Art by MeddygonThere is a fine line \ Between genius and madness. \ It is called timing.

I feel so lazy.

Schroe 12/12/2003 8:06:46

So, how’s it going?

TheNintenGenius 12/13/2003 2:27:45

Death. All is death. Death death death. Dying death dead death. Death die. Deat-

Oh fine, things are going OK. Nothing ever happens here, let’s face it. It’s boring. You’d expect at least a triple homicide or two to liven things up, but NOOOO, things are progressing normally. I hate it when business is slow.

I should go to Iraq, man. They need angels of darkness like myself over there right now, I know it! Then I can reap some souls and get things over with before Christmas.

Canjo Rarebear 12/12/2003 22:11:47

It’s going terribly. On the bus ride on the way home today they were playing “Feliz Navidad” on the radio and, as ALWAYS when I hear it, which is EVERY DAY, it got stuck in my head.

I hereby propose a measure whereby any radio stations found to be playing that song are to be foreclosed upon, and all employees thereof executed by guillotine.

HappyBob 12/13/2003 5:29:10

Oh, it’s easy for YOU to say, but somewhere out there, while you’re eating your caviar, driving your fast cars and posting on your internet forums, an African child is doing something.

Think about it.

Stychard 12/13/2003 13:51:37

About as smoothly as Blizzard’s attempts to get hacking off of B.net. Yeah, THAT smoothly.

Canard 12/13/2003 17:04:55

It was all going well until another car cut Sally off, causing her to swerve off the road and into a tree. She woke up in the hospital several months later. The hospital was dark, and she couldn’t feel the presence of anyone in any other rooms. “Hello?” she muttered under her breath.

At that moment there was a sudden, startling rumbling noise coming from outside. A tree branch thrust itself through the window and grabbed Sally by the neck.

“Why did you run into me?” the tree said in a deep voice.

“It wasn’t my fault! Someone cut me off! Let me go!”

“Oh, really? Guess I shouldn’t have destroyed all mankind, then. I only kept you in here so I could have some answers, and then kill you.”

Yup, all the world was going juuust fine.

Schroe
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 07:45:12 GMT

I made a huge mistake. I thought about upgrading from ibv3.0.2 to ibv3.1.2. As you can see, the Cork Board is currently on 3.1.2, but at no small price. While upgrading the Cork Board, the old databases became corrupt, and I had no working ones elsewhere. All the posts were lost. All 14K+ of them.

So it’s gone. The backups that I did have were no good. It’s all gone.

Not like there was much there, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lost what people had given.

The Cork Board celebrated it’s fifth year this year. It went by with no one noticing, and with me not saying a word.

I guess a new start is something I need, though. Now that it’s completely clear of any bugs, any missed images, I should be fine. I should be able to keep this up again.

If I don’t go crazy from everything else first.

So, the first question, which I do not expect to be answered about the board, as it is a Happy Question and must be answered happily (or at least in an entertaining manner) and I will not be happy with compliments or criticism right now – where was …. right, the Q.

How does it look?

Jorenko
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 08:22:35 GMT

    \   |   |  |   \  |   \     \
\____|  \___/  |    \ |    \    |

“Well it’s . . . it’s kind of hard to tell from here.”
“Is it?” squints “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Let’s move in closer.”
“No, we need to be farther away.”
“Further? Are you mad?”
“No, I’ve just got a hunch.”
“Fine, let’s just go.”

“Far enough now?”
“I think so.” turns around “Yeah, that’s good.”

SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE

2049something2
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 11:05:28 GMT

I think I can get used to that…

*dies*

Stychard
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 14:20:22 GMT

My eyes!!!! MY EYES!!!!11!11!11!!1

TheNintenGenius
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 14:51:50 GMT

“The appearance of the male of the species often differs quite substantially from the female of the species. The growth of hair around the lips and on the chin signifies some o-“

“Oh knock it off! I meant the clothes. How do THEY look?”

“Human beings are known for creating a wide variety of garments with which to protect their bodies from the elements. Over time, these garments have changed substantially as technology has impro-“

“KNOCK IT OFF. Have you been watching old BBC documentaries or something? Speak normally, would you?”

