darknation

So, I've noticed that most of my prediction threads have been Helled, and each one quicker than the previous, usually after someone makes an inappropriate remark that has nothing to do with thread. That's fine, I guess, and if my predictive discussions are unwanted, then okay, I get the hint. But what's the deal? I don't mention anything criminal, inappropriate, risque or trollish in these posts. I base my predictions on years of research (and in fact can find examples of pretty much everything on Google) and state that they are simply thought experiments, rather than absolutes. What typically seems to happen is that any potential for interesting discussion gets derailed by someone calling me insane, accusing me of being drugged up (which is not the case when I express these ideas), or otherwise insulting me. With this latest thread drop, I was told to "stop making threads." I mean, c'mon, are you telling me that a voxel camera isn't worth discussing? Am I hated or something around here? I have turned the other cheek time and time again, and will continue to do so, but I do not understand the backlash.

There is a squirrel outside my window. Its been out there for a few days. Its giant. Like a small house cat. No its not a raccoon. I've seen what I thought was it jumping down from tree branches, but now I've seen it fall with a bit of dead tree branch with it.

I've caught it on camera, but my Samsung phone isn't good from this distance. It just looks like dark blur.

Whenever I hear a thud, I know its the squirrel. Whenever I see a lighter tree branch suddenly start to shake, there's the squirrel that then bends it down and before it jumps off, it falls off. Then I hear the thud.

So my friend likes to troll Boxing Forums (well, argue on them, anyway). And his current ex wants to get back together with him, but tells him he has to eliminate going on forums. This is a great dilemma in the life of my bud. I don't see him making this level of sacrifice, but we'll see. His last girlfriend; college sweetheart, wanted him to cut back on forums and hang out with her friends and visit with her family and stuff like this, and they broke up over this, so I don't see my bud agreeing to full elimination of going on the forums in order to get back with her (though he has been distraught over both breakups).

How are you gentlemen!

My ex and I split up by mutual agreement without bad feelings. Unfortunately, over the weeks, I came to realise all the things about her that I really missed. She's called me a few times just to talk (not about getting back). But she's got together with someone else.

She tried to hide it from me. She says it was a respectful period after we split but I reckon it must have been pretty soon afterwards. He is her male best friend and she never talked about him with any affection - I once got mad with her over it, as he did a lot for her and she barely noticed - and she described him as "a weird trainspotter".

Why would she hide it from me, and (possibly) pretend it happened later than it did? Why does she keep calling me just to talk about random things? Is she on the rebound, or am I being taken for a mug? Or is this what women do, and she's genuinely treating me as a friend?

So my studies took a rather unexpected diversion this semester.

See, I wanted to take this Fiction class for my last humanities credit. I also needed one more honors-section class to graduate with honors.

Imagine my happiness when I got the honors newsletter saying Fiction would run in an honors section in Spring 2015.

Cool. The letter came at beginning of the Fall 2014 semester, so I dropped my section of Fiction that semester so I could save it for Spring 2015, therefore avoiding a needless honors-section class solely to graduate with honors.

Then 3 weeks into Fall 2014, and 3 weeks after dropping the regular Fiction, I get the update to the newsletter: "Sorry, we changed honors Fiction from 2PM to 11AM." Wonderful, except I've got on-site training that day from 9AM-1PM.

Go through a bunch of hassle, come up with one solution: "Study Abroad."

So I ended up in Paris over spring break.

Got to see the cool stuff, got to see the ghetto stuff, got to be a Dumb American™, got to meet Julian again (nearly 10 years later), got to have real wine, got to eat real bread... (I have to say, France certainly has the French Toast market cornered.)

Got my humanities credit, got my honors credit.

All in all, we had a very French time.

The bathroom I use is connected to my bedroom and my housemate for some infuriating reason has been assigned to my bathroom and I hear his stream loud and clear every time he goes. :(

I take care of a guy with Fragile X syndrome (basically a very low functioning person with bad autism). I live in his house with others taking care of him and a family who are in charge of his well being and manage us employees. The job pays minimum wage but the perks are living in a nice neighborhood for $140/mo with all utilities and heat included (the house is valued at 3.2 million dollars). The annoying thing is I am working over 40 hours a week, so I am not maximizing the situation (which would be to work 18 hours a week and get another decent paying job). I tried to encourage the new guy to use the other bathroom down the hall, but for some reason I just heard him go again. :( I will have to talk to him again.

