1. Member Since 19th Mar, 2012
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Aragon


Quoth the raven: "CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW"


More Blog Posts113

  • 2w, 3d
    This One Goes To You, Man. You Were My Hero.

    As of today, one of the greatest authors of the last century, Sir Terry Pratchett, is no more.

    Sir Terry Pratchett, also named Pterry by its fans, was one of the best comedic authors in existence. And, like all good comedians, he was a philosopher. A master of science-fiction, of fantasy, of tragedy. He could write better romances in three pages than any of us in one million words. He could make you think, cry, sit on the edge of your chair, stay awake way past midnight so you could read just one more page.

    The only real literary criticism I read of his words was “he doesn't use chapters”. He included it on the back of Hogfather. The first book of his I ever read.

    Every time you read his words, you did it with a smile.

    I'm fairly sure a lot of people will talk about this. He was the favorite author of many, and damn right so. I myself have been collecting his books since I was thirteen.

    The best way to say goodbye to him, in my opinion, is with a smile. Mr Numbers took care of that already. I myself can't think if I can do it better.

    But coincidences are a thing, especially when the chances are a million to one, as the old man certainly knew. Three days ago, I happened to finish Reaper Man, by Terry Pratchett.

    One of its messages is fairly simple, but powerful: a man's life doesn't end with his death. It ends when everything he's done is forgotten, when the clock he built breaks down, when his last harvest is recollected.

    Right after finishing that book, I started a story homaging Sir Pratchett's style. The file is named “Pratchett” and everything, because I'm as original as a ridiculous comparison.

    Now I'm morally forced to finish that story, and I'm going to make it the best one I've ever written. Because, in some way, I owe to the man. He taught me what “good comedy” meant. I refuse to forget that.

    And, if you were a Pterry fan, I ask you to do the same. Don't write if you don't mind, but read his books. Talk about them. Recommend them to your friends.

    Don't let Pterry die. He deserves to live forever.

    11 comments · 210 views
  • 2w, 5d
    Education Is Actually Really Awesome

    Aragón opened the door and got in with a heavy sigh. “Golly gee, this has been a horrible day,” he said. “Hi, Dad!”

    Dad was sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee from a mug that read 'Hitler's Father Had An Easier Life Than Me (Seriously, Fuck My Son)'. He didn't look at Aragón, he merely nodded to acknowledge he existed. “You're an abomination. I wish I could retroactively abort you,” he said.

    Aragón nodded. “Yeah, exactly like I tell you. A horrible day.”

    “Yesterday I injected arsenic in your right eyeball. With a used syringe I stole from the hospital.”

    “Like, when I was in the bus, I overheard a couple guys talking about how school sucks.” Aragón sat on the sofa right next to his father, who was still reading that newspaper. “And it pissed me off big time, y'know? I couldn't focus at all the rest of the day.”

    “You should be dead by now. Why aren't you dead yet.

    “I mean, for starters? I fucked up in court, and now my client is facing the death penalty.” Aragón frowned. “Which is fucking weird, because last time I checked death penalty is illegal in this country. Also, I'm an accountant.”

    Why do you insist on haunting my existence.

    Aragón shrugged. “I just can't get why people think school is uncool. School is the most awesome thing ever!”

    Dad took another sip from the mug. His voice was more bitter than coffee itself. “My life is hell.”

    “Fuck yes. Learning is wicked cool.” Aragón crossed his arms. “And I'm going to prove it!” he said as he looked for something in his bag. “Come on, it's somewhere in here...”

    “Hm?” The room opened, and in came Mother, carrying some groceries. “Oh, son! You came back?”

    “Yeah, I wanted to see Dad.”

    “I see, I see.” Mother looked at Dad. “Honey? Do you want your shotgun?”

    “Please.”

    Mother nodded and went out of the room, the groceries forgotten on the ground.

    “Oh, the shotgun?” Aragón looked at Dad, still looking for something in his bag. “We're doing that now?”

    “Don't talk to me,” Dad replied.

    “Do you want to strangle me while Mom brings it here?”

    “I'll do it, but not because you asked me to.”

    “Hmm.” Aragón lowered his gaze as the hands of his father closed around his throat. “I can't find it! Where on Earth...?”

    “HNNNNNNG!” Dad's face got red. A vein popped on his forehead. “HNNNNNNGGGGRRAAAAARGH!”

    “Woah. You've got quite the  grip, don't you?” Aragón smiled at Dad. “You could crush a coconut with this pressure!”

    RAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

    Crack!

    “Hah! You broke my neck! Ain't that cool.” Aragón shifted his attention towards the bag once more. “Now, lemme see...”

    “Here's the shotgun!” Mother re-entered the room, the weapon secure under her arm. “Ah, you're choking him?”

    GRAAAAAAARGGGGHHHHH!

    “Here it is!” Aragón finally said, smiling. He took a book out of his hand. “The physics schoolbook I used in third grade! I read it again to show those guys in the bus that learning is good!”

    “Guys in the bus?” Mother asked.

    “Yeah!” Aragón opened the book and looked at a random place. “Oh, man. Gravity! I remember learning about gravity. It was so cool!”

    “That's fine, son—”

    “In fact, look at this!” Aragón pointed at the bag of groceries on the ground. “I'll use my gravity on that bag!”

    “Wait, what?”

    The bag rose and started orbiting around Aragón and his choking father. It made a “nyoooom” noise. Nyoooooooom.

    “WHAT THE EVERLOVING HELL IS THAT?!” Mother asked, taking a step back and looking at Aragón in horror. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE GROCERIES?!”

    “I'm gravitying them!” Aragón said, smiling. “Isn't it cool?”

    “THAT'S NOT HOW GRAVITY WORKS!”

    A pause.

    Nyoooooooom.

    “It's not?”

    “NO, YOU DUMB FUCK!”

    “Oh. Well, that was embarrassing.” The groceries bag fell to the ground again. “Gravity is still cool!”

    RAAAAAARGH!” Dad finally let Aragón's neck go. “This is useless. Honey, give me the shotgun.”

    “Here.”

    “Well then, let me just pick the groceries.”  Aragón got up from the sofa and looked at his mother. “Where do I put them? In the fridg—?”

    BLAM!

    The explosion filled the room, echoed against the walls, made the ground tremble.  Dad pointed the shotgun at Aragón and shot two more times.

    BLAM! BLAM!

    Aragón fell like a ragdoll, limbs limp like boiled spaghetti.

    There was a moment of silence.

    “Is... Is it over?” Mother whispered. “Did you...?”

    “I...” Dad smiled for the first time in twenty years. “I think it is! I did it! I DID IT! I FUCKING DID IT! I—!

    “Woah! Hahah.” Aragón got up. “That was wild! See, the bullets had a small mass, but their acceleration was so great that they still had strength!” He looked at the camera, gave it a thumbs-up, and smiled. “And I know that because I went to my classes! Education is awesome, kids!”

    WHAT KIND OF FUCKING DEVILSPAWN ARE YOU?!

    “And remember, kids, there is no such thing as 'too cool for school'! Learning is the best thing you can do!”

    BLAM! BLAM!

    WHY WON'T YOU DIE?!

    “Because education!”

    EDUCATION


    "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!

    35 comments · 312 views
  • 3w, 2d
    Explanations, And Me Trying To Avoid Being Dramatic (And, As Usual, Messing It Up Big Time)

    Ironically enough, I’ve been struggling with this blog post because I have no idea how to start it. Eventually, I just thought “fuck it, let’s go with the truth”. That always works.  Plus, that way I avoid being overly dramatic for something that, truth be told, isn’t that big of a deal.

    I’ll go straight to the point here: I’m not working on any long story now. I have planned a Long Story Short Things Went Down story (it was supposed to be a Valentine’s Day special, but it grew larger, and now it’s a bona fide sequel, pretty long – I’m guessing at least 30k words) and I have started it. But I’m not working on it for a couple weeks or so.

    Does that mean that I’m on hiatus? Well, those are the words I use to describe this state of being, but at the same time, I’m working on short stories. So yeah, it’s not like you won’t see any new fic of mine any time soon.

    I mean, right now I have two unfinished stories in my computer, and I’m trying to actually finish them. One of those is also a Long Story Short, Things Went Down-themed oneshot, so yeah. But those will be 4k or so, very short stories.

    Right now I’m a little bit under the weather, physically speaking (I have the nagging feeling I’m sick, but I dislike doctors – Mr. Numbers has told me more than once that I should go to the hospital, and if this continues I’m afraid I’ll have to go check myself). Plus, I’m mentally exhausted (Crime and Funishment was fun, but it was seven months of working on a long story nonstop, and I need a break from complex storytelling), and emotionally…

    Well, nothing bad has happened to me, so you don’t need to worry about that. I’m feeling fine and dandy, almost top of my game. I just need to shake off this fucking cold (or whatever it is) already, and take a small break from long-ass fics.

    But a friend of mine, a really close friend to boot, went through a horrible familiar tragedy recently. I won’t go into detail to avoid invading his privacy, but it’s not the kind of thing that allows you to get over.

    It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t leave you. Ever.

    Am I being dramatic? Maybe. But again, using his words, not mine. He felt them. I felt them too.

    So yeah, not exactly feeling like writing a long-ass comedy. Will I write short comedies? Hell yeah. I like writing comedies. Especially when I’m feeling down – how do you think I cheer up? So expect one short comedy really soon, and another short comedy not that soon.

    But don’t expect any long or ambitious project. Everything I make will be as top-quality as possible, though – unless I go through one of those fits that make me write an entire fic in one go, like with A Hell of a Time or I Don’t Want To Write This – those are great, but I care for the prose and the comedy, not the message.

    If you want an example of what that means, think Today is a Good Day to Die. I know I’m namedropping a lot of fics of mine, but cut me some slack – I’m not exactly in a bright mood right now, and whenever I do that I try to remind me that, hey, I can make cool things now and then.

    So yeah. Kind of a downer blog, but I felt like I owed you an explanation as to where the hell is that Valentine’s Day fic. I’m fairly sure you won’t mind me writing short stories for a while, though.

    See ya!

    7 comments · 159 views
  • 4w, 2d
    When You Say "OOC" Out Loud, You Sound Like A Surprised Gorilla

    So! Tomorrow I’ll post the last update of Crime and Funishment (a long fic of mine, the blog is not about it, so if you don’t care about that you can keep reading). Woohoo!

    It’ll be cool, to finally have that out. In an ideal world, every reviewer out there would give it a look once it’s done and then they would post, like, a long-ass review and give it five stars out of five. This is not a perfect world, however, so chances are they won’t read it at all. Instead, they will probably break into my house while I’m sleeping and then drink all my milk. The bastards.

    Anyway, so the whole “final update” thing puts me in kind of a weird position. I want to blog about CnF once it’s finished, but I also want to blog about something else before it’s finished.

    So I’m forced to post this blog today. Which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but holy magnolias guys, I have no idea why but I keep thinking this should be posted in, like, three days or so. Like, it just feel wrong to post it today.

    I am totally serious here, by the way. It’s the weirdest, most precise hunch I’ve had in my life. Like, I woke up today and I immediately went all “NO, ARAGÓN, YOU MUST WAIT. DON’T POST THAT THING YET. YOU ARE NOT READY.”

    I’m actually curious about this. Like, what? Children will cry fire and spit snakes because I posted this sh*t, or…? Eh, who cares. Let’s go to the point! OOC, AND WHAT IT MEANS!


    So! One of the first things you notice when you read a fic is if the characters are, well, “in character”. But what does that mean? In theory it’s, like, the most straightforward thing in fanfiction: a character is in character (from now on I’ll just type “IC” whenever I mean “in character” for simplicity and redundancy’s sake) when it acts like itself.