“The human is, of course, a very vocal beast. It is unknown as to when humans created language, but it has led many scientists to believe that it is this formation of language that tied into the humans’ development of the self. Thi-“

“You’re fucking hopeless.”

Canjo Rarebear
Thu, 11 Dec 2003 23:36:22 GMT

I have completely arbitrarily decided to tack my last name onto the user name.

Okay. None of the recent stories I’ve produced for Creative Writing have been funny stories. Not that I think they have to be funny to post here. But I haven’t felt that magical feeling…oh, screw magical feelings. It’s a happy story.

Opening Word….

Okay this is taking an aeon….

I wrote this story after producing a massive research report about Yugoslavia under Communism. It was floating around in my head. Also, I was cursed by Yugoslavia for that week, and this was an attempt to exorcise the curse.

The Story of Marija, Obra, and Aleksandar

In 1942 the Communist Party of Yugoslavia began publication of the periodical “Slobodni dom,” or “Free Home,” in Croatia to encourage national unity in Yugoslavia and support for the Popular Front. The periodical was full of parables, axioms, stories, etc. to serve its purpose. This is one of those stories.

Marija Hrvatsko is a Croat. What do you think about her now? I’m sure you think she’s going to be the hero of this story. But maybe she won’t be. Marija lives in the countryside with her family; she is the grandmother of eighteen children, and she lives with them on their family farm up in Croatia. But you knew that already, right? But are you sure? What would you have thought if I told you she lived in Bosnia, Slovenia, Serbia, or Hercegovina? How about Vojvodina or Kosovo? Think about it. Now, Marija loves talking to her grandchildren and telling them all sorts of things, even the sons and daughters of not just her firstborn but her second-born, third-born, fourth-born, and fifth-born. She teaches them all, unlike the custom, because she knows the best way to teach them for them to grow up as good, peaceful, happy people. This is the story of how she found out.

Marija is certainly hard worker in her old age, but she didn’t used to be. She used to complain and fiddle with her black dress and have her brothers do all the work, and later when she moved away from her brothers, she made her sons and daughters to work extra since she didn’t, and even more after her husband died. Since the Hrvatsko family was lucky to have extra-fertile soil between mountain peaks, they never had problems selling enough even though Marija was lazy. On the contrary, they sold more turnips than even the Markovic family, which owned such a huge estate that every other estate in the village of Bag bordered on one of its sides.

Now, Marija’s first son was named Pavle, her second was named Aleksa, and her third was named Petar. She also had two daughters, Pavla and Bagska. Every month for years right after her husband died she would go down to market with some money she found around the house and buy turnip seeds and make all of them sow them and harvest them, planting a new set of seeds each month on each field so that a new harvest came each month. I bet you think Marija’s clever like that because she’s a Croat, right? Well, one of her best friends is a Slovene, and she got the idea from her. That Slovene is named Obra, and she doesn’t look dirty at all. In fact, she washes her face every day and even brushes her teeth—more than Marija can claim to do, I’m afraid. Obra hasn’t got any children because she thinks she’s more useful without having a bunch of little mouths to feed, even though you probably thought she had about seven million children because that’s what you thought all Slovenes were like. Now you know otherwise, see?

Obra is also a member of the Communist Party, a leading member of a democratic coalition seeking the national liberation and unification of all Yugoslavia. She’s taken that idea to heart, and she’s had that idea since she was very small. So she was a communist when she first met Marija in Bag. Even then she was so committed to the ideals of the Party that she didn’t even think of herself as a Slovene, but [imparsable] as a Yugoslav, because the national differences in were and still are only backwards remnants of feudalism. Obviously, she knew that, and she tried to tell everyone she knew, as she still does today. That’s how Marija and Obra met, in fact.

“Hello!” said Marija one day, before the birth of her last son Petar. “I haven’t seen you around! Who are you?” she asked Obra.

Said Obra: “Obra, and you?”

