Post by Benjamin Atreyu on May 8, 2016 16:12:47 GMT -5
Do you actually plan on winning this match? Do you actually plan on winning this tournament? Where was your head last week? Lost in a fugue state where depression and anxiety goes to dwell in waves and impulse.
How smart are you truly, Benjamin? How smart can you truly be if you are still stuck with these impulses?
No. No more internal dialogue. Too much of that lately. Too stuck in your own head. There is a world around you, a world with objective truth. As long as you sit inside your head, you can ignore that truth and excuse your lack of progression, but as you witness the world, with its change of seasons, with its new wrinkles and technology, you cannot ignore its concrete progression juxtaposed against your commiserable lack of development.
Open your eyes.
And thus I did. On the plane into Canada. Remembering where I was a shiver went down my spine. To wake in midair can sometimes be a fright, much like waking in an unfamiliar place, leaving you in a fit of confusion, but now was not such a case. The plane was a reminder. The reminder of something that was worth being frightful over; being forced to deal with the miserable party boy, Dustin Beaver. Dustin being yet another reminder of a stable I had watched with growing ire as they seemed to consume the federation in a wash of antics and shenanigans while deserving parties such as myself suffered under their reign. Oh, what bitter contempt I harvested for their personal follies and mental weaknesses.
Oh, and of course the personal history I have with them doesn't help either.
To walk away after losing to Jared Holmes, I gritted my teeth for weeks, watching him jump up the ladder to leave me hanging from this edge, wondering when I would receiver another shot. Another of many. So many. Almost too many.
However, his participation in Beach Crew was not the only factor I had in my disdain for him. He couldn't have been any farther from me. My antithesis if you will; A faceless body indulging in instant gratification, chasing the empty pleasures of the world to satisfy a growing abyss in his soul. An abyss that only manages to steal more ground over time, assuring that his consumption of such pleasures will have to escalate to continue to fall into the cushioned pocket of complacency. Wine, Women, and Song, the ole hendiatris of the hedonist lifestyle, that is Beaver's world, one that I am far removed from.
And here I am, heading to his world.
I felt the plane float through some mild turbulence. I looked around, a part of me should be shallowly enjoying this first class seat, as so many around me did. That is what society says. I should have been reveling in the simple leisure of my privilege, tasting the fruits of my station in life. That was the point of my money, right? But I sat with a lethargic breath, trying to coax out the feverish hate I felt for the world I walked through week after week.
Maybe this is the difference between Beaver and I. He uses his money to enjoy such things.
And me? What about me? For substance? For meaning? No. I imagine not. Then what?
A question for another time, I imagine.
See, it was true that Beaver was paying me to team with him, but hardly the reason I was in trios. It was merely the deciding factor for whom I would team with. Someone willing to pay was someone who would not take my work for granted. The truth is I was in for the results, the prize. The final pin, the winner among the team of winners, gets a shot at the title. THE title. The one and only belt prescribed to the top fighter in the world. It was my next shot at what I felt was rightfully mine.
This was a waste of time, maybe that was where my sour demeanor bloomed from. With me, with the tactics this company forced me to use. With the sickening sense of compromise and chance I was placed in in order to make my plan come to fruition. It felt like a dastardly trick, something a pathetic cartoonish villain would attempt to manipulate the situation into his favor. 'Join a team to sneak into the tournament, work your way through, and then GET THE PIN!'
That was playing the game though, wasn't it? Trick your way into the best spot possible.
Yes, but that isn't how I, Benjamin Atreyu, play the game. Then what are you doing here? Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin has never won a tournament in WCF, despite multiple entries.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin Has never had a title longer than two months.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin has no business going after the world title.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin will fail every time-
Time passes. The backdrop of the plane melts and I'm at a party. Beaver's party. What an unfortunate place. Beaver hounded me for sitting around and reading "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway. Clearly he doesn't understand the stark emotionality of Hemingway's minimalist prose and deep characterization. Honestly, this might be Hemingway's best work.