    Woah, that sounded simpler in my head. To put it bluntly: an IC Rainbow Dash is a character that, when you take the name out, still sounds like Rainbow Dash. She, by all means, is Rainbow Dash – reacts like her, talks like her, thinks like her… It’s, in other words, a well-written character.

    Is it easy to write an IC character? Well, it depends. (Have in mind we’re talking only canon characters here, no OCs). You need to understand that character, to actually know it, and then to be able to write it down that way. Sometimes it can get very tricky, depending on the character or the author.

    For example, SS&E hates Pinkie Pie, and more than once has said that he doesn’t like writing her, and that he finds it difficult. On the other hand, RainbowBob shows a clear knack for the pink pony and he writes her with ease (although I have no idea if he actually likes her).

    Does that mean that RBob is a better writer than SS&E? Not necessarily. It just means that, depending on your personality, you’ll find one character more fit to your writing. It’s like wearing pants. Maybe those old jeans look awesome with your butt and make your bro’s butt look kind of fat, but that doesn’t mean your butt is better. It just means that you have different butts.

    Writing in character is not a matter of having a nice literary butt, however. That’s more of an effort thing. And ability, and editors, and will to get inside the character to write it.

    So yeah, I guess the message here is: if a character is hard to write, don’t fear it. Just keep trying. Practice makes perfect, and all that.

    But that’s not what this blog is about! Writing out of character (OOC) is always a bad thing… But what does that really mean? It’ about a character not being itself, right? Not acting as it acts in the show. That’s the sign of a bad story. Pretty straightforward!

    Right?

    Hmm.

    Nah. I differ.

    You see, now and then you see a fanfiction that just screams “good characterization”. You finish it, and one of the first things you say is “Golly gee! That was an awesome Rainbow Dash! I must show this story to my Uncle Joe so I can gain his favor and inherit the farm! I’ll never be hungry again!”

    And you got to the comments and holy f*ck everybody thought the same. Everybody’s talking about how good Rainbow Dash was, how incredibly IC is every character, and just how damn happy Uncle Joe will be.

    But that doesn’t happen all the time. Sometimes, you read a fanfic that has some good characterization, and you just… don’t care. I mean, sure, the characters are IC. That’s cool. But you think about other things. The comments will be about the plot, the prose, a sad Uncle Joe… Whatever. But that doesn’t mean the characterization is bad, not at all! It’s just that, well. It’s not great.

    To that I say this: the great characterization that made the first fic so much better? That was OOC if you use the strict sense of the word.

    No, seriously. Sometimes, I think, you need to choose between writing a good fanfic and writing a good story. Around 80% of my stories show this: I never cared that much for writing exact copies from the show, because I knew that would actually turn my fics into worse stories.

    Why aren’t those fics doomed as garbage, then? (To which I reply: oh, they probably are, but that’s not the point). Well, the thing about writing OOC or writing IC is not as much about the character acting that way as it is about why it acts that way.

    In my case, it’s a meta thing. My stories are obviously A) comedies, B) silly comedies, and C) silly comedies that parody the show and the fandom. Those three things are subtle, but they’re still clear enough for the readers to immediately accept Celestia acting in a way that’s not what we’ve seen in the show.

    But she still sounds like Celestia. Why? Because the character is self-consistent.

    Allow me to explain: Sometimes I seriously believe this fandom has forgotten that every author has their own prose, personality, and tastes. Each writer will put their own personal vision in the story, and that’s what makes every fanfic a completely different story.

    Let me show you some examples:

    Tchernoborg’s Applejack worries a lot and has a clear wing fetish,

    SS&E’s Rainbow Dash is a petite, obsessive, cute, and insecure pony with a swaggering bravado.

    Mr Numbers’ Twilight is a neurotic, cynical, sarcastic, and genre-savy  bookworm with a soft side.

    Donny’s Boy’s Pinkie Pie is funny, but like all good comedians, it has some awesome philosophy behind her.

    Selbi’s Fluttershy has a dick.

    Are those things IC? Well, in a strict sense, they’re not. You won’t be seeing any of that in the show. Some of their main characteristics are underplayed, while some others are exaggerated.

    But still, the characters are self-consistent. They act that way for a reason, their personalities are justified. And they’re clearly based on the show. It’s not about taking whatever you want from the show and ignoring the rest: it’s about creating a picture that makes sense from the perspective of the character and the story, about having what’s best for the tale you want to tell, and about having the reader accept that immediately.

    How do the authors do that? They take what they’re more comfortable with, what they believe would make a good character, and then they let the character act on its own. It’s as simple as that, mere intuition. It also has to do with the mood of the fic – a more philosophical tone will justify more philosophical characters, and so on.

    What you as a person think, what you believe, how you see the world… Your characters are going to be influenced by that.

    And that’s good! That means that the Pinkie in your fic can be both the Pinkie Pie and your Pinkie Pie. It’s something that can’t be easily imitated, and that you shouldn’t fear. Hell, you should embrace it.

    To a point, of course! The main core of the character should somewhat remain recognizable. Don’t turn Twilight into a cyborg just because you have robotic arms, for example. There’s a balance that can be found only with practice.

    Can you write a completely IC character? Yes, you can. But it’s extremely complicated, and why would you do that? Fanfiction has narration, descriptions, prose. You can add a particular depth to your characters, make them yours. Be neutral if you want, but don’t shy away from adding your own flavor.

    This is especially noticeable in long fics, because the characters go through some development then. You end up with a character that might not be like the show’s Twilight Sparkle at all, and yet she feels right. Why? Because you saw her grow.

    I’m going back to what I said earlier: there’s a good fanfic, and then there’ a good story. Try to find a balance between the two, but if you have to choose? Choose a better story. It’ll be remembered with far more love.

    Hell, think about what I said about my stories. I’m the first one to say that my Celestia tends to be very out of character. Hardly any reader cares, because the way Celestia acts is funnier. On top of that, while it’s OOC, you can’t really say she’s not Celestia. She has enough traits from the show left to justify the initial portrayal of her.

    And then the fic goes on, and Celestia goes through some minor character development, and next thing you know she’s yodelling while juggling scythes. And my prereaders go “yep, that’s Celestia for you!” and call it a day.

    (Of course, that might be because I’m a bad writer and my prereaders are just tired of me. Who knows?)

    What I want to say here is: don’t fear the OOC stigma. Sure, if it alienates the reader (and it damn well can, if used wrongly) then avoid it. But it can be used for good, too.

    All great writers use some variation of OOC – that’s why you can say “Gosh, this guy’s Applejack is amazing, Uncle Joe will be pleased.” If every single character had to be perfectly IC, that sentence wouldn’t make sense. That guy’s Applejack is AJ, or she isn’t. Simple as that.

    I am fairly sure this is not a revolutionary idea. Almost everybody knows this already. But I’ve never seen this written down in Fimfiction, and I think that’s a mistake.

    Writing is about finding your voice. All the writers I’ve mentioned here have a very personal, particular style, for example. And I think that, hey, this is a nice message. Be who you are, yaddah yaddah individuality yaddah yaddah don’t be afraid to try to make a difference blahblahblah OH GOD UNCLE JOE IS DEAD NOW I’LL NEVER GET THE FARM MY LIFE IS RUINED.

    So yeah. If you’re starting to write (or if you’ve been writing for a while and struggle with characterization) think about that. Add your flavor. And screw those guys who yell OOC at everything.

    (Hell, the mere existence of shipping fics show that I’m right here – there’s no way that a character from the show would do any of that, but it still feels right, is justified, and self-consistent.)

    See ya!

    19 comments · 283 views
  • 5w, 4d
    On I Don't Want To Write This, or "How Aragón Still Manages To Mess Up Everything He Touches"

    So! The story is out of the box, which means I’ll ramble about it a little bit. Meta information, mostly—things that you can’t know just by reading at the story, but that I think are interesting for the readers.

    It’s also a great chance for me to ramble for over 2,000 words in a blog without anybody telling me I shouldn’t, and you can be damn sure I won’t let that pass.

    Oh, by the way! My salute to all my new followers: Hi. ‘Sup. Good? Good. I hope you realize I’m mainly a comedy writer, because if you followed me because you liked that drama thingy and feel like reading more dramatic stories, then… Yeeeeah. I, uh, might not be the best user to follow then.

    Okay, elephant in the room first: I like to make my blogs funny, and this is about a story that deals with Dash being sad because her father died. So I have two options here: ignore that detail and write my usual kind of blog (as in, full of very stupid jokes) or try to pay some respect to the story and write, like, a serious blog and all that.

    Yeah, doing the first option, sorry. On the other hand, I guess I’ll tone it down a little—not that hard, since I’ll be talking about a story, so it’ll be more informative than downright surreal (as often my blogs are, apparently).

    (Well, most people actually label them as “weird.” “Surreal” is just the fancy word for that.)

    (Okay yes, they actually say the blogs are, and quoting here: “f*cking dumber than that time you tried to lick a giraffe. What is wrong with you.” But we’re not talking about that.)

    Hm. Failed step one already. Well, that’s cool I guess.

    And, you know, partially I’m sorry but – I can’t stress this enough – I’m a comedy writer. Comedy. I’m used to people telling me my stories made them laugh. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I’m no stranger to noncomedy fics, and what was my most depressing fic till now is in EQD, to boot. But I don’t think those are “sad” as much as they’re “contemplative.”

    It’s a big difference, and you might call me a wuss for this, but… Holy crap, dudes. I log in, I see a couple comments, and both of them are people telling me my story made them think of their dead loved ones, and possibly cry.

    Woah.

    So yeah, as I’m as mature as a seven year old boy who plays online FPS’s, my first reaction is to immediately type “I’M SO SORRY” in the comments and then delete the story. Probably while crying hysterically.

    Of course, that’s the moment when I stop myself because I just remembered that wait, this is kind of a sad-ish story. That guy is telling me he liked the fic. And that other one said I did a good job, right after – oh shit I reminded him of his grandfather why did I do this.

    So yeah, you shouldn’t really expect any drama from this guy any time near. I’m not closing myself to the possibility, of course – I don’t really know what I’ll write next, that kind of thing just happens – but I think I’m more comfortable with comedy. Dunno, it seems like making folks happy (or at least making them chuckle) is more fulfilling than getting them melancholic.

    Which is, and I know it quite well, absolute bullsh*t. I’ve read sad-ish stories myself, I’ve gotten kind of sad about it, and I’ve loved it. I know that the folks who commented on it were happy with it. This is not anybody’s fault or anything, it’s just me being a wuss.

    Hahaha. Wuss. I seriously love that word. Like, I get it’s kind of an insult, but I love it because I can’t help but hear a very fat baby talking every time I see it. Wuss. Hahahahah. Such a fat baby.

    Why such a wuss (snort) reaction to the readers telling me they liked the story? Well, this is going to make me look bad, but – yeah, the comments were way too heavy for a story with such a background.

    I mean, more than one reader asked me why I had written that story. Perhaps I was feeling sad or angry for some reason? A personal experience similar to the one shown in the story? Me wanting to try new things?

    Far sillier.

    Far, far sillier. Seriously, don’t ever assume anything related to me is serious, because by all accounts I’m just a very eloquent clown fish in a Pixar ripoff movie.

    You see, I was browsing Tumblr at 3:00 am or so, because I have insomnia. And MrNumbers, being Australian, was online. So I was just skyping with him, talking some stupid silliness or something, when I noticed a sad fic had appeared on my dash.