“Marija,” replied Marija, noticing Obra’s strong Slovene accent. Marija was confused then, because Obra didn’t look like a Slovene at all, nor did she smell like garlic like all Slovenes do. Of course, we know all Slovenes don’t smell like garlic, but Marija thought that because she was ignorant. Did you think that? I’m sure you didn’t. We’ve come so far from the days when this story I’m telling happened; it was almost 20 years ago! So Marija asked, “Are you from around here?”

“Why does it matter?” asked Obra, “I’m a South Slav, and so are you. There are only regional differences between us, and we all have the same historical roots. Why does it matter, I ask again?”

Marija was quite stumped. She had never seen this attitude before, and it confused her. But Obra and Marija kept on talking, and they became friends. Eventually Obra told Marija about how to use her fields to grow as many turnips as possible, and for a while Obra even worked on the fields with Marija’s offspring.

Sometimes Obra talked to Marija’s family over dinner about her Communist ideas, and Obra found a lot of time to play with Petar when he was only as tall as a milk bottle. But Obra found that Marija’s family wasn’t very strong.

“Marija, why is it that Pavle and Aleksa never talk, and rather stand with their backs to each other and their arms crossed? They are brothers, can’t you see? Shouldn’t they work in harmony, and couldn’t they triple the turnip harvest if they worked together?”

“I don’t know!” said Marija, “it’s just that Pavle and Aleksa slept on different beds, I guess. I know the other kids don’t do that, because not doing it is a Croat custom of ours. Are you saying I should be more traditional?”

“By no means, my sister!” declared Obra, “you should not just follow tradition, but you should think about what you do. In an address at the second party congress that I attended, Comrade Rankovic told us about that in his stirring address in Novi Sad at the Second Party Congress. We should think about what we do and decide for the best ourselves. That’s why I joined the Communists. Don’t you think that’s the best choice of affiliation? But to the matter at hand: couldn’t you see raising them apart would cause differences? Of course, they are small differences, and only really in Pavle and Aleksa’s minds. And their continued conflict is only harmful.”

For a year Obra even lived in Marija’s house. It was around then that the Markovic family left their mansions and vast wheat fields and the Rankovic family moved in.

Aleksandar Rankovic was a Serb. A Serb, of all people! Now what do you think of him? In that huge estate! Do you think he’s going to try to take over because he’s a Serb? What do you think?

Aleksandar Rankovic had seven children—so much for the idea that Serbs only have two children and eat the rest! What a ridiculous notion that was in the first place. I certainly hope no one today still believes that. Aleksandar was also very kind, and he gave a large portion of his wheat harvest to all his neighbors. Marija didn’t want to accept his wheat, because she thought he had poisoned it.

“Marija, I offer you this wheat of my harvest as a token of friendship; why do you deny it?” asked Aleksandar at Marija’s doorstep one morning. Marija was afraid that Aleksandar had poisoned the wheat out of hate for the Croats, since he was a Serb. But we know Marija was wrong.

“Shut up!” said she, quite rudely I might add, and slammed the door in his face. The next day, he was there again, and the next day, and the next day. Marija started becoming jealous of his large estate, and started forcing her children to work even harder in the turnip fields, until they hardly got any sleep at night. Now then Obra was living with Marija, and she stopped her one day and asked: “Marija, why are you doing this? Comrade Rankovic is a kind man. Is it because he’s a Serb? I thought you were beyond that, Marija. I really did. Are you really so backwards? Don’t you realize that that’s just a mediaeval token left over? Aren’t we out of the feudal times? Marija, what have I taught you?”

Marija was quite ashamed, and she went to the Rankovics’ house the very next day. She stood at the door and knocked on the four corners of the door as the Croat custom was and still is, and Aleksandar answered.

“Oh, hello, Marija! How wonderful to see you,” said he. He looked as if he had just finished shaving, since he had some cuts on his chin, and his blood was red, not green as Marija thought Serb blood was. (You didn’t think that, right?)

“Mr. Rankovic,” began Marija, faltering, worried.