Sure, The Old Man and the Sea is a tent pole in literature for being an amazing example of the power of minimalist prose, not to mention a great parable to the nature of desire and ambition, but For Whom the Bell Toll uses the peak precision of Hemingway's humanist story telling abilities. Taking a poignant time in the Spanish Civil war when tensions were-
What is this...a group of drunken fools walking in? Oh, how unfortunate for them. I am in no mood to play.
One of them is saying something. Hey Girly The woman he is talking to just turns away. He scoffs at her. Whatevs, bitch. He continues his prowl. As the stumbling creature and his pack of hapless half-wits cross my path, I smirk, sticking my foot out ever so slighty. I clip his foot, causing him to stumble forward even more so. He is quick to meet my eyes as he regains his composure.
As planned, he takes what seems like an accident and acts like it was on purpose. Never mind that it was, he couldn't have known what I was thinking, had it been an accident, that would have matter very little to his reaction. FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM! Indeed, the fuck is my problem? Heh. Him, I would imagine, but more to the point, drunken stupidity. See, Beaver was a buffoon, but one that at least walked on the road of ambition. These ape-like beings are simply dwellers on the bottom rung. They remain stagnant in their world, drinking and fucking as they keep their lives on an unending plateau. They want nothing but what is easy to grab. They are the people of the low hanging fruit. Easy. Easy. They want easy. They talk about being great, but they love being the worst great or the best worst, never to ascend the mountain to latch to anything worth keeping. At Beaver's worst he is still better than these parasites.
I still hat Beaver though. Don't get it twisted. These people are just worse and they are here. HEY, MOTHERFUCKER! I ASKED WHATS YOUR PROBLEM! In my face? How lovely. He thinks he can scare me. I've stared into oblivion (not Oblivion, just oblivion) and have come out the otherside. I've seen my body bend under the strain of alcohol and addiction, and I've reached through the ceiling to pull myself out. I'm dragged myself through every tough time simply by my fingers, and I've gone to fight some of the best competitors in THE WORLD. A drunken punk with an ego problem doesn't even register. Trying to convince yourself you deserve a shot at a title or do you like to hype yourself up before beating up drunks? Shut up.
"My problem? Oh, nothing, watch where you're going and you'll be fine." Seriously, watch it drunky. Not just here, but in life. A curb is coming and you're about to veer right off of the road. Fuck you, nigga! Just to be clear, he is indeed a white boy.
"Sir, I was standing here, minding my own business-" He takes a swing at me. Funny. Hysterical. I swing back. Even funnier, because mine actually lands. Boom, right on the nose. His nose to be exact. He stumbles backwards into his posse. They look at me like they are about to jump, but their friend is bleeding and wants to go. He's been humiliated point blank, even them attacking me won't fix that.
I watch as they leave, Beaver seems unhappy. I laugh. After a little bit, I go back to reading my book. Pilar is going over the story of her matador lover at the banquet in his honor, and its the part where he begins to spit blood. A truly eerie story, not quite topped by the earlier story of the fascist executions where the wanna-be-matador, is mocked and then sympathized with by his enemies (a truly heart wrenching scene using action and contrast to show the sudden change in an otherwise restless crowd), but it still holds the gravitas in the fact that it shows Pilar as a tragic human being, suffering from one failed romance to another in a culture that prides itself on its machismo.
And as I read, a voice emerges from one side.
Hey there. An attractive blonde...at a Beaver party...uh oh.
"Hello..."
Whatcha readin' Not a good start. Butchering of the english language with lazy speech patterns. Even if she does show interest in what I'm reading, I'm not sure the book itself would truly hold any interest to her.
"For Whom the Bell Tolls," I reply reluctantly.
Is it good? Note to everyone: Don't bother people while they are reading. Its a bullshit move to take the attention off of the book and onto you and you are only going to piss the reader off. If I like the book, I'll want to read more of it, not talk to you. Beyond that, though, its fucking Hemingway you dumb cunt.
"I like it...would like to read more of it," I say
Oh, cool, I'm like totally into books too. Mostly like Young Adult stuff. Yikes. I mean, I love to write too, working on my own fantasy romance story.
A) No, I don't want to talk about you.
B) Shut the fuck up.