    It was a really short “story,” and it was mostly a character writing a letter to a dead loved one. It was bad. It was very, very bad. So I said “man, I could do something better than this.”

    Numbers replied shortly. “You think?”

    “Yeah, dude. I just need a plot. Something simple, and just the voicing. Easy-peasy. I can’t believe how much they messed it up in this fic I’m reading.”

    “Plot? Isn’t it about a character writing a letter to another?”

    “Well, yeah, but you can’t just write a thousand words of ‘I’m sad’. I need something more. And the character is gonna be Dash.”

    “Why?”

    “She’s the best one for what I have in mind.”

    So immediately after writing this reply, I opened a MSWord doc, and I started writing. Just like that. No big revelation, no artistic struggle, no conveying my feelings to the page.

    Even I am disappointed by that, holy crap.

    I mean, I even did what I usually don’t do, and wrote while listening to a song. Just one song, on repeat. I memorized the lyrics because of this story.

    Which song? You might ask. Numbers guessed something by Mountain Goats (cool group, awesome lyrics, very contemplative/sad). Selbi said My Chemical Romance (kind of emo, punk-rock-whatever, more angrysad than sadsad).

    Both are wrong. Blank Space, by Taylor Swift. It doesn’t even relate to the story, I just thought it was fitting. Hey, that’s a neat melody. “AND YOU! LOVE! THE-GAME!” Neato. Let’s write this.

    Then I get comments of people who were, apparently, touched by that story, and God that’ embarrassing.

    Like, I’m sure this has to be a letdown to at least a reader. Way to drop expectations here. At first I had a “Post Scriptum” chapter in mind (that’s why the chapter is named “Missive,” by the way). In that chapter, I would show Dash sending her dad another letter, around three weeks or so later, and it would show she was better.

    But then I realized that the story was more powerful without that P.S. so I let it go. Also, the story got popular, and I accidentally tagged it “complete”, so any addition would be seen as me milking the cow. Seeing how people seemed to like the story how it is, I chose the elegant solution and just let the story run its course as it is.

    Also, funny story here: at first I was going to name the chapter “The Letter”. But the very same day I uploaded the story, RobCakeran (Author of MLD) was topping the featured box. And his story had only one chapter, titled “The Letter”.

    So I thought “Well, that’s a bummer”. I think Missive is better, however, seeing how it includes the word “Miss” in there. Also “ive” which can be read as “I’ve” and if you mix the two and ignore grammar, you have “I’ve missed [you]” which is cool I guess.

    Mostly the MLD author thing, tho.

    Oh, and by the way – while Octavia Harmony did a good job as a proofreader (as always), I gotta give MrNumbers a big shoutout for this story, because the initial draft was 6,5k words long.

    You might notice that the actual story, as it is now, is 4k (plus one!) word. The reason for this is that, well, seeing how I had written the entire thing while skyping with MrNumbers, he said he would take a peek at it.

    So I show him (the story was more or less written in one go, with a single pause to sleep, as I’d been awake for over 40 hours) and his answer was clear and simple: “It’s in character, it’s well voiced, it’s realistic, and it’s the most boring thing I’ve read in a long time. Cut two thirds of the rambling, get it to 3,500 words, and then come back.”

    Paraphrasing that line. He also slapped me hard in the face and called me a fat penguin. That was f*cking weird. But yeah. Even Octavia Harmony (who, by this point, is so jaded of editing all my stories that he seriously doesn’t give a f*ck anymore, in the best of ways – I can show him a story in which a character uses two pigs as nunchucks, and he won’t even bat an eye) told me that, dude, this time you got way overboard with the rambling.

    Cue me sighing, and then letting the story wait for a couple days. In case you wonder why, I did that to avoid being frustrated and to refresh my brain – never try to edit something you wrote mere hours ago, because you will miss stuff.

    So a couple days later, I go back to the story, and I start cutting parts of it. Initially, Rainbow Dash tried to avoid the stuff she’s embarrassed about, so she would suddenly start talking about Twilight and so. Which I think is what she would actually do (she doesn’t like admitting she’s lame), but as Number said, fiction is real life, but more interesting.

    And oh God cutting parts of the story was painful. It got to the point where Numbers (who knew what I was going through and was really cheery about it, the assbutt) referred to the act as “killing my little babies”, a term I soon adopted myself.

    Of course, killing those babies implied rewriting huge parts of the babies too. That was a weird sentence. Anyway, yeah, there’s a huge part at the start of the story that’s completely rewritten – initially, Dash goes to a park and breaks a stick and kicks some rocks, and ponders about that, and there’s a little echo with AJ’s advice going on through the story.

    Following Numbers’ advice was probably the best choice here, as the final result, as it is now, is leagues better than the original. So again, big shout out to Numbers for this one.

    We’ve learned two things here! First: always listen to your editors. Second: apparently, I’m a fat penguin. (I mean, he nailed the rest of what he said, so chances are this is also true).

    Octavia Harmony also did a good job, of course, but by the time he came and fixed all the grammar mistakes Numbers was already tearing me a new one. He chose to leave the beating to the Australian. He’s too busy building robots or whatever.

    (No, seriously. He does that. Artificial limbs with lego and stuff like that. How cool is that?)

    I think that’s about everything I can say about the story. It’s not tagged “Sad”, by the way, because I don’t like the tag (I see it as an order, not as a genre) and, because of the background story of this fanfic, I saw it more like a Slice of Life exercise on voicing Rainbow Dash. I seriously didn't expect it to be popular, and outright told my friends that it wouldn't get featured (as it's not a comedy, and I'm sure 99% of the guys here follow me for those). I lost the bet, because apparently I can never win, even if I win. Dang it.

    Not complaining about it, though. You'll first catch me death than complaining about popularity. That'd be too dumb, even for me.

    In fact, and Numbers commented on this early on, as I was still writing the fic – while the story reads as a letter, it’s a very weird letter. I immediately realized that I could make it more realistic (in the formatting sense), but that it would make the story more awkward to read. I chose to avoid that.

    Hence the lack of obtrusive grammar mistakes in the most emotional moments, crossed out sentences, and so and so. Dash as a narrator first, letter second. That was the rule.

    (Also, seeing how some fellas didn’t get it – yes, Dash is an unreliable narrator. She mentions more than once that she doesn’t remember certain events, and that she wasn’t paying attention to others. She doesn’t outright lie, but that aside you can’t get more unreliable than that).

    Ah! One last thingy that’s been annoying me: more than one person showed surprise at me being able to write something serious. That is perfectly normal, because I’m pretty dumb and anything I write is going to end up being silly as hell. I can’t stress that hard enough.

    However, some seemed to show surprise at the idea of a comedy writer being good at drama, which amused me. Fellas, comedy is harder than drama. I mean, yes, anyone can write a funny joke, but I’m talking about comedy here. That’s something that not only makes you laugh, but that catches your interest. I don’t know if my stories are at that level yet, but think about it for a second.

    Jokes are not the most important part of a comedy. The most important part is how and when to tell them. Comedies are about rhythm, pacing, tone, and knowing how to make the reader expect one thing (then subverting it). Many comedies also need strong characters and a little bit of dimension to be more than a simple forgettable chuckle festival.

    All of that is what you use to write drama. You only change one emotion for the other. But yeah, if you see a comedy writer, don’t assume he’s going for the easy route – comedy is a very easy way to get popular in this website, as it appeals to a bigger mass of people, but that doesn’t cheapen the genre.

    A good comedy is hard to write. Respect your comedy writes, fellas.

    I would also ask you to respect me, but I tried to write a serious blog post and I ended talking about fat penguins and how I rewrote some tiny babies. Yeah. Better not to include me in that cool “comedy writers” group, just in case. I respect those guys too much.

    Also, and even though it’s pretty stupid – sorry if that story made you sad! Think that a fat penguin wrote it, and that Dash got better at the end (the story, in fact, ends with Dash moving from anger to grief, which means that she’s slowly getting over the hard news. And she shows remorse and realizes just how messed up everything she did is, which actually is a very good sign, because at least she’s thinking again).

    See ya!

    14 comments · 283 views
  • 6w, 4h
    So, Crime and Funishment Got Leaked

    Weird word to use in this context. "Leaked". Hm. Yet, it's exactly what happened -- there was a draft of the story saved in this page (for formatting and word-count issues, more than anything) that I never submitted, and I didn't provide the link to anyone.

    It was password-protected, obviusly, and yet right now someone commented on it, saying that it was visible. And apparently, one could even download it completely. Not sure how to feel at the moment.

    So yeah. Seeing how this is just a silly fic, and not some kind of secret file that describes how I was the mastermind behind the most recent Fimfic drama (pick whichever you want, I guess -- I heard that PresentPerfect was revealed to be actually thirteen midgets and one really tall woman sharing an account pretty recently, maybe that will work) it's not that big of a deal, but it still annoyed me.

    Sssssssso. If you have seen that thing, how did you do that? You can't share it anymore (who would do that, anyway? It's just a fic), but just in case: don't share the downloaded file. Also, have in mind that it was a draft, with no input from prereaders, proofreaders, or anything. The actual, official chapters will differ in many points.

    But nah that'd be a dick move, and I'm fairly sure you're all pretty cool guys. Just saying. Also, I guess this means I was dumb for saving ubsubmitted stories? I have no idea. Just in case, don't do that , guys. Or do it, but, like, in a smarter way I guess.

    EDIT: Kay, details of the leak deleted, just in case. I know how it happened, and I'll contact a mod or some shit.

    23 comments · 279 views
  • 6w, 23h
    Valentine's Day!

    Welp, seems like you'll have to wait for that story I promised. It's coming in a week or so, but I couldn't finish it before today.

    I'm sorry, really, but I need to heavily edit some parts, and I want to feel cool about the whole result, y'know? I'm sure you'll understand. Better something actually legible than some half-assed, rushed disgrace.

    Plus, Bon Bon gets more and more caustic the more I write it, and sometimes it gets hard to come up with new ways to insult the characters in annoying tirades. Seriously, that character is designed to be completely ignored every time she talks (as in, you're supposed to skip her speeches), and it's still one of the biggest fan-favorites, if only because of the comedic duo she makes with Lyra.

    The rest of the characters are easy to write, however. And this story will finally clear some stuff about Turner and Derpy as well as showing you a new adventure (even more stupid than the original one, and with more action) so yeah, look up to that, I guess.

    So. You'll have to wait a little more for it. Sorry, and have a nice Love Day!

    5 comments · 108 views
  • 6w, 3d
    One Thousand Followers, and Two Friends Come Back

    “Okay.” I got up from the sofa and joined my hands under my chin. “What about this: I’m going to fuck a watermelon.

    Silence.

    Dolphucker put down the book he had been reading and just looked at me in disbelief. “You know,” he said, “I don’t know how you did it, but you literally just fucked up the entire conversation before it even started. Just… Just how?

    “Like, I get a watermelon, right?”

    “Why are you still talking.”

    “And then, I fuck it.” I made a thrust motion with my hips so he could picture everything better. “Like, bam.”

    “Your parents should have drowned you in boiling water when you were born,” Dolphucker said, massaging his temples. “Just, what the hell?”

    “Dude.” I looked at him. “I gotta celebrate the thousand followers. This is important. I’m running out of time.”

    “And your best idea is to fuck a piece of fruit?!”

    “Well, it’s either that, or doing nothing!” I crossed my arms and glared at him, right foot tapping on the floor. “Is that what you want? Nothing? That would be your ideal thing, wouldn’t it?”

    “Look, absolutely anything would be better than you fucking a watermelon,” Dolphucker said. “That’s literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

    “Oh, yeah, you tell me that.”