“Don’t be afraid, madam,” said Aleksandar, “I understand your national fear of me, and I pride you in overcoming it. You see, I am a member of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia, and I believe not in nationalities but in one Yugoslav nation, maybe with a few differences between some places. Please do not be afraid. Would you like some of my wheat? I am very generous with it.”

But by now Marija had begun crying. Aleksandar took him into his house, which, although large on the outside, was small and homely on the inside. He sat her down in a wooden chair and patted down the black shawl over her head.

“Now, Marija,” he said, “Don’t you think if you had listened to Obra instead of your silly fears you wouldn’t have this situation? And you would have quite a lot of wheat, too. I know about Obra because she is my friend, although she is a Slovenian and I am a Serb. We are both Yugoslavs and we are both Communists, and nothing more: we are comrades. Don’t you see?” Aleksandar patted her back and offered her some tea he had brought all the way from Macedonia. “It’s like a family. Maybe we slept in different beds, but there still isn’t any difference between us. We’re brothers and sisters. I’ll give you as much wheat as you want, my sister. Listen to Obra and listen to me: we’re bringing this country into a bright, peaceful future.”

Marija went home with a smile through her tears and several armfuls of wheat. Aleksandar followed after her carrying more wheat, and it swished as he walked. When they got home, they found Pavle and Aleksa working together in the field and facing each other, performing three times as much work as before in half the time and not even breaking a sweat because they were working together. Obra was standing outside and she waved to Marija and Aleksandar.

Later that year, Obra had to move away to another village, but she still visited Bag as much as she could. Aleksandar stayed in Bag and his children became town leaders and always made fair decisions, and even though they were Serbs everyone trusted them. Marija herself joined the Communist Party after talking it through with Aleksandar, and Pavle and Aleksa went off to fight in the Partisan Army for the Popular Front against those terrible counterrevolutionary fascists. Today, Pavle and Aleksa are on vacation from fighting in the war and Petar is about to join, and Marija loves teaching her grandchildren about all the things Obra and Aleksandar told her. She knows they’ll turn out fine, even though they sleep in different beds at night.

Translation by R. L. Futrell

Carter
Fri, 12 Dec 2003 00:05:37 GMT

Looks nice! My avatar is the bestest.

This smiley has more eyes than all of you! This post is the best opinion of what things look like!

Canard
Fri, 12 Dec 2003 00:35:03 GMT

I actually like it, a lot

I love the color scheme, and the graphics used are really great, too. It really gives a good idea of what your artwork is like.

It’s just too bad everything else is gone now!!

Second comic with a proper timestamp for its creation. Backdated to the original date it was uploaded. LET’S SEE HOW LONG THIS COMEBACK LASTED!

Pencil doodle includes Happy Bob.

Next >

First comic with a proper timestamp for its creation. Backdated to the original date I attempted to bring Corkies back.

GIS (Google Image Search) again.

Next >

#13 Rantt Ô_õ 12/11

My my mind draws a blank.

#12 Rantt Ô_õ 12/7

J Jorenko (9:59:01 PM): update hatt
J Jorenko (9:59:03 PM): NOW
Schroe Dot Org (9:59:14 PM): …
Schroe Dot Org (9:59:16 PM): ;_;
J Jorenko (9:59:21 PM): NOW

Some russian loser is adding just about everyone he/she can find onto her friends list. She’s at 750 now, up from 643 yesterday. She shares no friends or interests with me, yet she added me. She keeps posting replies to people’s comments in a “spooky” and “mysterious” manner, like a 12 year old in a role-play chat trying to be the cloaked figure in the corner with the dark past.

Watch out for diethylamide, and block her if she ever comments on your journal. If you post a comment on one of her many entries of how much she loves her new friends, you’ll be met with posts from people who’ll whine that it’s not your right to ask to be removed.

This is the third time I’ve had a dream where Jorenko is Neo.

Neo was sent back in time to help something in the 1970s, but he was having trouble. Upon entry into the 1970s, he landed in some telephone wires. He struggled in them, but didn’t die from crossed wires. (I remember saying in the dream how stupid the director was for letting that pass final edit.)