"Sure..."
So, I really like quiet reader types...
"No," I interrupt, "You like the idea of a quiet bookish type. You, like so many others, romanticize the idea of someone who is smart enough to like to read, but then is somehow stupid enough to like you. You like a guy who is meek enough that he'd probably cuddle with you by a fire without saying a word, but is well read enough that he can make you feel smart and worth it just by the fact that he chooses you. No, you're not worth it. You're an attention whore. You like the readin type, because you like you more. You like what a relationship says about you. It means you aren't pathetic, even though you are. It means you are bearable, even though you aren't. You hold the world as if it were a mirror of yourself. Thats why you like god awful trash like Young Adult novels, because they show the romance you want, they make you feel you are more interesting than you really are. Girl protagonist is different and unique, girl protagonist fights for what right, because she is brave enough to step away from the pack. Girl protagonist gets the hot guy because he cares about her personality more than her looks, and that makes her feel more special than she already is.
"New flash, you're not interesting. You're not unique. You're not brave. You're just another vapid player in the game unaware of the rules. You love yourself and want others to love you so you can sit in the love, not because you love anyone else, but because you love what their love means for you. For instance, you didn't care that I was reading. You only cared that my reading was a sign of something, and you took that sign into this simple little equation, ignoring what might be politeness, and then deciding to go into for 'the kill', but the problem is that the one thing you thought would work to your advantage is what got you in the end. I read because I'm smart, and I'm smart enough to know I will never give two shits about people like you. The shallow. The dumb. The self important. You are all living in your own little world, pretending it all revolves around you. The difference between me and you is that I know I am simply a domino piece in this world, and I make my observations as such. Can I amount to greatness? Of course, but I do it by actively engaging, not waiting for the world to engage me and tell me I am great just by being around."
Without another word, she storms off. This, too, I watch. There is an added bonus as I watch her walk over to Beaver and slap him hard in the face. This forces him to come over to talk to me. Yelling at me for being a buzz kill or whatever. I remark with some sarcasm and we part once more. Back to Hemingw-
What? Oh, those drunk oafs again...attack Beaver.
Oh, goddamn it...
(Read beavs RP for the conclusion)
How smart are you truly, Benjamin? How smart can you truly be if you are still stuck with these impulses?
No. No more internal dialogue. Too much of that lately. Too stuck in your own head. There is a world around you, a world with objective truth. As long as you sit inside your head, you can ignore that truth and excuse your lack of progression, but as you witness the world, with its change of seasons, with its new wrinkles and technology, you cannot ignore its concrete progression juxtaposed against your commiserable lack of development.
Open your eyes.
And thus I did. On the plane into Canada. Remembering where I was a shiver went down my spine. To wake in midair can sometimes be a fright, much like waking in an unfamiliar place, leaving you in a fit of confusion, but now was not such a case. The plane was a reminder. The reminder of something that was worth being frightful over; being forced to deal with the miserable party boy, Dustin Beaver. Dustin being yet another reminder of a stable I had watched with growing ire as they seemed to consume the federation in a wash of antics and shenanigans while deserving parties such as myself suffered under their reign. Oh, what bitter contempt I harvested for their personal follies and mental weaknesses.
Oh, and of course the personal history I have with them doesn't help either.
To walk away after losing to Jared Holmes, I gritted my teeth for weeks, watching him jump up the ladder to leave me hanging from this edge, wondering when I would receiver another shot. Another of many. So many. Almost too many.
However, his participation in Beach Crew was not the only factor I had in my disdain for him. He couldn't have been any farther from me. My antithesis if you will; A faceless body indulging in instant gratification, chasing the empty pleasures of the world to satisfy a growing abyss in his soul. An abyss that only manages to steal more ground over time, assuring that his consumption of such pleasures will have to escalate to continue to fall into the cushioned pocket of complacency. Wine, Women, and Song, the ole hendiatris of the hedonist lifestyle, that is Beaver's world, one that I am far removed from.
And here I am, heading to his world.