    “I only fucked that dolphin once!” he said, crossing his arms too and looking at me with an offended face. “Are you ever going to let me outlive that?!”

    “Dude, then help me!” I sighed and sat down on the sofa again. “I have no idea what to do, and I already have over one thousand thirty followers. I gotta do something.

    “Can’t you just, like, post a normal story?”

    “Nah that’s stupid.” I waved a hand at him and looked at the ceiling. “It has to be amazing. It has to be awe-inspiring.

    Silence.

    I’m going to fuck a thousand watermel—

    “You seriously shouldn’t be allowed to breathe.”


    “Okay.” I looked at Editor. “So I talked to Dolphucker, and he told me the watermelon thing wasn’t a good idea.”

    Editor nodded. “And it was,” he said. “It was probably the best one you’ve ever had.”

    “Thanks, I think the same.”

    “Which goes to say what the standard we’re working with here is.”

    “Whatever.” I waved a hand. “So, like, I thought about it a lot, right?”

    “Right.”

    “And I thought: I know it. I’ll do something good. Some charity.” I ran a hand through my hair. “It was not a good idea.”

    Editor’s eyes got wide. “Oh, God,” he said. “What the hell did you do?”

    “I, uh, went to the orphanage.” I licked my lips. “I wanted to sing to the orphans. Let them have a good time, right? I mean, they’re little kids, so—”

    “Okay, I know where this is going.” Editor raised a hand to shut me up. “What did you sing about? Masturbation and existentialism?”

    “What? No!” I frowned. “What the hell? It was about the Care Bears!”

    “Oh.”

    “About how they jack off and realize they are nothing if they don’t care, because that’s their entire existence.”

    “Please get out of my house.”

    So many of them died, dude.

    “I’m calling the police.”


    “Okay, so.” I looked at Captain Steel DickPuncher. He’s looking as fine as ever. “I had a new idea to celebrate the thousand followers.”

    ME PUNCHES DICKS.

    “You see, I’m going to get a gorilla from the zoo, and then—”

    ME CAN PUNCH ITS DICK.

    I blinked. “What? No! No, no punching gorillas.” I grabbed Captain Steel DickPuncher’s shoulder. “They are too adorable to be punched.”

    ME LIKES TO PUNCH DICKS.

    “But you can’t do that, dude!” I said. “Gorillas are off limits!”

    ME DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO IF ME IS NOT PUNCHING DICKS.

    “Right.” I nodded. “So, I’m getting the gorilla, and I’m dressing it as a sailor, right? And then I go to my favorite pub, and—”

    ME JUST REALIZED ME IS NOTHING IF NO DICKPUNCHING HAPPENS.

    I blinked again. “Uh-oh.”

    ME IS HAVING AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS RIGHT NOW.

    “You wanna jack off, then?”

    ME THINKS IT’S WEIRD HOW IT FITS THE SITUATION.


    A black figure appeared in front of me. “Heya,” it said, and his voice sounded like a cold grave being struck by thunder. “We meet again.”

    I frowned. I recognized the figure—it was the anthropomorphical representation of my inner demons.  Only it wasn’t dressed in black, as he usually was. It was completely dressed in—

    “Yellow?” I asked, poking his jacket. “Why are you dressed in yellow?”

    “I fucked up as your inner demons, so I got a new job.” He readjusted the neck of his shirt. “So, new clothes.”

    “New job?” I cocked my head to the side. “Which one?”

    “I’m your inner lemons.”

    Silence.

    “You’re kidding me.”

    “Nope.”

    “That is the most retarded joke I’ve ever heard.”

    “Oh, and isn’t that the lesson, my friend?” My inner lemons put a hand over my shoulders and dragged me across the street. “It’s a stupid joke. You’re trying too hard.”

    “Oh God you’re scented. You’re fucking scented.

    He rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’m trying to teach you a lesson here. You’re worried, you want to do something legendary… And that’s the absolute opposite of what you should be doing.”

    This is so fucking stupid.

    “I mean…” My inner lemons sighed. “It’s not that big of a deal, dude. They don’t care, and you shouldn’t care either—because if you care, you might end up being a little bit of a stuck up.”

    I frowned. “I don’t know what you mean. Also, how can anyone have inner lemons? Like, how does that work?”

    “I mean that you are prone to be an egotistical asshole.” The guy arched an eyebrow at me. “Of course, you’re too stupid to actually realize that. It’s kind of an exercise in futility to trying to explain this to you, isn’t it?”

    “I don’t even like lemons. I don’t eat that shit. I can’t have lemons inside.”

    “It’s a metaphor, you twit. It’s a representation of—you are touching my butt.”

    I smiled. “Maybe.”

    “Can I do anything with you that doesn’t end up being stupid or sexual?” He pushed me aside and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Seriously, this is big. I’m trying to teach you, you idiot.”

    “Oh yeah, you can teach me all night long.” I winked at him. “You’re the prettiest person I’ve met in my life.”

    “I’m an exact replica of yourself.”

    “Bullseye.”

    He sighed. “What I try to say here is—don’t sweat it. Don’t plan anything big, don’t try to outdo yourself, because it will end up in disappointment. And, honestly? They don’t really care.” My inner lemons locked eyes with me. “They are following you because… Uh…”

    Silence.

    “Okay, they are probably following you because they mistook you for a smart person once, and now they’re too polite to unfollow your sorry ass.”

    “Even I wonder how the fuck did that happen, yeah.”

    He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. They’re not following you for your blogs, so does it even matter? Just go on doing what you’ve always been doing.”

    “You mean being an idiot?”

    “Yes.”

    “Sweet. I’m awesome at that.” I smirked. “Did you know I got a gorilla from the zoo and dressed it as a sailor?”

    He frowned. “Why?”

    “I really like gorillas. I wanted to ship him with myself.”

    Silence.

    “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” My inner lemons gave me a thumbs up. “That’s fucking it. That’s even worse than the lemon thing.”

    “I’m trying to consciously disappoint everybody because then I can act as if it was planned all along!”

    “Brilliant plan.” He nodded. “So yeah. You need to learn not to worry about this kind of stuff.”

    “What an amazing lesson.”

    “And now I must leave you,” he said, as he closed his eyes and became transparent. “For once, you fucking listened to me.”

    “Hey! Don’t go!” I tried to grab him, but my hand passed through my inner lemons as if he wasn’t even there. “I still don’t know what to do to celebrate my followers!”

    “Seriously?” He laughed as he became more and more invisible by the second. “I told you not to worry! Deep in your heart, you know what to do. You just need to follow your instincts.”

    “Inner lemons!” I screamed, falling to my knees. “Don’t leave me!”

    “Are you seriously trying to unbutton my pants in this kind of situation?”

    “Hey, can’t blame me for trying.”

    “Pfft.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Bye. You’ll know what to do.”

    “But…” I looked up at him, and our eyes locked once more. “But, are you sure?”

    “Of course.” He winked at me. “But, just in case, I made sure to leave you a surprise. You’ll understand when you see it.”

    And then, just like that, he was gone.


    When I went home twenty minutes later, a thousand watermelons were waiting for me there.

    A single tear fell down my cheek.

    24 comments · 215 views
  • 7w, 5d
    OH, L'AMOUR

    Diamond Tiara is one of my favorite characters in the show, as well as Silver Spoon, to a lesser degree. However, whenever I say that people tend to misunderstand me--I don't think she's cute.I mean, yes, she is, but to be honest every single pony put there is cute. That's kind of a big thing in the show.

    I don't mean that I would like her to be my friend in real life, either--I know some people choose their favorite characters like that.

    Like, Diamond Tiara is an asshole. I mean woah what a lil' piece of shit. If I had kids, I wouldn't let them near her. And I would probably kick her in the face the moment I could be sure nobody was looking. BAM. YEAH HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU HARMLESS FIVE YEAR OLD. FEEL THE WRATH OF A VERY IRRESPONSIBLE MAN. And then I'd probably go to jail.

    But I digress! I still like the character, and that's precisely because she's so despicable. Y'see, bullies in real life are horrible, but in fiction? They can be charming, if you know how to write them. Same with any other flavor of asshole. I mean, Holmes would be a horrible homie, I think. Though you could call him your holmie, which would be cool. Heheh. Holmie.

    It's just a personal preference of mine, I guess? I adore love-to-hate characters, and assholes in general. A protagonist who kicks the everloving crap out of children whenever he's bored will be more interesting than a guy whose main flaw is that "he tries too hard" from the get-go.

    Why am I talking about this? You might ask yourself. Well, the other day I realized that St. Valentine's is coming, and I've never written a holiday-themed comedy. That could be fun!

    But normal romantic comedies are boring, and I like horrible characters. So I'm getting a crew I really like, from a story you won't need to read -- Long Story Short, Things Went Down is its name -- and I'll write a comedy about what "love" means to a bunch of sociopaths.

    Or, well, at least that's the plan. Whaddayathink? Should I do that? Or are love-to-hate characters boring for you? This wouldn't be a shipping fic, by the way. It would be a bona fide comedy about love. Different.

    But, y'know. Just in case. Should I do it? Do you wanna see a horrible Lyra and an asshole Bon Bon (plus five more bg ponies) and what do they do during the romantic holiday? Or should I write about Celestia turning into a clam instead? Sometines you just gotta ask the public, I think.

    43 comments · 264 views
  • 8w, 5d
    This Is A Normal Blog About Cherry Blossoms, Drugs, And How Tea Plus Coffee Equals High Heels

    [21/01/2015 19:21:48] Mr Numbers: Oh my god but you act like such a dumbarse.

    [21/01/2015 19:22:02] Mr Numbers: On purpose, mind, it belies what I feel is a very deceptive intelligence.

    You know, sometimes you hear something a friend says, and it makes you think. In this case, this quote, alongside a comment I made on a story y’all should seriously read, made me think about things that look like things but in reality are different things. In a story, that’s what people usually call symbolism. That’s always a cool thing to think about, isn’t it?

    Also, just in case—Mr Dumbers here is wrong. I don’t act like an idiot to deceive ya. I’m merely pretty f*king dumb. Ockham’s Razor, people.

    Anyway! We’re not talking about my lack of brains here. We’re talking about cheap tricks to deceive the reader. Well, actually I am talking about this, and you’re just reading my words and probably dancing or some sh*t like that, but let’s just ignore that detail.

    What do I mean with “deceive”? Well, that’s a stupid question. Like, the word is right there. I mean deceive. I swear to God, y’all should stop asking that kind of thing.

    There’s this thing in publicity called “preloading”. It’s a way to indirectly tell the customer what to think when they see the product (think of it as a more developed “show, don’t tell” rule). It’s why when you see a yogurt commercial, a pretty lady eats the yogurt and goes “hmmmmmmmmm!” but nobody goes “HOLY F*CKING SH*T THIS YOGURT IS BETTER THAN JESUS AND IT ALSO MAKES ME POOP HOW COOL IS THAT”. Preloading is all about subtlety, about being deceptive, so to speak. Almost subliminal, but not quite, because the message is obvious. It’s about sending sings to the customers, and forcing them to assume stuff.

    Stories have that too. There are many things that immediately make the reader think a couple things about the character of the story. You might know it or you might not, but whenever you write, you’re preloading your readers.

    Am I making sense? I doubt it. Who cares. This is just a very long intro anyway. What I wanted to list here as just all the little things that plague a story and what they mean, at least for me. Have in mind this is not purely subjective—I’ve seen many authors (both in and out of this site) who use this kind of thing exactly like me, and sometimes they don’t even do it consciously.