He landed between two old cars as one drove off. The car that drove off contained Mel Gibson and Danny Glover. He was supposed to help them, and he just missed them. He chased after them across the parking lot, but didn’t catch up. He stood at the end of the lot, next to a brick building, and looked shamed.
Read the rest of this entry…

Maria isn’t here, and her bed is made.
Since she is always home when it’s this late, and she never makes her bed unless she’s going home, it’s safe to assume I most likely won’t see her until next week.

Thank god.

28K on Maria*hatey, 216K on Dreams.

Anyway, this is the second time I had a dream about another school, wherin it was both IADT and “The school I was supposed to go to.”

It started with us walking into the offices to discuss financial issues. The offices looked like that of a CEO’s penthouse office – we expected everyone to be rude, but they were very nice.

I don’t know the significance, but Rebecca Sanford was in the dream, and I was complaining that she got to go to this school, and that she wasn’t even an artist. (Rebecca Sanford was the girl I was constantly stuck next to in alphabetical order in school)
Read the rest of this entry…

A half hour ago, Maria came into the room to start getting ready.

Of course, I woke, but I did not get up. I sat in my bed and watched through half-closed eyes as she opened and slammed the closet door without going in.
She left the room.
I turned. If I was going to be forced up because of sound, I didn’t want to be forced because of light.
I listened as she went through some bag, possibly a makeup bag, and rattled the contents.
I listened as she moved the bottles on her desk without hearing her use one.
I then listened for a full thirty seconds or more the crinkling of a plastic water bottle.
She was either trying to wake me up, or she just decided to not care that I was sleeping.

I just got off the phone with Kurt, the landlord of our nice little shithell apartment.

I had called because of Maria.

Just under a week ago, Maria accidentally broke Ashley’s baking stone, an expensive piece of cookware. An honest mistake made while she was cleaning, and a replacement was to be ordered right away. Maria was directed to the website, where it was assumed she’d order it from. She didn’t do it that night, and she left for the weekend, so we don’t even know if she actually ordered it.
Read the rest of this entry…

I hate this class

Interpersonal Communications – Monday 3:15 – Amanda Schroeder

I. What Are Interpersonal Skills?
A. Definition of Interpersonal Skills – The knowledge to successfully conduct interpersonal relations
B. What that means – Being able to get along with and knowing what to say to people, no matter what their personality, background, or culture.

II. Why are Interpersonal Skills important to have? Read the rest of this entry…

Five minute presentation
“Why is it important to apply interpersonal skills in the workplace?
Outline typed
Presentation on Notecards
Visual Aids

I. What Are Interpersonal Skills?
A. Definition of Interpersonal Skills – The knowledge to successfully conduct interpersonal relations
B. What that means – Being able to get along with and knowing what to say to people, no matter what their personality or culture

II. Why are Interpersonal Skills important to have?
A. Keeps a calm and enjoyable home, school, or work environment
B.

III. How can

This is all I’ve gotten done in the past hour and a half, along with a lot of bitching about it –

[13:29] schroe> “Human Relations – Interpersonal Job-Oriented Skills – Seventh Edition”
[13:29] schroe> By Andrew J DuBrin
[13:31] schroe> The only example under “Confrontation and Problem Solving”
[13:31] schroe> You: Mary, there is something bothering me that I would like to discuss with you.
[13:31] schroe> She: Go ahead, I don’t mind listening to other people’s problems.
[13:32] schroe> You: My problem concerns something you are doing that makes it difficult for me to concentrate on my work. When you chew gum you make loud cracking noises that grate on my nerves. It may be my problem, but the noise does bother me.
[13:32] schroe> She: I guess I could stop chewing gum when you’re working next to me. It’s probably just a nervous habit.

The building … it was a mansion, a home …

I found it difficult to navigate. To get to certain floors you had to first go up, then down, then up a flight again. None of the stairwells were straight up or down. The walls of the place were mostly an off-white with wooden doors. The only floors with any real signifigance in this game were three and five. Five was my room, and it contained everything I, whoever I was, owned.

I was a mother – no, a step mother. There were two boys, not mine, but my husband’s. He was there, but I don’t think he was dead. I was constantly in fear when my husband wasn’t home. The boys were not my own, and I was the second wife, and younger than their mother.

