Stop The Madness

Of my sucky titles.

I’ve already gone and plunked in a few pages of the new short story, brilliantly titled, for the moment, Serial Jen, because it’s about a serial killer and it has Jen in it. In the future, one thing all literary critics will agree on is that Wayne Santos couldn’t come up with a decent title if you put a pen in his hand, directed him to a large, 100 foot glowing sign that says, “Your title is War And Peace, copy that down exactly” and told him to follow the directions. He’d still end up calling it Fight Book.

I think I’ll just pay someone to come up with titles for my stories. I’m totally hopeless.

In other news, nearly 12 hours after the pathetic love offering was put on the altar, it was finally noticed. The couch has been officially barred as sleeping destination today.

I did however manage to take a good, tedious chunk outta’ the concept proposal/treatment that is supposed to be written for Nadya. The only bit left is the outright lying where I describe what the show is supposed to look/feel like (IE, “treatment”) and gloss over the fact that there will be power black outs, leftist chefs that push their theories of Marxist cooking, and small dogs that like to go wee-wee on the chicken breast. It’s all about the glamour, folks…

Also of note is wondering why Nadya is so excited about this project that she would SMS me to discuss it a little roughly around the hour of midnight on Valentine’s day. There could be much speculation about this, but I prefer to think she was just bored, since I’m no egomaniac, and she doesn’t seem like the sort that would find me terribly amusing anyhow. Her idea of a good time is a wild adventure with the beautiful people in some urban fantasy of glitter and luxury. My idea of a good time is sneaking up behind people in Mark Of Kri so I can grab them by the neck and repeatedly bash their heads against a stone column until said head falls off in a satisfying, wet “plop.” This is not the ideal match for even a casual friendship.

Have now been officially awake for over 31 hours. At some point, sleep will throttle me like a studious serial killer, and I will have the privilige of playing Dead Or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball, the X-Box polygonal extravaganza that is all about realistic physics on bouncing breasts. I have already been informed that the game designers thought of everything; it is possible to play the game with only one hand. It was inevitable, ergonomic masturbation had to be on someone’s agenda…

I have also been told that the Deep and Involving Gameplay is so engaging that players will jerk and spasm when a ball is spiked towards them. My only reply to this upon hearing it was, “I hope that’s the only reason you’re jerking and spasming when you play that game.”

Someone will now probably want to kill me when he reads this and brings the game over later, but then if I can’t drop little gems like that upon the public, why bother calling myself a writer? It’s all about the versimilitude, man. The realness. The raw, genuine exchanges that happen between guys that talk about CG babes, in real time, with zoom and camera rotation functions.

I think the biggest irony of all is that when I first heard of this game, I wanted it immediately. Most serious gamers I know laughed at me. In a twist of fate, said serious gamers were the first ones out the gate to get their mitts on it when it was available in Singapore, so I feel gooshily vindicated, though I won’t be playing it one-handed.