She actually rolls Necron. She’s infiltrating.

This Halloween, Lex and I are getting married. At an arcade. The biggest arcade. You can read about it here.

If you wonder why this might be happening – the marriage – please review the photo above. Again. Yes. Yes, that’s right. Look. Looooook.

GAZE UPON IT.

Finnish monster metal band Lordi has released their latest album, Babez for Breakfast. I’ll give you a few minutes to put your socks back on. I know I just rocked them off.

You back? Good, because you need to look at this album cover:

Babez for Breakfast. Bitches for lunch.

Seriously. Look at that. That is metal. I don’t care whether or not you like Lordi (that’s a damned lie), but you absolutely must admit that the above is practically all of heavy metal distilled into one obscene work. We’re missing a battle axe and bat wings, but MR. LORDI WILL OBLIGE YOU IN THIS RESPECT!

Read On

During lunch conversation yesterday I told CLAW about an interesting situation that occurred a few days back while Lex and I were tearing the shit out of the Locust horde in the interest of preparation for GOW2.

Somewhere between popping heads and blender-busting boomers we got to talking about Duke Nukem 3D. For a few days I had been, annoyingly, saying “Damn! I’m lookin’ goooooood” in my best (terrible) Duke voice and I think I was saying it every time I blew the face off of some poor slob in aviator goggles – which was a lot. A lot.

So I wanted to show her the first few levels of the good ol’ DN3D. A history lesson in ass kickery, if you will; an example of the refinement of a genre we both enjoy. Also, a suprisingly candid view into my very much younger self.

The game holds up. It’s not UT3 or anything, but it holds. So I’m showing Lex the strippers, showing Lex the toilet secret, showing Lex the dead Doom Marine. She’s totally into this. Almost every turn brought a “Sweet!“, “Dude!” or “This is, like, a 13yr old’s dream!”

Somewhere in there she says, “This is so awesome! Why didn’t they make a sequel to this?”
Read On

October has feigned her fangs and bitten only slightly this year. I am greedy with my desire of her and she seems content to starve me of her breezes and scented caress; the subtle touch of which has wrought the core of me into an unprintable fancy.

So desirous of her crinkled whispers and ardent mystery am I that even to hope for her return devastates. I reel with it upon inhalation and find myself shaking with it when any breath leaves my mouth.

It was only days ago that she was about me; her hungry eyes the sky and her gaping pupils the space between all stars. She was so close as to fill my lungs with her essence and sing to me secrets of her design. I ate of them and begged from her enough cold and dark and discovery to rend those things within me built from summer’s sunder deficient in their ownership of me.

We touched briefly, though for the brevity of it I was sent to stagger; her breeze of chilled kisses held within it those secret breaches set into me at the dawn of my present countenance whose deft application serves to open and dissect me.

As quickly as she had stepped into me, however, she stepped away. All things her domain, she placed her hand about my hopes long enough only to know them to be under her control. Her dearth is all that I can know without a press of effort and my soul bears the searing mark of the torture it is for me to spend even a moment now outside of her influence.

It is unnatural for her to be away from me right now. Those things that have shaped and moved me scream this into fact with each uttered iteration. I ache with the sort of dull immersion one might know if bereft of the blood of his veins and his own heart to move it.

I fear with every part of me that she will not return; that our twisting stone will fracture a subjugate figuration before I can even pose a hope to know her proximity and that even this may be untrue for my desires.

Into the night I shudder; only artifice can supplement my greed of her. Machines pipe for me the cold, a waxen wick her scent and a fettered melancholy the only factor I may rely upon to remind me that when she is near the entirety of my world is festooned with her stunning demeanor. At times I fear that she may become the only thing that I am capable of realizing with any magnitude.

It is in these times that I cower. It is in these times that I slip into a soft paralysis and insist to breathe, then out, until my fingertips tingle.

I mean, come on; 78 degrees? It was, like, 50 last week! I thought it was fucking hoodie time!!!

The Halloween party went well. Nothing exploded, no children died and, honestly, nothing really that exciting happened. Kids came in, screamed like candy-stuffed fire engine sirens, grabbed more candy, drank/spilled the punch and left. All and all, kind of a let down, really. I’d have preferred something outlandish, no matter the alignment, to have happened. It was Halloween. Something magical in that has been lost since I was a child.

All hollows eve was spent carving pumpkins, listening to the original radio broadcast of War of the Worlds and watching Hellraiser.

In a shocking coincidence, today is also the day I found out that Scott, my co-worker, has become violently ill – much in the same manner as I had become not a week ago.

For the sake of my friendship, I claim coincidence. For the sake of biology, however, I must bow to the natural order of things and admit that, were I an alien species attacking this planet and using this planet’s dead for Martian fertilizer, I would likely be now – just about now – responsible for the death of my entire invasion force.

Achoo.