I felt the plane float through some mild turbulence. I looked around, a part of me should be shallowly enjoying this first class seat, as so many around me did. That is what society says. I should have been reveling in the simple leisure of my privilege, tasting the fruits of my station in life. That was the point of my money, right? But I sat with a lethargic breath, trying to coax out the feverish hate I felt for the world I walked through week after week.
Maybe this is the difference between Beaver and I. He uses his money to enjoy such things.
And me? What about me? For substance? For meaning? No. I imagine not. Then what?
A question for another time, I imagine.
See, it was true that Beaver was paying me to team with him, but hardly the reason I was in trios. It was merely the deciding factor for whom I would team with. Someone willing to pay was someone who would not take my work for granted. The truth is I was in for the results, the prize. The final pin, the winner among the team of winners, gets a shot at the title. THE title. The one and only belt prescribed to the top fighter in the world. It was my next shot at what I felt was rightfully mine.
This was a waste of time, maybe that was where my sour demeanor bloomed from. With me, with the tactics this company forced me to use. With the sickening sense of compromise and chance I was placed in in order to make my plan come to fruition. It felt like a dastardly trick, something a pathetic cartoonish villain would attempt to manipulate the situation into his favor. 'Join a team to sneak into the tournament, work your way through, and then GET THE PIN!'
That was playing the game though, wasn't it? Trick your way into the best spot possible.
Yes, but that isn't how I, Benjamin Atreyu, play the game. Then what are you doing here? Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin has never won a tournament in WCF, despite multiple entries.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin Has never had a title longer than two months.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin has no business going after the world title.
Fuck you.
Fact: Benjamin will fail every time-
Time passes. The backdrop of the plane melts and I'm at a party. Beaver's party. What an unfortunate place. Beaver hounded me for sitting around and reading "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway. Clearly he doesn't understand the stark emotionality of Hemingway's minimalist prose and deep characterization. Honestly, this might be Hemingway's best work.
Sure, The Old Man and the Sea is a tent pole in literature for being an amazing example of the power of minimalist prose, not to mention a great parable to the nature of desire and ambition, but For Whom the Bell Toll uses the peak precision of Hemingway's humanist story telling abilities. Taking a poignant time in the Spanish Civil war when tensions were-
What is this...a group of drunken fools walking in? Oh, how unfortunate for them. I am in no mood to play.
One of them is saying something. Hey Girly The woman he is talking to just turns away. He scoffs at her. Whatevs, bitch. He continues his prowl. As the stumbling creature and his pack of hapless half-wits cross my path, I smirk, sticking my foot out ever so slighty. I clip his foot, causing him to stumble forward even more so. He is quick to meet my eyes as he regains his composure.
As planned, he takes what seems like an accident and acts like it was on purpose. Never mind that it was, he couldn't have known what I was thinking, had it been an accident, that would have matter very little to his reaction. FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM! Indeed, the fuck is my problem? Heh. Him, I would imagine, but more to the point, drunken stupidity. See, Beaver was a buffoon, but one that at least walked on the road of ambition. These ape-like beings are simply dwellers on the bottom rung. They remain stagnant in their world, drinking and fucking as they keep their lives on an unending plateau. They want nothing but what is easy to grab. They are the people of the low hanging fruit. Easy. Easy. They want easy. They talk about being great, but they love being the worst great or the best worst, never to ascend the mountain to latch to anything worth keeping. At Beaver's worst he is still better than these parasites.
I still hat Beaver though. Don't get it twisted. These people are just worse and they are here. HEY, MOTHERFUCKER! I ASKED WHATS YOUR PROBLEM! In my face? How lovely. He thinks he can scare me. I've stared into oblivion (not Oblivion, just oblivion) and have come out the otherside. I've seen my body bend under the strain of alcohol and addiction, and I've reached through the ceiling to pull myself out. I'm dragged myself through every tough time simply by my fingers, and I've gone to fight some of the best competitors in THE WORLD. A drunken punk with an ego problem doesn't even register. Trying to convince yourself you deserve a shot at a title or do you like to hype yourself up before beating up drunks? Shut up.