    I’m talking about things like…


    Tea: I’ve written a lot about ponies drinking tea, because I’m as original as a red-and-black-alicorn joke. However, this is not just because I like tea. Tea is a social beverage, something like the pusillanimous cousin of coffee. You don’t drink tea when you want to avoid falling asleep—you drink tea when you’re with people.

    In other words—whenever there’s tea somewhere, the character drinking it is probably either British/Indian/Chinese or a very social person. You don’t drink tea on your own unless you’re very very sad or very very cold, so there’s probably going to be a conversation whenever tea arises. And it’s going to be an adult conversation, because if you ever see a kid drinking tea like that you should kick the little bastard in the face and then throw the body into the river. That’s not a kid, that’s an alien.

    Or, again, a British/Indian/Chinese kid. If that’s the case, please don’t kick the kid unless it’s being an asshole.

    Long story short: tea means society, conversations. Sometimes elegance, too, and sassiness. No wonders I always picture Rarity drinking tea, even though we’ve never seen her doing that in the show. But you know who else drinks tea? Celestia. Who is not sassy at all, but shut up the point still works. I’ll use my own stories as an example here: ponies drink tea and they talk, always.

    Coffee: Coffee is a bitter drink (important later), and it has three different meanings, depending on when it appears. A character drinking coffee in the morning is going to be seen as either a professional, centered character who doesn’t fool around and probably wears a tie, or a very sleepy fella. Sleepiness here usually meaning unprofessional, weirdly enough. So it kind of depends on how you portray a character.

    Want an example? Chances are, if a fic shows Octavia drinking coffee in the mornings, she’ll drink it while reading the newspaper and having breakfast in the kitchen, her attention focused on something else. Man, what a responsible mare. I’d let her take care of my finances.

    However, Vinyl is going to show up sleepy as hell, with the worst bed hair you’ve ever seen, her attention completely focused on the coffee because she can’t really think yet and desperately needs the caffeine to wake up. She’s a f*cking mess, that’s what she is. My, she probably has a hangover.

    You might say the coffee is not important here, to which I say seriously shut up. You can show this exact same thing without the coffee, but the coffee is an easy yet efficient way to do it, and f*cking everybody does it already.

    What if the coffee appears in the afternoon? Then it’s a little more metaphoric. Coffee, as I said before, is bitter. That, for some reason, makes it melancholic. Seriously, check it out—if the character is having a coffee with a friend or something, they’re going to start remembering and the atmosphere will get very thoughtful, maybe even philosophic. Even if they add sugar, it’s still going to be like that. Coffee is also romantic, because apparently kissing somebody whose mouth tastes like coffee is hot? I have no idea.

    I guess it also has to do with its flavor—coffee is bitter, but it can be sweet if you add sugar or cream. That sounds like a very angsty, teenagerish description of what “romantic love” is. And with “teenagerish” I mean “lame”, but hey, I don’t make the rules.

    Coffee during the night has just one meaning: f*ck sleep, I’ll get some sleep when I’m dead. Expect the character to be either a student or a very desperate person. Coffee during the night equals work, and probably a tedious one.

    See how this is going? This kind of thing is obvious, but it does carry a message. You don’t need to explain any of this—just show the character in any of those situations, and people start to assume. Which can be kind of useful.

    High heels or a tie: This is harder to use in a ponyfic, because last time I checked there’s no way a pony can wear high heels at all. But, hey, there are humanizations out there, aren’t they?

    A character who wears high heels (if it’s a girl) or a tie (both sexes) tends to be elegant and professional. It’s a mix between tea and coffee, and I just realized how weird that is. Coffee plus tea equals high heels. Man, that’s a quote for the ages.

    Mind you—they have to be worn in a casual way. Don’t make a fuss out of them. Just say that the character wears that, because it likes to do so. Mention the click-clack of her shoes whenever she walks. Show him playing with his tie whenever he’s bored.

    More than anything, high heels and ties give perhaps a feeling of adulthood. Real adulthood, mind you, not just an old age. It’s about responsibility, about being down-to-earth. Lipstick, loafers, white shirts, and the like are more or less the same. That’s one mature character right there.

    Also, you just imagined fanon-Octavia, probably. If you’re not being original and just imitating the usual stiff grey pony, any humanization of her will probably be like that.

    Perfume: Usually a fake person, as long as the character wears too much of it. If it’s just a faint smell, and it’s all whimsical ‘n shit, then the character who notices it is just falling in love.  

    But if the character just bathes in Channel? Yeeah that’s not trustworthy. Perfume hides part of you, right? So there’s that.

    Also, sometimes authors make a character smell like something, but without perfume. For example, Applejack smells like apples. That counts as the whole “falling in love” thingy, at least 90% of the time.

    Snow: Okay, two things: First, the author has watched far too much anime. What a f*cking weeabo.

    If you say that’s not true, then you’ve seen things that are inspired by Asian culture in general (probably Japan more than China, but I’m not exactly sure).

    Second, it means purity, death, loneliness, and sometimes beauty. Usually in that order. Seriously, originality is not something you should avoid, people. WHY HELLO SNOWDROP HOW’S IT GOING GOOD OKAY GOOD SAY HELLO TO ELSA NEXT TIME YOU SEE HER.

    Numbers: The character is smart. Look, it’s talking about numbers. Either he’s asocial, or he’s smart. Usually both.

    Numbers are impersonal and scary—saying “you’re just a number” means something like “you’re nor human”. And probably “I’m a nazi”, too. Too many numbers in one fic, especially when they involve a character, tend to point at a robotic, intellectual, not-very-good-with-people character.

    (Twilight is a good example for that, although it’s not an exact fit.)

    Food: If a character is eating food, then it probably means the character is f*cking hungry. Not everything has to be deep, sorry.

    Cherry blossoms: Oh, for heaven’s sake, read some Marvel instead of all that mango. Plus, no good anime has ever used cherry blossoms in an actual good symbolic way ‘cept for Free!, and that one is an exception because it’s a series that zooms to the protagonists’ crotches almost constantly, and plays it absolutely straight.  

    Well. Actually, it plays it in a very gay way, but you feel me.

    Drugs and alcohol: Ah-hah! This is the one that made me think of writing this blog that nobody will read. Before I say anything else in here, mind that I absolutely do not advise you to do drugs or drink too much alcohol. Get away from that stuff. It’s bad.

    Alcohol, if you’re of age, is okay, as long as you don’t overdo it. Also, keep this in mind: I’m talking about characters here. Fictional things. If a real person is like this, it’s not cool or interesting. It’s a tragedy. It means the person needs help. Don’t be an ass about this.

    Okay. Responsible thingy out. Let’s go to the cool stuff.

    Alcohol and drugs (drugs being more or less the “extreme” version of alcohol) tend to demonstrate self-destruction, or at least a desire to do so. Now, this is the interesting part—it doesn’t need to be bad self-destruction. Oh, it can be, of course, but alcohol and drugs can be presented under a positive or a negative light.

    Under the negative light, you get the usual stuff—alcohol and drugs can destroy you, after all, so a character that willingly takes those is pretty definitely a self-destructive person/pony/chameleon/semidemon/whatever the hell you’re writing. Maybe it’s self-destructive because its life is way too hard and the poor thing is already broken, maybe it’s just this kind of sick self-destruction, where the character doesn’t want to f*ck himself up to hell and beyond, but it can’t help it. Maybe it’s a sign of a sick character, and the addiction is a tragedy. This kind of stuff is pretty heavy, after all.

    But more or less, negative light on alcohol or drugs tend to mean that the character, for one reason or another, wants to stop existing. Sure, it might not think that, but subconsciously that’s what it’s searching. This can be very useful for writing a complex character, actually—it’s not suicidal, but the reader (and you, probably) will get the feeling that the character wants to die. That, if played well, can give birth to an amazing character. People is usually all about being alive, and when somebody unconsciously decides to stop being? That’s some next-level stuff. It’s also something extremely complicated to write.

    But what about a positive light? Then, self-destruction doesn’t mean the character wants to die. It means that the character is willing to shorten its life as long as it has a good life. It’s the old “better to live fully than to live longer” motto, the go-to rock ’n roll attitude, the easy way out when you want to introduce a rebel, young character. It’s about having a hell of a time at the party without caring for the hangover that comes afterwards.

    Because the hangover comes—both literally and figuratively. Characters that do drugs or drink alcohol in this sense (as a way to show that they have fun and don’t care for the future) tend to suffer consequences. And what’s more—the reader wants to see those consequences. Don’t chicken out here. A character like this needs to have something bad happening to him because of what he’s done (it doesn’t need to be related to the alcohol or the drugs, of course). The readers expect that, and it’s a perfect example of a character arc. Showing the initial attitude, the “party” (as in, the moment where the character shows its “live now, worry later” personality), the aftermath, and then the character learning from it? That’s a YA novel right there. That’s a timeless classic, too.

    I mean, I could be talking about Crime and Punishment. Or I could be talking about Pipsqueak’s Day Off. You don’t know. But I just mentioned two stories that use this sign (Raskolnikov drinks a lot of vodka, Pipsqueak driks bourbon and takes salts) and follow the same arc (both have a “party” with serious consequences, both have to deal with it, both fall in love in the process) and couldn’t be more different.

    Also yes, I just compared Crime and Punishment to Pipsqueak’s Day Off. I love that fic. F*cking fight me.

    So overall, what I mean here is that drugs and alcohol, if used well in a story, can give birth to some pretty awesome characters and a killer story.

    Man.

    I’m so responsible.

    Seriously though don’t even think about doing that stuff in real life. I’ve seen how it goes. It’s not pretty. And it ruins your life. And afterwards you smell like poop.


    Holy magnolias, this is one long noodle, quoting RBob. Better to stop now. Nobody’ll read this, but mneh, who cares. I might ramble about this stuff later on, because I find this topic pretty interesting, and there are more easy preloading symbols out there that I’d like to talk about.

    Then again, nobody will give a fudge about this, so bah.

    18 comments · 306 views
  • 10w, 1d
    I Can't Believe I'm Writing This One

    23 comments · 390 views
  • 10w, 4d
    Betcha People Mistake This For A Serious Blog Post At First

    I remember it perfectly. When I was five years old, my father asked my grandfather if he was doing a good job at raising me. That afternoon, I’d been trying to fulfill my dream of becoming a carrot and live with no responsibilities via smashing my head against the walls, because I was the fucking dumbest kid you’ve ever seen. “What do I do with the kid, Dad?” my father had asked, holding me in his arms.

    Well, okay, he wasn’t using his arms, only his hands. Holding me in his hands. Okay, holding my neck with his hands, and pressing gently, no doubt because he really loved me. And maybe he didn’t really say “kid”. To be honest, the terms that came out of his mouth were “little fucker”. But, you know, the overall picture is more or less the same.

    Anyway, so he asked “What do I do with the little fucker, Daddy-o?” while lovingly trying to choke me to death. “I mean, I’m fucking choking this human wreckage I’m legally forced to call ‘son’, but it’s not working.”

    And my grandfather looked at him, straight into his eyes, and whispered something I’ll never forget. “If you love your children, let them go. If they come back, they’ll come back stronger. If they don’t, well, then fuck’em. You can make more of the little bastards. In fact, I’d recommend you to let that one go as fast as possible.”

    “Fuck, Daddy-o, what do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? What I wanted to know is, do I use cyanide, or…?”

    The rest of the conversation is blurry, because I was kind of suffocating, but I’m sure they just repeated again and again just how much they loved me. My childhood was so awesome. OH GOD DAD PLEASE LOVE ME.

