationship is important and hence apologizing. In other words, they manned up, put on their boxers of justice and took one for the team, regardless of whether or not he/she was at fault.

Not the most "healthy" of resolutions, but then again, these things are hardly "healthy".

Other times, the one at fault would apologize.

However, sometimes the conflict doesn't get resolved at all. Kinda sucks though when that happens. Grudges start, enemies appear and the next thing you know, you'll be Sheldon Cooper, with 61 mortal enemies.

None of us want that now, do we? But these things happen, regardless of what anyone says.

I was never really the "seek forgiveness" type. I was a pretty horrible person. Still am though, but improving...albeit at an excruciatingly slow pace. Heh. Apologizing ain't easy, those two words, as John from the Maine would say is "the hardest thing to say in the world".

It's a nice song, by the way.

But sometimes, some people are important enough for you to throw that pride away, man up, and apologize. After that, it's up to that other person to find it in their heart to forgive you.

Through my experience, forgiving someone is not easy. Sure you may say "I forgive you" or, "it's alright", but deep down, most of us don't really do. It takes time, some longer than others.

So, please mean it when you forgive someone. There is no point in saying what you don't mean.

To all the people out there that I have wronged, I apologize. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me.

It's odd, watching 2 Broke Girls seems to have turned me into...this.


-RQ

It Caught Up.

The one thing that has really, consistently improved about me is my ability to be lazy.

It's a curse, I know, yet it is as inevitable as waves crashing on the beach. It WILL happen, and when it does, I'm going to be ankle deep in foamy salt water.

Ever since my finals have passed, my ability to be lazy has further improved. I am so lazy these days, I hardy do anything except rot in front of my computer. It is a very unhealthy hobby.

My laziness is so extreme, it's not even funny. Well, not most of the time. There was this one time where it was absolutely hilarious. It all started when I met...




-RQ

Epinephrine Infused.

Once, when I was a little kid, I tugged on my mother's shirt and pointed up at the sky, saying "Mommy! Look, it's a star! It's so pretty! One day, when I grow up, I'm gonna visit it!".

Oh, fuck that. That never probably never happened. The truth is, when I hear people tell me stories about their childhood, stories going back all the way when they were so young that the only choice they had to make was whether to suck the pacifier or their thumbs, I always stare at them with a look of bewilderment. How is it that these people can remember all that?

I don't remember much of anything when I was that young. The most distinctive memory of my early childhood was when I chased my sister across the hall and hit my head on the sink. That little fiasco gave me a scar just below my eyebrow and a mental wound that pains me even to this day. I got beaten up by a girl. Oh the horror.

So anyway, as those people go on and on about their childhood story, I start thinking, how much of that is made up? How much is true? How much is taken from a recent blockbuster hit? I know, I know, I should be focusing on what they are saying, but hey, where's the fun in that? I mean, who needs to remember what people tell you anyway? Right?

Anyway, I think to myself, why would these people make up stories about their childhood? It's hardly an ego boost to tell people that as a child, you beat up a butterfly, or that you swallowed twenty cents and it never came out. If anything, it just shows how much of an idiot you are.

I mean, made up stories are so lame. Try telling people a true story! Like for example, this one time when I was five years old, a seedy-looking man in a black suit approached me and told me six combinations of twenty four numbers, saying that I would be asked for this combination two hours later by another seedy-looking man in a black suit. Now what he didn't tell me was that the number combinations I had to remember were nuclear launch codes and that if I did not pass the accurate combination to the other seedy-looking man in a black suit, the world as we know it would all come to an end. So, of course, I pulled through, and Agent J and I are still good friends.

True story.

So world, you're welcome. You just got saved.

See? Was telling a true story so hard? It's not, try it now! It'll greatly improve your social status, relationship status and not to mention, prevent severe hair loss. However, side effects may include a punch in the nose, a slap across the face or a drink thrown in your face, or all three.


Anyway, 'til next time, I'm out, like a fused bulb!

-RQ

The Little Knight I

Maybe one day there will be tales written about a legend, that isn't so much legend as it is reality. Maybe those tales will be published, but this tale may not have a happy ending. It may be a harsh tale, it may be one of joy, but I guess we'll never know, until it has ended. This tale, may not turn out the way you think.

There once was a young boy, who lived in a small village on the outskirts of a town that isn't all that developed at all. The village used to be a place where people who wanted to retire from the bustling, busy life of the big city, could come here and unwind. This used to be a village of peace, and of simplicity, where one could be happy and carefree.

This boy however, was not like other little boys in most stories. He wasn't full of hope. He did not strive to become somebody he wasn't. He did not have big dreams of becoming famous, or of taking his place among the nobles of the world. He was just that, a little boy, filled to the brim with innocence and joy. He was carefree and lived for the day. He did not bother too much with sword-fighting lessons or with learning the crafts of his blacksmith father. he just wanted to be a normal little boy, who could play and go outside without a worry in the world.

However, as we all know, this world isn't forgiving. The world is cruel and full of malicious people who want to rip away everything you love, everything you treasure. This boy did not have such knowledge however, he thought everything would be stay the way it was, bright and beautiful.

Boy was he in for a surprise.

It all happened very quickly. In one swift motion, his innocence would be swept away by the raging storm of the cruel world, his eyes, opened to horrors far beyond comprehension.