"My problem? Oh, nothing, watch where you're going and you'll be fine." Seriously, watch it drunky. Not just here, but in life. A curb is coming and you're about to veer right off of the road. Fuck you, nigga! Just to be clear, he is indeed a white boy.
"Sir, I was standing here, minding my own business-" He takes a swing at me. Funny. Hysterical. I swing back. Even funnier, because mine actually lands. Boom, right on the nose. His nose to be exact. He stumbles backwards into his posse. They look at me like they are about to jump, but their friend is bleeding and wants to go. He's been humiliated point blank, even them attacking me won't fix that.
I watch as they leave, Beaver seems unhappy. I laugh. After a little bit, I go back to reading my book. Pilar is going over the story of her matador lover at the banquet in his honor, and its the part where he begins to spit blood. A truly eerie story, not quite topped by the earlier story of the fascist executions where the wanna-be-matador, is mocked and then sympathized with by his enemies (a truly heart wrenching scene using action and contrast to show the sudden change in an otherwise restless crowd), but it still holds the gravitas in the fact that it shows Pilar as a tragic human being, suffering from one failed romance to another in a culture that prides itself on its machismo.
And as I read, a voice emerges from one side.
Hey there. An attractive blonde...at a Beaver party...uh oh.
"Hello..."
Whatcha readin' Not a good start. Butchering of the english language with lazy speech patterns. Even if she does show interest in what I'm reading, I'm not sure the book itself would truly hold any interest to her.
"For Whom the Bell Tolls," I reply reluctantly.
Is it good? Note to everyone: Don't bother people while they are reading. Its a bullshit move to take the attention off of the book and onto you and you are only going to piss the reader off. If I like the book, I'll want to read more of it, not talk to you. Beyond that, though, its fucking Hemingway you dumb cunt.
"I like it...would like to read more of it," I say
Oh, cool, I'm like totally into books too. Mostly like Young Adult stuff. Yikes. I mean, I love to write too, working on my own fantasy romance story.
A) No, I don't want to talk about you.
B) Shut the fuck up.
"Sure..."
So, I really like quiet reader types...
"No," I interrupt, "You like the idea of a quiet bookish type. You, like so many others, romanticize the idea of someone who is smart enough to like to read, but then is somehow stupid enough to like you. You like a guy who is meek enough that he'd probably cuddle with you by a fire without saying a word, but is well read enough that he can make you feel smart and worth it just by the fact that he chooses you. No, you're not worth it. You're an attention whore. You like the readin type, because you like you more. You like what a relationship says about you. It means you aren't pathetic, even though you are. It means you are bearable, even though you aren't. You hold the world as if it were a mirror of yourself. Thats why you like god awful trash like Young Adult novels, because they show the romance you want, they make you feel you are more interesting than you really are. Girl protagonist is different and unique, girl protagonist fights for what right, because she is brave enough to step away from the pack. Girl protagonist gets the hot guy because he cares about her personality more than her looks, and that makes her feel more special than she already is.
"New flash, you're not interesting. You're not unique. You're not brave. You're just another vapid player in the game unaware of the rules. You love yourself and want others to love you so you can sit in the love, not because you love anyone else, but because you love what their love means for you. For instance, you didn't care that I was reading. You only cared that my reading was a sign of something, and you took that sign into this simple little equation, ignoring what might be politeness, and then deciding to go into for 'the kill', but the problem is that the one thing you thought would work to your advantage is what got you in the end. I read because I'm smart, and I'm smart enough to know I will never give two shits about people like you. The shallow. The dumb. The self important. You are all living in your own little world, pretending it all revolves around you. The difference between me and you is that I know I am simply a domino piece in this world, and I make my observations as such. Can I amount to greatness? Of course, but I do it by actively engaging, not waiting for the world to engage me and tell me I am great just by being around."
Without another word, she storms off. This, too, I watch. There is an added bonus as I watch her walk over to Beaver and slap him hard in the face. This forces him to come over to talk to me. Yelling at me for being a buzz kill or whatever. I remark with some sarcasm and we part once more. Back to Hemingw-
What? Oh, those drunk oafs again...attack Beaver.
Oh, goddamn it...
(Read beavs RP for the conclusion)