I think they felt I was an embarassment to the family. The boys were 18 and 15, or somewhere around there. They never called me mother, except when their father was around or they were saying it sarcastically. They knew that they frightened me, and they’d tease and torment me when my husband was gone.

I was constantly searching the mansion. It was such an interesting piece of architecture, and that’s why I loved it. The boys thought I loved it because it had a secret. If it did, I didn’t care for it. All I wanted to see was every room at least once.

There was something preventing me from this, though. On the fifth floor, which contained my room, there was a locked door the size of a cupboard. I’d drawn up plans of the entire house from what I’d seen, and, if I were correct, this door should lead to the third floor, which I’d yet to see the main room of.

Perhaps it’s a ballroom, I’d think, and he’ll take me dancing . . . I would stand in front of the small brown door and think of all the things that could be behind it.

I closed my eyes and saw the stairs leading down, down to the third floor. Wait! What’s this? The stairs don’t reach the floor, there’s a five foot drop to the floor . . . if you can call it a floor, it’s not yet finished. But they’re working on it! Wonderful. I can see that it’s supposed to be a wooden floor, large, open ceiling – so it is a ballroom! Or a music hall, at least. The windows in front have just been installed . . . yes, there they are putting in the final touches to the beatiful stained glass . . .

I see my husband standing there, along with another woman. They’re admiring the new glass just as I am …

It all happened so fast. I didn’t know how to react. I shrieked as the pane fell from the workman’s hand and onto the woman. So that’s how his wife died . . .

Someone’s calling my name . . . I turn to see the younger of the two boys, the one who knew his mother less and me more. He didn’t love me, but he didn’t not care for me.

Yes, I’m alright, son, just having a bit of a daydream. As I said this, the elder son came, carrying a key. A bit of paper attatched to it was painted with the design of a setting sun.
He handed it to me, and he said, “This key is to the room that our father wished to give to our mother.” He said the final word with bitter hatred and shoved the key into my hand. He guided his younger sibling away, and left me there.

I turned over the key in my hand several times, and finally pressed it into the lock. The stairs were just as beautiful in the vision – the walls were painted in a panning view of a sunset. I looked at the signature on the paintings, and they were by my husband’s first wife. I continued down, and reached the unfinished bottom of the stairs. Everything was left as it was before . . . the floor unfinished, the glass covered . . . there was dim light coming in through one small hole in the window where a pane of coloured glass was missing. It also made the room quite chill. I jumped to the unfinished floor and walked across support beams toward the window.

Her blood was still there.

“This room was her design,” the elder son said, still on the stairs. “In fact, the entire house was. She always had grand designs in her head, and she married my father to be able to afford them. Ten years ago, and I still remember it as if it were yesterday . . .”

“I . . . know what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry you had to see it . . .” In the vision I’d had, there was a young boy next to me.

I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. I looked up again, at the outside of the building.

I walked inside, back to work again. The designs to the headquarts, they had told me, were based on that of a mansion design by the founder’s mother.

Well, that explains why the third floor isn’t finished.

I’ve never felt so off the norm in my life. I don’t know what it is.

It’s been seven months since I’ve moved to Chicago. I’ve been fine with the distance . . . maybe it’s the holidays, but the holidays never affected me before.

I find myself crying a lot. This isn’t something I normally do. I miss Jorenko, I miss my family, I miss my cat … I’ve never really cried about it until now.

I call Jorenko just to hear his voice. I don’t care what he talks about, just as long as he talks.

Love is the most amazing thing. It’s making me cry even though I’m still in it.

HOORAY! Spent the evening with Q.

We started out meeting downtown – she was supposed to be at the Virgin Megastore waiting for me, but she wasn’t. No biggie, we met up next to WGN and walked to the AMC theatre on Illinois.

We get in line, and they won’t take sodding credit cards. Bugger that, we went to the ABOs to get tickets. We wanted to see Harry Potter, but, unfortunately, the next showing was 1.75 hours away. Neither of us wanted to wait, so we went to the next showing of Die Another Day, which was in 10 minutes.