    Anyway, that message always resonated with me. “If you love’em, let them go.” That’s some folky wisdom right there. So I thought, why not do that? I sadly don’t have any kids, because my genitals are so cool every woman I try to impregnate freezes solid and shatters immediately, but I can use that advice metaphorically, can’t I?

    So, I’ll let my metaphorical children go. And if they come back, they’ll come back stronger.

    Of course, with “let go” I mean “publish a little bit about them in here.”

    And with “children” I mean “Original Characters.” And I’ll also talk about a story!

    And with “love” I rather obviously mean “fuck you I’m not doing some bad running gag where I say something random here”.

    Ladies and gentlemen (oh, who am I kidding: sexy ladies and more sexy ladies), let me show you the amazing characters I make up whenever I’m bored or trying to avoid suicidal thoughts!


    Fucking Nobody: Who is this pony? Fucking Nobody! Nobody gives a crap about him, which means he has horrible self-esteem issues! He’s Fucking Nobody, so he’ll be a virgin forever! He has no friends, because he’s Fucking Nobody! Who gives a crap about how he looks like? He’s Fucking Nobody! He’s literally the least important, least interesting character you’ve ever seen. Not even you give a fuck about him. Fucking Nobody!

    Pig Norant: He’s not even a pig. He’s just fucking dumb. Kind of fat and smelly, too.

    Doctor Amedy: When he was born, he came butt first, and his butt was so big his mother died in childbirth. He lost an eye with a horrible, traumatizing hamster-in-your-mouth-what-the-fuck-how-did-it-ever-get-in-there-I-mean-what-the-fuck-do-you-do-in-your-free-time-are-you-kiding-me accident. His son became a hilarious little clown that got his legs crushed by a car full of hilarious little clowns. Now he’s the funniest clown ever, because he has no legs, and Equestria is filled with assholes. Dr. Amedy’s life is filled with disgraces, and everypony laughs at them, because, well. They’re pretty damn funny.

    Night Mare: she’s a scary prostitute.

    Yeah.

    I got nothing.

    I Don’t Fucking Know, Just Write Whatever Comes To Mind: look, Idon’t’s parents weren’t exactly good at coming up with names, okay? And they just happened to cross roads with the most literal-minded bureaucrat in the world. Not her fault. She’s actually a pretty nice mare, although her childhood was understandably difficult. Some kids made fun of her because of her freckles.

    Tonfa King: One of the best ninjas in Equestria, absolute master of the tonfas. Married to a very obese mare. He rocks her world in bed.

    Golden Shower: Yeah, somehow Idon’t’s parents weren’t the worse at making names. I’m really, really sorry.

    Sergeant McKickAss: Her father wanted an awesome soldier, so obviously this mare became a pretty boring accountant. She had an adventure with Golden Shower, but left him with a broken heart when she realized he wasn’t as kinky as it sounded. God I’m so sorry for this stuff please don’t unfollow me I swear I can’t change.

    Dancing Queen: YOUNG AND SWEET, ONLY SEVENTEEN. Her father died alone. She’ll always blame herself for that. She let him down in his last moments, and she’ll never rest again. During the night, his face appears in front of her, and the look in his eyes is not anger, but disappointment. She knows she’s broken. She’ll never be whole again. FEEL THE BEAT OF THE TAMBOURINE.

    Ode Dipus: What a dyslexic motherfucker.

    Schaden Freud: German psychologist. Well, maybe not German per se, but whatever Equestria’s equivalent to Germany you can think about. He’s the psychologist who worked with Ode Dipus. And he laughed at him all the time.

    Blergh: Look, babies are ugly, okay.

    Bleeeeeeergh: Oh, honey! They’re twins!




    Aaaand that’s it, I think. Man, sometimes I look at how many followers I have, and I gasp at the amount of people who should seriously know better.


    Also, the reason why this blog is tagged: You know when you have an old story and it suddenly gets a lot of attention? It’s weird. The weird thing is, this same story got featured by the Seattle’s Angles not that long ago. I’m absolutely sure that it got attention because of that, though, so maybe it’s not that weird? I’m talking, of course, about my one and only dark fic.

    Anyway, so Chris reviewed it, and he didn’t really like it, which I understand. The pictures wasn’t something he could dig, but he said the prose was okay. PresentPerfect also said it was pretty okay, and lauded both the pics and the words because PresentPerfect is, in the end, not that bright when it comes to art.

    But then we have the best fucking live reading any story of mine has had. Like, I’ve had some really awesome readings, and I feel like an ass for saying this one is better, but damn this thing is so cool. It’s short, less than ten minutes, and yet it has, like, sound effects? And an awesome VA for the characters? And the narrator is creepy? And the music is amazing?

    I tell you: watch that thing. It’s incredible.

    Wait. This can’t be the end of the blog post. This has to be funny. Let me try a joke:

    “Hey, Pinkie! What’s your favorite number?”

    “Well, you know three?”

    “Yes.”

    “Lil’ bit more than that.”








    God, I’m lame. I’M SO LAME. OH GOD DAD WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME. NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF I WAS A CARROT, I FUCKING KNEW THAT WAS THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING.

    18 comments · 274 views
  • 12w, 1d
    This Is The Most Heartwarming Thing I've Ever Written

    “Aragón!” Mother said, opening the door and hugging the man who stood at the other side tightly. “You came! For a second, I was afraid you wouldn’t appear this year!”

    “Uh-huh.” Aragón didn’t know if he should return the hug, so he just patted his mother on the back. “Totes. Heya, Mom.”

    “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” Mother hugged him even tighter. “How are you? Are you eating well? Do you have any girlfriend? Did you finally stop watching that horrible sh—”

    Suddenly, silence.

    Mother squinted. She was still pressing Aragón against her. “Please tell me you’re carrying a banana in your pocket. Please.

    “What?”  Aragón frowned. “No. Why would I carry a banana in my pocket? That’s a boner.”

    “EW! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!” Mother pushed Aragón away and shivered. “DEAR FUCKING LORD, SON! WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM! I DON’T SEE YOU FOR YEARS, AND YOU WELCOME ME WITH THAT?!

    “Uh?” Aragón blinked. “Ah! Oh God, not because of you!” He took a step back and pressed a hand against his chest. “Are you crazy?! Have you seen you?” He flicked his hair to the side. “I’m way out of your league, woman!”

    “YOU’RE POPPING A GIANT ERECTION WHILE HUGGING YOUR MOTHER YOU BASTARD!”

    “Yes, but that’s just because I saw my reflection on a window outside.” Aragón rolled his eyes. “Geez.  Calm the hell down. I’m not that sick yet.” Then he closed the door behind him and sighed. “Happy new year and all that, by the way. Are the others here?”

    “I swear to God, I knew I should’ve ab—hm?” Mother scratched her cheek. “Yeah, your siblings are here, of course.”

    “Cool!” Aragón walked to the hall and waved at his three siblings, all sitting on the sofa. “Hey, Miguel! Long time no see!”

    “Yo.”

    “Glad to meet again, María!”

    “Heya.”

    “Lookin’ as fine as ever, Captain Steel DickPuncher!”

    ME PUNCHES DICKS.

    “Ah, hah, hah.” Aragón crossed his arms and nodded. “Good old Captain Steel DickPuncher. Never change.”

    ME DO NOTHING BUT PUNCH DICKS.

    “Son?” An old man with a coffee mug in his hand entered the hall through the other door. The coffee mug said My Son is a Huge Disappointment but At Least He has Good Taste in Coffee Mugs.“Oh, fuck. You’re still alive?”

    “Dad!” Aragón smiled and walked towards the man, arms stretched out. “Give me a hug!”

    “Fuck no.” Dad sipped from his mug. “The day I show you any affection, hell freezes over.”

    ME CAN PUNCH HIS DICK IF YOU WANT, DAD.

    “No, no.” Dad waved a hand. “Don’t bother, Captain Steel DickPuncher. He’s not worth the effort.”

    “Aw, come on, Dad.” Aragón rested his back against a wall and smirked at him. “You know you like me, deep inside.”

    “Yes. Deep inside my asshole.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Because you’re a little shit.”

    “Yeah, I got it when you said it the first time.”

    ME CRAVES PUNCHING DICKS.

    “So. Little shit.” Dad arched an eyebrow at Aragón. “Why the everloving shit are you here, and how can I make you go away as fast as possible?”

    Aragón smirked even harder. “Hah. See? You’re willing to talk instead of using the shotgun! That means you love me now!”

    “No, it means I learned my lesson last year.” Dad squinted. “You’re awfully good at dodging bullets.”

    “Literally everybody who’s ever met me tried to shoot me at least twice after seeing me for the first time,” Aragón replied, shrugging. “Practice makes perfection, as they say. Anyway, as you might have guessed, I’m here for a reason.”

    “Really?” Mother entered the hall too and stood by Dad’s side. “I thought you were here just to ruin your father’s holidays.”

    “He did that the moment he was born,” Dad muttered. “All holidays, ever. Retroactively.”

    “I agree that was also my intention,” Aragón agreed, agreeing with an agreeing agreement. HE AGREED. “But I mostly came here to ask for advice.”

    Dad huffed. “I suggest drowning yourself in holy water. While on fire.”

    “You didn’t even hear what I was having trouble with.”

    “I know. That’s still my suggestion.”

    “No, you see… It’s just, I feel like I’m lacking something big.” Aragón licked his lips and grabbed his elbows. It made him look sexy yet troubled. “Like… Well, you know, we’re in 2015 now.”

    “Indeed.”

    “Yes.”

    ME FEELS THIS CONVERSATION LACKS PUNCHED DICKS.

    “And, like, I really feel like I should say something.” Aragón scratched the back of his head. He still looked constipated. “Something good, you know? Something that makes a difference.”

    Silence.

    Dad frowned. “The fuck are you talking about?”

    “A blog post.”

    A collective groan filled the room. Even Captain Steel DickPuncher did it.

    “Are you seriously seeing your family for the first time in five years just to asks us about that shitty website?” Mother asked, massaging her temples. “What in God’s name did we do wrong while raising you? Was it the beating? We beat you too often?”

    “Or we didn’t beat you often enough,” Dad muttered. “Personally, I think we’re still in time to solve that issue.”

    ME AGREES. ME CALLS DIBS ON HIS DICK.

    “Third time I hear that line today,” Aragón muttered. “Anyway, yes. It’s about that website again. You see, I want to post something to celebrate the new year, but it’s my hundredth blog post, and—”

    “We don’t care.”

    “—and I want it to be as special as possible, because, well, it’s a big thing.” Aragón shook his head. “I don’t wanna waste it with some, I don’t know, some ‘Aragón visits his family for Christmas’ bullshit, you know?”

    “We seriously don’t care.

    “So what should I do?” Aragón made a pout. “Do you have any idea?”

    Dad sipped from his coffee mug. ”Travel back in time and open your own head with a baseball bat.”

    “I thought of talking about my latest story,” Aragón continued, “but there’s really not much to talk about it. Sure, it had some mid success; it turned into the fourth story of mine with over a thousand likes…” He frowned. “But there’s not that much into it, really. I just wrote it on a whim, and that’s that.”

    “The fact that you’re popping a boner while talking to me about this bullshit makes me want to claw your insides out with my own hands and stuff you with formaldehyde.”

    “So you don’t want to talk about your own story?” Mother asked.

    “Nah. Like, I can’t say a thing about it, really.” Aragón shrugged. “Usually I’d do it, but… Nah. There’s better stuff out there, after all.”

    ME REMEMBERS THE FIRST TIME ME PUNCHED A DICK. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. THERE WAS A DICK, AND THERE WERE PUNCHES, AND THERE WAS ME, AND IT WAS MAGICAL. ME IS AFRAIND OF BEING MONOTHEMATIC.