On one cold night, the air was chilly and crisp outside the boy's little hut. The whole family was seated at the dining table, enjoying a warm, home-cooked meal, prepared by the boy's mother. Everything was joyful, everything, perfect. However, fate had another cruel plan for the otherwise lovely occasion.

In a glaring spectacle, every glass window in the little hut shattered inward, as if the hut itself was imploding. The cold air assaulted the hut, slicing in to the very skin of the little boy, and chilling him to the bone. Shadows slithered in from the windows and engulfed the hut, putting out every lit candle in sight. The hut was thrown into utter darkness.

The family cowered together, huddled in the furthest corner of the house. As the clouds parted, a silhouette of a dame could be descried from the pale moonlight shining through the open door. As the boy's eyes grew more accustomed to the low lighting conditions, the witch's face could be seen. Her smile was malicious, and her eyes screamed evil.

The shadows beside her curled and two hounds, black as night, appeared. "That one", she said, as she pointed at the little boy.

"He is the one".

The hounds growled and lunged at the little boy. The little boy's father grabbed a hammer from the nearby table and swung it at the shadows. The hammer struck, with a thundering crack and both hounds were sent flying across the living room.

The witch shrieked and howled, "How DARE you injure my pets! You will pay dearly for this!".

The shadows around the little boy's father curled and wrapped themselves around the burly man, lifting him off his feet. Shadows erupted from the witch's fingers and wrapped themselves around his neck, slowly choking the life out of the blacksmith.

The boy's mother screamed and threw herself at the witch, only to be knocked aside with a flick of a wrist.

The little boy finally stood up, he HAD to do something. He ran towards the witch, eyes watery with fear, but full of determination. The witch raised her hand, and a wall of shadows was sent flying towards the little boy, but instead of knocking the daylights out of him, they shimmered and dispersed as the boy ran through. He pounced on the witch, knocking her off her feet.

"Let my father go!", screamed the little boy.

The witch looked at the little boy in horror, as the pendant around the boy's neck was glowing a bright white. The words carved on the triangular pendant read "Sark-A-Asme". "This cannot be. He is TOO YOUNG. There is NO way this is happening! Are you fucking kidding me?!", shrieked the witch in horror. The boy screamed and the light shone even brighter. The witch's powers were waning, and her grip over the boy's father slackened, allowing the man to break free.

The blacksmith ran towards his son, lifted him off his feet and threw him onto the horse drawn carriage. "RUN!", he yelled,

"Get to safety, I'll try to keep her from getting to you!", he said as he whipped the mighty black steed, Windjammer.

As Windjammer started to gallop off, the little boy saw the witch rise up, possess his loving mother, and then proceeded to beat the living daylights out of his father. All the boy could do was watch. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he vowed silently to himself, that he would return one day, and seek vengeance on the witch that took everything from him.



-RQ

After Everything Has Changed.

Hey there.

I think, it's been awhile? Mm hmm, it has, hasn't it? Though, I can't guarantee the lifespan of this one, but let's be optimistic eh?

I'd like to apologize in advance for the constant changing of topic as the post goes on, but my brain has too many things running at the same time. It's running out of RAM, so I need a place to store all these thoughts and stories, for future reference, whenever necessary.

So anyway, I've come to realize that the problems in semester two seem to have escalated compared to the small minor discomforts of semester one. Add the inner class turmoil to that of our crappy MS lecturer and you're in for a hellu'va shit storm.

In other news, I don't have very high hopes for this semester's results. Probably means I should start studying and all that, but hey, who has the time? Right? Yeah, that's right Rory, keep up that thinking, you're sure to succeed.

On an unrelated note, yet somehow it does relate, I tried to convince my course mates that we need a blog. I mean, we ARE journalism students after all, wouldn't a Nlog(News Blog, yeah I made that up) help us practice? Sadly, responses have been as grim as the Grim Reaper himself. Maybe I need more patience. Maybe I need to be like an ocean, consistently corroding away the rocky cliff of their resistance. Maybe, or I could just tie them to a live grenade, pull the pin and watch the life flash before their eyes.

Maybe.

Speaking of problems, I've been going through a rough patch too. Well, more like a rough walkway. I had no idea the problem that was festering beneath the surface was that severe, or this...problematic. So the lesson here? Don't ignore the festering problems, they'll come back and bite you in the ass. But I'm glad we worked it out. Or at least talked it out. There still is a lot of work left to be put in, and I am still very sorry about the whole mess.

You know what's weird? My brain is overloading from the deprivation of sleep, and my eyes are getting sore from all the "forgetting-to-blink"-ism, but I still don't feel like sleeping. It has to be the programming. I must be a defective model.

On another unrelated note, I really love the intro for "Brighter" by Paramore right now. It just gets to me. It's so...entrancing. Also, I hate myself for not recognizing "My Heart" until Hayley started singing "This heart, it beats, beats for only you, my heart is yours" and then Josh started screaming. At that moment I was like, OHHH, THAT SONG. *facepalm*

Okay, I guess this shall be all for me, for today. Granted, this post ain't very story-like, but it's a summary of what's been happening since . So, 'til next time, I'm out, like a fused bulb!

-RQ