Whooosh! Prieviews. Whoosh! Movie! They should pay their dialogue writers a fuckload. Q is now addicted to James Bond.

The comes the Virgin Megastore. Q bought the DAD soundtrack, as well as Tomorrow Never Dies on DVD and some other stuff I wasn’t paying attention to :P

I snagged Daft Punk – Discovery.

We stopped at a starbucks and I filled out an application. The coffee upset my stomach, though.

Then we went to a Thai place and had some bubble tea and din din … and the best crab rangoon in existance.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH! We were so hyper and giddy after the movie.

She just keeps fucking talking and talking and talking and not saying anything …

She even attempts to mimic people and gets the meaning of a statement completely wrong…

I really hate it when people defend their stance in an argument with the idea that “I’m older therefore I know more.”

I plugged in the hand vac and the charger about 10 minutes ago. It’s spent very little of that time on the charger.

And maria wonders why it keeps dying on her.

She though she broke it at first, and started defending herself by insulting the product.

Q, we need to hang out more.

“I’ll leave you alone with your detachable penis.”

She was refering to my music. I laughed, then she said, “It sounds like a strap on or something.”

Hooray for Maria actually making me smile for once.

I was on the red team.

“The Red Team has lost,” the blue team leader called out to his crew. Bullshit, I’m still here, so we’ve certainly not lost. Besides, Sandra’s carrying out the other part of the plan. Just so long as she doesn’t get her arse caught – aw, Christ, there she is. She’s dressed in a blue and black uniform, trying to fit in with the blue team.

“Er, hey guys,” she says, waving. She puts her gun on the ground and then places her hands high in the air. The blue team takes her gun and sits her next to me. I give her the most hurtful look of dissapointment that I could muster. I want her to hate herself for her mistake.

“We still could have won,” I say to her, “He was bluffing. How many times have I told you to never give up?” I place my emphasis on the last three words. The simulation around us fades and the instructor’s voice is heard, stating that the simulation is over due to trainee simulated death, and the next capture the flag simulation will be starting shortly.

We take our positions as the holographic world forms around us. A bell rings to signify the start of the game, and I send Sandra off to capture the blue team’s flag. I stay and guard our flag. While she’s out collecting ammo instead of completing the object of the game, I’m swarmed by blue team sims and taken out.

Sandra returns to share some ammo and guns with me, speaking before looking in my direction. “I grabbed you a few… Oh dear,” she says, and the items she had in her hand cluttered to the floor. I don’t know if the color left her face because she’s staring at her dead partner, or because she knows it’s only simulated death, and she still has to face me when I come to. While she’s fretting over what to do next, a blue team member shoots her, and the simulation ends again.

I get up from the floor without a word. I say nothing to her as the simulation starts again.. The truth is, I’m embarassed about being taken by surprise, but Sandra thinks I’m pissed at her. Once the buzzer rings again, I say to her, “Stay and guard the flag.”

“There’s weapons right down there, can’t I go get some m-”

“No.”

“Will you at least go get them? You can get a pair o-”

“No.” I leave, exiting into the hall opposite the direction toward the enemy flag. I rush down some stairs, picking up various weapons on the way. I hear the blue team soldiers coming my way just as I pick up a RCP120. There was enough ammo back here to power its cloaking device and allow me to fire at them. The soldiers are modelled after real members of the armed forces to which I belonged, so one of the people I’m shooting at looks like Jorenko. This doesn’t stop me, because that would go against the code of conduct.

Sandra hears the shooting and panics. She calls out for me, partly to see if I’m alive, partly to see if I’ll come back and protect her.

The vision breaks. I look in my hands to see a water pistol, and the simulated area is now a subway station.

Sandra calls for me again, and I look. She bounds up next to me and asks, “Amanda, are you alright?” I look around me and see no threatening figures, other than the man with a rather wet face. He walks off, slightly peeved at having been shot with a water pistol.

A voice in my head speaks, “There are no wars, Amanda.”

I respond, “Then why was I trained?”