Hello, people of Doomworld. I am having a departure from this site because the "InstaDoom" craze. Even though I commented "10/10 Linguica is god - IGN" I was being sarcastic. I will move on to Half-Life mapping, and learning UnrealScript and mapping for Unreal. And also, If that's not enough, I will be mapping for GTA (2D universe). Goodbye.

PS: I will be on EE from time to time.

so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.

Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.

People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.

The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.

This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.

Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.

Oh dear.

The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.

Phone the fucking ambulance.

darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.

That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.

I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.

Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.

Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.

How have the last 4-5 years been?

so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.

Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.

People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.

The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.

This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.

Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.

Oh dear.

The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.

Phone the fucking ambulance.

darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.

That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.

I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.

Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.

Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.

so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.

Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.

People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.

The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.

This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.

Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.

Oh dear.

The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.

Phone the fucking ambulance.

darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.

That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.

I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.

Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.

Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.

yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.

It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.

I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.



Also related;

yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.

It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.

I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.



Also related;

yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.

It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.

I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.



Also related;

Trying to learn Blender is a little bit like sticking your brain in a blender.

If only I still had a copy of 3dsMax 6 or 7 from college.

Ok, playboys of Doomworld, riddle me this one. Put yourselves in the situation:

You're at a seminar in a foreign city (being the international man of mystery that you are), and this reserved, dorky-ish acting chick is all that appears within reach for the week. You spend every waking hour funneling your attention and spare cash into her greedy maw, sharing dessert with her and even walking along the beach at sunset showing off your superhuman skillz at rock skipping.

Alas, it is all for naught. Not even getting her drunk has helped you get into her pants, and you begin to wonder if you've been friendzoned like a gay boy friend, or if she simply doesn't have sex. You return to your apartment by train, cry into your penis, and say goodnight. Then, the next morning, out of the blue, she wants to have extended conversations on Facebook! What's more, she adds flirty lines to her sentences for no reason and totally says heyy, ha, and :).

So I ask you, Doomworld, DOES SHE WANT THE D?

A small poem:

Eyebrows in the net
a boat where you are
mist rise ahead

A small poem:

Eyebrows in the net
a boat where you are
mist rise ahead

A small poem:

Eyebrows in the net
a boat where you are
mist rise ahead

What is this influx of new users doing nothing but asking pointless questions (IE Piper Maru) as of late? I understand technical questions such as the BFG Edition difference but it can get ridiculous.

2014 has been considered a fresh start for me. New career, new hobbies, and new goals. I really don't have much to say. In fact, I barely say anything anymore. I've always been quiet even during childhood and in fact some even said that I might have aspergers (which probably explains my social anxiety as well). Whatever issues I may have, I've learned to accept it and be who I am instead of pretending just to impress others.

And here's something that caught me completely off-guard, I've been asked to answer a few questions for a gaming article. Basically I talk about my hobbies, Doom, and more Doom. You can read about it here.

I think I'd truly regret calling this an announcement of my official retirement from Doom mapping, but I think I may be coming to the conclusion that it's time to quit kidding myself.

With certain circumstances in my life sucking up my time and negating my ability to pursue Doom mapping as a legitimate hobby, I've been balancing a weight on my shoulders with rather small unfinished projects that I'm struggling to bring to completion. Things are moving at a glacial pace and my future only looks to incorporate more extra-curricular activities in my daily routine, making my absolute favorite pastime look more and more like something that's only fit to be put in the attic and left alone as a distant memory.

A few years ago, mapping seemed to flow naturally out of me, which is where the majority of my body of work came from. I began to concentrate on more complex design strategies in order to construct more unique looking and replayable doom levels. Unfortunately this started shortly before I bought a house and got married and such. If the kind of levels I really want to make were a piece of jewelry at the bottom of the swimming pool, my responsibilities are the air-inflated floaties pulling me up to the surface. My wife would be offended if she saw me describing things that way but it's about time to admit that Doom mapping wasn't much more than a timesink to get myself to the point in life that I am at now. Now that I'm living it, there isn't much room to squeeze it back in. There really hasn't been much room this whole time and anything I've released since shows it.

While reverting to my older mapping style would probably be much more productive, I'd still have the reminder that "I can do better than this" lingering over me as I play through them. I think there are enough mappers here who can create similar enough maps. I'm not really interested in being a part of that category of mappers.