    “Yeah.” Aragón nodded. “And—can you believe this?—not written by me!” Aragón chuckled. “There’s this guy I know, one big bastard, who—”

    “If you know him, he’s automatically scum,” Dad said. “Everybody who’s ever had any contact with you should be obliterated. Including myself. This entire universe is stained by your presence. And you still have a boner. Why do you have a boner. Why are you torturing me like this.”

    “Well. Yes.” Aragón nodded. “Yes, he is. And he has this story of his, you know? One he published not so long ago. I could talk about that one.”

    Mother arched an eyebrow. “What would that accomplish?”

    “Well, I’m fairly  sure it would accomplish absolutely nothing.” Aragón shrugged. “My followers would think I’m a sell out trying to brown-nose someone who’s far better than me, and that guy would think I’m trying to get in his pants.”

    “And you aren’t?”

    “Of course I am!” Aragón said. “Why would read his stories otherwise? I’ve been trying to tap that ass for ages. I did every single trick in my book,” he added, biting his lips. “I’ve sent him flocks of my own hair, I’ve licked his eyeballs while he was sleeping, I’ve sexually assaulted his dog… And still, nothing! And I seriously doubt talking about that latest story of his would do anything good.”

    DID YOU TRY TO PUNCH HIS DICK.

    “That goes without saying, Captain Steel DickPuncher.”

    ME JUST WANTED TO BE SURE.

    “Well, then don’t talk about his fucking story,” Dad said. “See? Problem solved. I’m a genius. Get the fuck out.”

    “But I wanna talk about that story!” Aragón said. “It’s funny, and it’s about Twilight dancing, and my followers might like it, and—”

    “Wait.” Dad raised a hand to interrupt Aragón. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait. People follow you?!”

    “Yeah!” Aragón nodded. “Almost one thousand people follow me, actually!”

    Silence.

    “WHAT?!”

    “Yeah! Isn’t it amazing?”

    “HOW ON EARTH CAN ANYBODY BE DUMB ENOUGH TO WILLINGLY SPEND ANY TIME WITH YOU?!”

    “Because they can’t see my face!” Aragón said. “A shame, though, seeing how hot I am.”

    “THE MERE IDEA OF PEOPLE BEING NEAR YOU ON AN INTELLECTUAL LEVEL DISGUSTS ME!”

    “But they like me!”

    “THAT IS THE WORST SENTENCE I’VE EVER HEARD! OH GOD FOR SOME REASON I HATE YOU EVEN MORE NOW! I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THAT WAS POSSIBLE!”

    “Aw, Dad.” Aragón smiled. “You’re such a softie.”

    “SHUT UP! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

    “Oh, dear, you’re making a fuss out of nothing!” Mother waved a hand. “You don’t hate him that much, do you? I mean, you’ve talked with him with over five minutes, and you’ve only threatened his life a couple times! That means you like him!”

    “Oh my God!” Aragón’s smile was brighter than the sun. “Mother’s right! You love me!”

    “THERE AREN’T ENOUGH WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TO EXPLAIN HOW WRONG YOU ARE!”

    “You like me!” Aragón repeated. “Look! I’m so happy I developed a second penis and popped another boner!”

    AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

    AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

    ME LIKES THIS DEVELOPMENT BECAUSE IT MEANS ONE MORE DICK TO PUNCH.

    30 comments · 385 views
  • 14w, 5d
    This Is So Fucking Lame, I Love It

    14 comments · 320 views
  • 15w, 4d
    There's a Dick Joke Subtly Hidden in This Blog

    You write too many blog posts.

    I clench my fist. My frown deepens. The computer screen looks back at me, and it seems like it’s laughing at me. Kind of hard for something without a mouth, but… Look, I’m just being poetic here, okay. Of course it doesn’t look like it’s laughing. It’s a fucking screen. It looks square, and that’s it.

    You write too many blog posts.

    I bare my teeth, just like a dog in front of the mirror. Dogs do that because when they see their reflection, they think there’s a different dog in front of them. God, dogs are retarded. I hate them so much. Like, they’re cute and all but come fucking on, they eat their own poop. Like, they look forward to eating their own poop! You can’t justify that!

    Oh, who am I kidding, I like dogs. They’re so adorable, the little assholes. But I still think they’re fucking stupid.

    You write too many blog posts.

    Wait, what. Oh. Oh, right, shit. For a second I forgot I’m doing this noir-esque narration of what’s going through my mind. Okay, let’s get my mojo back. I was angry, wasn’t I? Yeeah that sounds right. Ahem.

    I sneer at the computer screen and cross my arms. I don’t write too many blog posts, I say. Or, like, I think it? I’m pretty sure I’m not actually talking. I’m just, well, narrating.

    Hah. Narrating. See that, asshole voice that’s accusing me of writing too many blogs? I can use italics too. Hah, hah. Fuck you. Man, I love italics. It’s like, they give whatever you’re writing this special tone, you know? Very cool. Hip as shit. Hip as shit. See? It’s so cool.

    You write too many blog posts.

    Oh, cut me some slack! I don’t write too many blog posts, you twat! I wrote exactly the right amount of blog posts! Not all my followers read them. But some do. Some are maybe looking a little forward to them. That makes them worth it.

    You write too many blog posts.

    Fuck you, Asshole Voice. Just… Just fuck you, and fuck your repetition, and fuck the insecurity you represent. I can write anything I want. I can do whatever I choose to do. And they read them, don’t they?

    You’re annoying them.

    Oh, now you’re doing that? They read them. I’m telling you, if they thought they’re annoying, they’ll ignore them. But they don’t. They keep reading. Maybe most of them won’t read the entire thing, but I don’t care.

    And you know what? Because I’m good at this shit. Because I’m confident in my ability to actually make them go “oh, another blog post? By him? Guess I’ll check it out." Because you DON’T FUCKING MATTER. Oh, sorry, was that too bold for you?

    Did you just make a pun.

    No. Yes. Maybe. Shut up.

    You planned this entire fucking blog just so you could say that, didn’t you.

    Look, maybe I did that. So what? I’m sure it was worth it!

    You’re getting cocky. You’re getting confident. You’re assuming your readers won’t leave you if you keep doing this kind of bullshit.

    Oh, no, no. I know what I’m doing. You see, I know I’m getting cocky lately. I’m working on a lot of stories, but they take time, and people are not seeing results. That’s why I write blog posts. But that makes me look like an egotistical asshole.

    Well. Yes. Yes, it does.

    But, cockiness aside, people always root for the underdog. I just need to make them feel like I’m a total fucking loser, and they’ll immediately think I’m cool again. That’s why I hired a mime to hit me in the face with his flaccid penis as I write this.

    Wait. What.

    I smile. Oh, you weren’t expecting this, were you, asshole voice? I caught you by surprise. Yeah, I still believe in my readers.

    What the fuck are you talking about.

    I’m ready to answer. I lean on my seat, my hands on the keyboard.

    And then, the mime, the fucking mime who’s been doing god knows what all this time, he fucking remembers he’s here.

    With a single thrust his hips come right next to my head. Almost in slow motion I see his flaccid penis drawing an arch in the air, gracefully landing on my cheek, the tip of that French’s baguette softly rubbing against my lip.

    The mime looks at me and smiles, his schlong still there, and oh my fucking god did a fucking mime just fucking slap me with his dick. Did. Did that just happen.

    This wasn’t a good idea.

    Oh my God he’s not moving. Like, the fucking dick is still there. THE MIME IS SMILING.

    DUDE WHAT THE FUCK.

    I DON’T KNOW IT’S LIKE THE DICK IS GLUED TO MY FACE OR SOMETHING. OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE THE MIME IS STILL LAUGHING.

    HOLY CRAP DUDE DO SOMETHING.

    I’M TRYING! OH GOD I THINK THE MIME SUPERGLUED HIS DICK TO MY FACE.

    WHY DID YOU EVEN HIRE THAT FUCKING MIME, THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ALL DEEP AND SHIT.

    I DON’T KNOW, MAN! HEAT OF THE MOMENT!

    YOU DON’T ASK A FRENCH MUTE TO DICKSLAP YOU IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT!

    WELL MAYBE WE SHOULDN’T DWELL IN THE PAST SO MUCH!

    YOU HAVE A DICK IN YOUR FACE!

    I FUCKING KNOW THAT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

    TELL THE MIME TO GO AWAY OR SOMETHING!

    YEAH HE’S NOT ANSWER---wait. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

    What?

    He’s answering, but, like, he’s answering in a mime way. He’s mimicking some shit. Oh God I don’t have time for this.

    But what is he saying?

    I don’t know. I think he says he’s trapped in an invisible box. God, I hate mimes.

    Then why the fuck did you hire one?

    Because I wanted to be an underdog! Seemed like a good idea!

    You get more and more pathetic by the hour.

    Come on, man! I’m just not good at being deep, okay?

    Yeah, sure. You know what? I’m out of here. Go fuck yourself.

    Uh. I already did that.

    …What?

    Yeah. In a previous blog post. And then I had a foursome with myself, too.

    Oh.

    You seriously write too many blog posts.

    OH, COME ON!

    32 comments · 274 views
  • 16w, 2d
    Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell FUCK

    Well ain't Christmas just the best fucking season ever. Oh, wait. It's not.

    At least for me, I don't know about you. Maybe you're like, this starry-eyed whimsical kind of person who believes in the Spirit of Christmas© and how its A Time for the Family©, and if that's the case then look, more power to you. That's pretty awesome. You go, girl.

    But in my case, Christmas means having to visit all the members of my family, and I'm pretty sure my family is like, the retarded cousin of the Mafia, because this is not normal. Like, I love them and all that jazz but fucking Christ, man. It's not like they hate each other, it's that they're midly annoyed by each other.

    Which is far worse, because at least when you hate somebody else you're like, clenching fists, and swearing revenges, and maybe falling in love with some random daughter out there and having a dashing adventure while discovering love and rock'n roll. Annoyance means that they go "yeeeah your Uncle Ruffalo is cool, but you can't really trust him! Once he asked me if he could borrow your uncle's donkey, and I said, yes, and when he turned it back the donkey had been raped! Raped! Who the fucks rapes a donkey?!" And no offense, but I've heard that same stupid story a hundred times already. They never let anything go, and whenever they get offended they make amends with petty revenges (like raping the other's parrot, for example), which offends the other, who also gets a petty revenge, and OH MY GOD THIS NEVER STOPS.

    Like, think I'm exaggerating? My 92 y/o grandma is explaining me in excruciating detail RIGHT NOW how my mother's mother once told her the dress she was wearing was pretty when clearly, it wasn't. What a fiend. I'm writing this while nodding and saying "sure, grandma", and she won't shut up, and oh dear Lord please kill me already.


    So yeah. Hate Christmas. Like, it's the worst time of the year for me -- on top of everything I just said, I hurt my arm again (it's a chronic injury, so there's little I can do about it -- it gets worse like once a year or so) so I can't even write as much as I'd want to. And man, I really want to write.

    For starters, I'm still working on that heist fic, and I'm actually really close to the ending, so not being able to finish it in one go sucks a lot. I'm also working on a collab with Pearple Prose (if you know that guy, you'll know a collab with him will end up being pretty high-quality-ish, because even though he's a lazy bastard, he knows what he's doing) and then a completely different collab with MrNumbers (if you know that guy, you'll know a collab including me and him is doomed to be absolutely fucking stupid, and thus GLORIOUS).

    So that's three stories. But wait! There's more!