But anyway, it hurts my ego every time I come back to mapping after a long unavoidable hiatus with an intention to create a design that I feel has finally manifested in my mind after many weeks. The lack of regular practice with Doombuilder 2 is clear in my attempt to rectify it when the design comes out sloppy and inconsistent. I begrudgingly close the laptop lid and go do something else. If I find myself a career path that pays much better and has an unusual amount of downtime and low-stress, I may be able to get back into the groove and nullify everything this blog stands to declare. Until then, I feel as though the only other appropriate time to get back into mapping is when I retire and wait to pass away.

What does this mean for UAC Ultra 2? Not sure. For a long time I've been epitomizing UU2 as a way to "go out with a bang" and encapsulate as many of my ideas as humanly possible into a single megawad and live the rest of my life comfortably with the satisfaction that I've exhausted as much of my potential as I could into a final product. Then I'd leave everyone in the community with a sick megawad to play in many different styles with hundreds of hours of gameplay depending on how one chooses to play it. I'd also hope it would stand as a model for what I'd like to see more mappers do with their maps. I can't say I'm pulling the plug on it, but the rate of its progress is mirrored by my motivation to complete it without an optimistic partner or small team to share it with. I hope I can garner enough strength to make my ideas come to fruition, but until then, I've put a pin in it until things change.

In the meantime, I have no trouble checking on Doomworld and posting every now and again. I still have an insatiable urge to kill monsters and fortunately, playing the game and all the new wads that come out for it is significantly less taxing than editing it is. At best, I think tabling my mapping career may be excusable in exchange for offering myself as a mentor for any interested mappers (PM me!) or volunteering myself for a rather minor role in a major project. It breaks my heart to tell myself that it's time to call it quits, and I'll fight with every fiber in my body to keep the candle lit, but I just wanted you guys to know where I'm at.

I've pretty much worked for the same company for 15 years. I take side jobs here and there. The side jobs usually last 2 - 3 months. Once upon a time, I worked for a cock of a boss. On a business level I didn't like him, but then after phase 1 of a project was done, we had a company celebration! A night out! Where people brought their wives, girlfriends and fiances.

This fucker of a boss did nothing but harass the employees. When one of the employees went to the bathroom he tried digging up dirt on that employee. He was some emo kid in college that did graphic design, with a gorgeous vet of a fiance. So he harassed the guy asking how did you two meet? Did you find him in your bushes stalking you? Just relentless against this kid.

At dinner, which was pizza at a restaurant, he said something like we have a lot of girls here I bet we can get a free pitcher of beer if one of the girls flashes him. There weren't female employees, these were the wives, co workers, and girlfriends.

After that weekend, which coincidentally I think was 6 years ago to this month. I quit. I didn't need the extra work, especially when I thought it would be a week's worth of work, that turned into 3 months of hell. At least he gave a bonus.

He wanted to sue me for the code to his program that he had me developing. We never agreed on the code, just the program. In fact the contract only specifies the program not the sourcecode.

Turns out I was the 3rd guy... the other 2 guys had left with the sourcecode after he was a dick and they all bailed with the code and leaving money behind.

Anyway, I gave up the code, but the hilarity is I spent the weekend redoing the code.... in a previous language from 5 years earlier, thus making him have to redo the code again or upgrade it.

This fucker 4 years ago dissolved that company and started a new company that does the exact same thing. Why? Because the employees own shares of the first dissolved company. I let that slide, I didn't give a fuck. They never paid out and it was probably never profitable.

It looks like the new company went out of business too. Further proof is that the company domain name points to the college where he instructs.

Now I visit the website and it sends me to a 'college' where he is an instructor. A college about running a successful business. Fucking hilarious.

I am tempted just to show up and tell my past experiences to classmates dealing with him.

Right now, I'm a neurotic mess, and I don't know how to deal with it.
If I go too long (an hour?) without having a nice conversation with someone, I start to freak out.
If I try to play a video game:
- If it's a game I've played before in an attempt to calm myself, I end up stopping playing it because 'why am I wasting my time replaying this game?'
- I get similar results with other games, and reading books.
I've been having panic attacks on a weekly basis.
This all started (reappearing, I've seen these symptoms before) after I started dating this wonderful woman, and my fears are going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy at this rate.

I'm probably not totally alone on this - has anyone found anything helpful for dealing with these sorts of mental issues? I've cut out my caffeine intake.