    RainbowBob came one day to Skype and, out of the fucking blue, gave me a pep talk so inspiring my scrotum turned into a keytar and I started playing Take On Me with the neighbour's bulldog. That was fucking weird. But yeah, he WAIT A FUCKING SECOND WHAT IS MY GRANDMA DOING BRB

    Okay back. Turns out she's bored so she randomly started cleaning the house. I made her sit down again, because holy shit, grandma, you're 92. Calm down. Wait she's talking about how some random cousin once stole a chicken. That'll keep her busy.

    What was I saying? Oh, yeah. RainbowBob and I had a little talk, in which he showed me two things: First, I'm leagues behind him (I already knew that). Second, in real life he's not a sentient sponge (that was a surprise). And then he told me I should go back to original fiction. And so I did!

    So I'm working on four different stories at the same time, not counting college work. All of that, with a hurt arm and my family yapping in my ear. Sigh.

    But hey, at least this ind of stress is giving me a lot of inspiration. I doubt I'll ever get to write down all the ideas that come to mind lately (Example: Ice Cool, the OC whose problem is that he's way too fucking awesome to have any kind of meaningful relationship or fulfilling life. His father was a shark, which is cool. His mother was two sharks which is so much cooler. He's in absolute despair and seeks help, but nobody can help because they're too busy high-fiving him.) But, look, at least I know the well is not dry yet.

    So yeah. Go me. Now, if you excuse me, I gotta talk with my granny and insult a lot of people I have never met in my life. Seeing how old the woman is, chances are they're all dead by now. Sigh.

    14 comments · 256 views
  • 17w, 22h
    This Is The Kind Of Crap I Imagine When my E-reader Runs Out of Battery In The Train

    Poof!

    “Aragón.” A black figure appears right in front of me. Black as in clothes, not as in racism. “We need to talk.”

    “Woah!” I almost spill the coffee I was drinking, and take a step back. “Holy fucknuggets, what the hell are you?!”

    “I’m your – wait. Fucknuggets?”

    “Eh, what can I say, I’m a romantic.” I arch an eyebrow as I shoot the figure a better look. It’s kind of exactly like me, but apparently way more emo. He looks like he buys stuff at Hot Topic. “So, uh, seriously: what the hell are you and how are you in my house?”

    “I’m your dark side,” the figure says. “Your inner demon. I’m the voice that whispers to you at night, the blackness that makes you wonder how blood tastes.”

    “Oh. So you’re, like, the part that desperately tries to look cool and edgy and appears like an idiot instead.”

    “Pretty much.” The figure crosses his arms and locks eyes with me. “And we need to talk.”

    “Oh God, no!” I press a hand against my chest. “Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me!”

    Silence.

    The figure blinks. “What.”

    “Please don’t break up with me! I can change!”

    “What the everloving fuck are you talking about.”

    “I still love you, Edgy Aragón!” I grab my clone by the neck of his shirt and get my face as close to his as possible. “We can sort this out!”

    “Argh!” The figure pushes me away and turns around, coughing. “Aaaargh! Christ on a bike, man! Don’t get that close to me!”

    “Woah, hey.” I frown. “That’s not a nice react---wait. Bad breath?”

    “Bad breath doesn’t even start to describe it!” he says, still coughing. “What the shit, dude?! What did you eat, a goat’s asshole?!”

    “Uuuh.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Sorry. Y’see, I tried to give some spare change to a hobo I found in the street but I accidentally ended up giving him a blowjob instead.”

    WHAT?!

    “Look, I’m not good at random acts of kindness, okay?”

    YOU’RE FUCKING SICK!

    I make a pout. “Is that the reason you’re breaking up with me?”

    “I’M NOT BREAKING UP WITH YOU, YOU EEJIT!”

    “Oh.” I blink. “Oh. Okay, that’s pretty good. Amazingly good, actually.” I eye him a little harder. “Because, not gonna lie here – you’re pretty hot.”

    “YOU FUCKING COCKWI---what.”

    “I mean, I’d tap that.” I cock my head to the side and look at his butt. “I’d totally tap that. Say, are you free this Friday, by any chance?”

    Silence.

    ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!

    “Look, we both know you know it.” I shrug. “Why fumble around when we can go straight to the point?”

    “I DON’T WANT FUCKING ANYTHING WITH YOU!”

    “What?” I frown. “Weren’t you, like, a part of me? That means you share my thoughts.” I look at his butt again. “And my buttcheeks. You also share my buttcheeks. I love my buttcheeks. Which means you also love them.” I raise my eyes to his face and wiggle my eyebrows. “Right?”

    Silence.

    The figure squints. “Shit,” he says.


    Twenty minutes later, we walk out of the bedroom with ruffled hair and more sweaty than before. “Well,” I say,  stretching my arms, “that was surprisingly disappointing!”

    “I can’t believe I just did this,” the figure mutters, not looking at me.

    “I mean, if this is how I am in bed, no wonders all my hookups leave the country after sleeping with me!”

    “I seriously can’t believe I fucked up my holy mission this badly.”

    “Like, do I always cry this much?” I look at the figure. “Because after a point it got pretty annoying.”

    “This was supposed to make you realize the error of your ways,” the figure continues. “You were going to become a better person after this. Instead, we just spent twenty minutes having the worst sex of my metaphorical life.”

    “Oh yeah! That’s how it rolls with this guy!” I say, grinning and pointing at myself. “Surprises everywhere!”

    Poof! Poof!

    Two red figures appear in front of us. “We need to talk,” they say, talking at the same time.

    “Argh!” I take a step backwards.  Then I notice they’re also identical to me. “What the hell?! What are you two supposed to represent?!”

    “Your lust and inner demons,” they reply.

    “What?” I frown. “How many of those I have, exactly?”

    “No, no. You don’t get it,” the figure on the left says. Then he points at the Edgy Aragón I just fucked. “I’m his.”

    Silence. The Edgy Aragón’s jaw almost hits the floor.

    I blink and scratch my back again. “Really? My inner demons have inner demons on their own? Man, I have issues.”


    Also wooo the Royal Guard featured Today Is A Good Day to Die, I'm on a roll!

    20 comments · 262 views
  • 18w, 12h
    "Very Special Somepony" Sounds A Little Dumb

    ”Twilight…” Pinkie swallowed her heart beatings so fast she could hardly hear herself. Her legs were trembling a little. She felt cold. “Would you…?”

    “Yes?” Twilight asked, her voice soft as a puppy among towels. “Pinkie?”

    “Would you…” Pinkie shook her head, and finally managed to make eye contact with Twilight. “Would you be my special somepony?”

    My God, that last line is bullshit. I’m not the only one who thinks that, right? As in, dear fucking hell, people – that’s just wrong.

    I’m used to every single ponyism out there, except for this one. I get why the show couldn’t use “Valentine” in this context, but… Look, “very special somepony” makes everypony sound like they’re seven years old. Yes, I’m aware that I used “everypony” unironically in that last sentence, thus making myself sound like a seven years old. To that, I say shut the hell up.

    And seriously, we need some other way to say “would you be my valentine?” because right now every single fic that tries to pull that fucking “very special somepony” stuff out ends up being either corny or ridiculous. Literally anything is better. Here, let me try:

    ”Twilight.” Pinkie grabbed Twilight’s tail and gave it a gentle pull, causing her friend to stop and turn towards her. “I have something to ask you.”

    Twilight blinked. “You…” She looked at the calendar, and smiled. “You do, huh?”

    “Yes.” Pinkie smiled back, and took a deep breath. “Twilight Sparkle…”

    “Yes?”

    “Twilight Sparkle…!”

    “Yes?!”

    “TWILIGHT SPARKLE…!”

    “YES?!”

    WILL YOU BE MY LIL’ FUCKNUGGET?

    FUCK YES I’LL BE YOUR LIL’ FUCKNUGGET!

    “GOOD, LET’S PLAY ROCK ‘N ROLL WITH THIS ELECTRIC GUITAR I PULLED OUT OF MY ASS!”

    “FUCK YES TO THAT TOO!”

    Then the door of the library opened, only to show Spike behind it. “OH MY SHIT, TWILIGHT!” he screamed, “THE ENTIRE FUCKING TOWN IS ON FUCKING FIRE!”

    “I DECLARE MYSELF UTTERLY FLABBERGASTED BY THAT INFORMATION!” Twilight replied. “IS IT BAD?!”

    “WHAT THE EVERLOVING SHITASS ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, IT’S CHILD-FUCKINGLY AWESOME! THERE’S FIRE AND LAVA EVERYWHERE!”

    “OH MY BOWELS!” Pinkie screamed. “LET’S GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY ROCK WITH THIS OTHER GUITAR I PULLED OUT OF MY ASS!”

    “THAT SOUNDS CUNTASTIC, PINKIE!” Twilight roared.

    “EVERYPONY IS DYING BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER BECAUSE IT’S SO METAL!” Spike ululated.

    “I CAN TALK FOR SOME REASON!” Owlowiscious yammalammadingdonged.

    “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!”

    “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!”

    YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!”

    Man. This is how all love scenes should go. I would so read a romance fic that played like that.




    Also, hey, I got reviewed by the Seattles Angels! And this blog post has probably alienated all the new followers I got because of that, huh. Eh. Clickitty here.

    26 comments · 373 views
  • 18w, 3d
    Sometimes Life is Just Hard

    Y'know, I consider myself pretty well-versed when it comes to English. Sure, I can't rhyme for fuck, and sure, it's been three years and I still can't pronounce the word 'schedule' correctly, and sure, my accent is probably pretty funny. But I can talk in English with little to zero trouble, and me grammar is well. Usually. Now and then I fuck up, but, you know. Normal stuff.

    But then, shit like this happens. You wake up, believe it's just going to be another day, and then you turn on your computer and surf the internet. And it hits you. It fucking hits you.

    There's this thing about learning a language by yourself -- you're kind of forced to talk like the comics/books you read. Or the shows you watch. This implies I can talk a lot about friendship but very little about finances, for example. And this also means that now and then, a word I thought was legal and perfectly normal in everyday English turns out to be something not only absolutely wrong, but MOTHERFUCKING "STAR WARS-PREQUELS" WRONG. STAR WARS PREQUELS, PEOPLE.

    WHY THE FUCK DID NOBODY TELL ME THAT THE WORD "YOUNGLINGS" WAS MADE UP BY GEORGE LUCAS. WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK, PEOPLE. I'VE BEEN USING THAT WORD FOR GOD KNOWS HOW LONG AND NOW IT TURNS OUT I WAS QUOTING MOTHERFUCKING OBI-WAN KENOBI.

    EVERYBODY WILL THINK I'M AN IDIOT.

    GOD FRIGGING DAMMIT.

    I SERIOUSLY BELIEVED THAT WAS AN ABSOLUTELY NORMAL WORD AND TURNS OUT I WAS TALKING SPACEWANKIAN FOR "CHILDREN" LIKE THE BIGGEST DORK THAT EVER WALKED THE PLANET.

    I'VE USED THAT WORD IN FORMAL ESSAYS.

    GOD FUCKING DAMMIT PISS ON A SANDWICH, I'M SO ANGRY AT MYSELF RIGHT NOW I'M A FUCKING IDIOT.

    32 comments · 311 views
Apr
27th
2013

Well, for some reason it's just not advancing the approval queue. It's been there for more than 48 hours now, so... Huh. It's not being denied, it's just that it hasn't been seen yet.

So, eh, I'm going to post the link here, just in case someone wants to, you know, read it. It should go up someday, but till then, I don't want the few readers I have to wait too much.

So, here you go!

LINK TO THE STORY

Aragon · 67 views · Report
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