My Blug

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The player scrapbooks forum is literally a place for writers to warm-up, brainstorm, keep little scraps of notes, or just post things to encourage themselves and each other. Each player can feel free to create their own thread - one per account - and use them accordingly.

My Blug

Postby Inari Lorak on October 8th, 2013, 11:05 pm

Welcome to my Blug!


I've never been good with blog-like things. I'm just about the shittiest diary writer, Facebooker, whatever. You name it, I'm terrible at it. Everything resembling a journal I've ever owned has about, uh, zero things written in it. School assignments that require you to do daily entries were 100% bullshitted. I want to at least be able to say that I try, but I can't, cause I don't.

Then I found Mizahar! And, lo and behold, I feel all kinds of crazy, fanatical compulsions to write. Write, write, write, all day long, all night long. Write at work, write while I eat, write in the bathroom, write on my phone whilst driving through horrid LA traffic. YEAAHH, WRITING!!!

So, because all this writing is still somehow not enough (ohh man, don't even make me think about NaNo), it seemed as good a time as any to start this nonsense. I decided to call it my Blug, since it's sort of like a blog, but blogs make me go "uggghhh." Plus, I'm foreseeing that not everything I talk about will be rainbows and ponies...I think we all know what I mean. Those days--those many, many days--where things kinda feel like brownish, sweating putty. All limp and squishy, with not a shred of goodness in sight. Blug, Blug, Blug.

Suddenly, a wild Mizahar appears!

Aaaaannnnd here we go!


So, why in the world am I doing this?


I'm going to apologize right now for the length of this post. It'll (probably) never be this long again, I promise. Moving on...

I love reading other people's scrapbooks. They're so fascinating, so full of delicious information to absorb! It's freakin' awesome when you come across someone confessing something utterly relatable, or listing books/music that you love too. Sure, our PC's are endlessly intriguing and all, but it's refreshing and insightful learning about the real people behind all this glorious storytelling. From what I've read, it seems a lot of people have a similar story of how they began. I'm no exception, I've realized. So without further ado, it goes a little something like this...


Boring. Quiet. Nice. The same, bland words revolved round and round my pimply forehead and perfect ponytail. Same, same, same, always the same. Nothing ever changed. Except, maybe, for my frustrations, which grew only exponentially the older I got.

I had the same classmates since 2nd grade. Most were Asian/Indian, in the gifted programs, learned algebra in 6th grade, and were what you would call "over achievers." Actually, that term is an understatement for those academic fiends. They were at the top of everything--top of the class, top of the school, top of the popularity ladder, top of the whole goddamn food chain.

And me? I was good at drawing. Oh, and I was nice.

No one really got me. Not my teachers, not my peers, and certainly not my parents. They're Chinese. They could care less about fruity tooty things like my inner psyche. My best friends left me year after year. Some to different schools, some to different countries. By the time I entered middle school, I may as well have been the last human left on Earth. I was that lonely.

Getting my own computer didn't help. I burrowed so deep into myself that I almost never came out. Chatting, games, forums--those were my creative domains of happiness and freedom. Real life was my prison. I clammed up so tight I forgot how to open up at all, and that only furthered the misconceptions people had of me. Whenever I think about middle school, I cringe. Violently. High school wasn't exactly amazing either, but middle school was on a whole different level of awful. It was hell, and I wouldn't go back if you paid me in invisibility cloaks and every flavored beans.

Okay, maybe I would for those things, because that would SO SICK! But it would be damned impossible otherwise :angry:

I was depressed, lonely, angry. I mean, it didn't really seem to show in public, since I still got labels like "boring" and "quiet" but at home...god, it was terrible. Shouting matches between me and my parents, my sister, and a whole slew of interchangeable combinations. I was convinced my family hated my guts and wished I didn't exist, that my parents would get a divorce, and if none of those things happened then my mom would finally crack and kill me in cold blood. With a pair of scissors. And this time, my dad wouldn't be there to stop her.

I felt ugly. Shunned. Unnoticed. Helpless. Doomed. But, somehow, there remained a teeny, tiny spark. It told me things would get better--had to get better-and that in spite of the never ending stream of shit that came flying my way, I would prevail in the end. It told me that deep down my family did love me, that I did have friends who cared. It told me I had the potential, the will to do great things. So I clung on, doubting myself all along the way but allowing this puny bit of absurdity to live on inside of me.

For some reason, even though I was terrified of speaking to people who weren't my best friends, I was good at speeches. I think it may have been because I had OCD, so anytime we had to do a presentation, I would recite my speeches over and over and over again cause my brain wouldn't let me think about anything else. I went over my lines anytime and anywhere that I could--recess, walking home from school, showering, etc. Showers were the best! Total privacy, excellent acoustics.

Little did I know that in about ten or so years, I'd find out such obsessive practicing is the key to getting up on a stage, not running for the nearest exit, and pouring my heart out to total strangers.

Back track: high school, freshmen year. I was at an all time low. I was seriously considering killing myself. I was addicted to games, had zero interest in reality, and between gaming and school had so little sleep I could barely stand up straight during the day. I think I slept about 3-4 hours a day on average. I only slept 1 or 2 during the summer.

Then something in me snapped. It was just a little something, but it was enough to set off a chain reaction. I ditched my old "friends." I chopped off half my hair. I started actually caring somewhat about clothes. I stopped drawing because I was tired of it being the only thing people knew me for. My grandma gave me the fiercest, most loving pep talk I'd ever had. She's a badass lady who outran the Japanese, carrying her baby sister on her back, no shoes. Long story short, it meant a lot. My family also moved to a nice, quiet house in Oceanside. It has a slice of wilderness past our backyard and a lovely, yellow room all to myself with an absolutely fantastic view.

And, most importantly, I started writing.

It started as a set of grueling, pain in the ass SAT prep classes at some academy thing run by a Korean lady. Ohhhh, how I hated it. 7 hours average, every Saturday. But then, like a miracle sent straight from the heavens, Doctor Francesca walked her lumpy, sassy self into my drab little life.

Francesca was the most baller tutor ever. She'd lived in Italy for years, knew ancient Latin, drank her tea piping hot with crooked fingers permanently bent from being mugged once in Rome, and read the same books as me. She made me feel like a star. And, she also worked me like a slave driver. Mind you, I was an absolute travesty when it came to writing. Just awful. Nothing I wrote made any sense. So, this crazy lady sat with me and tore apart every sentence I wrote, then rebuilt it with me, one painstaking word at a time.

By the time she was done with me, I was no Orwell or Dickinson, but I could write. And the stuff I wrote wasn't gibberish.

After that, I consumed every fantasy book I could get my hands on. My best friend, who was conveniently a genius, had her and her entire family's 10 digit library card codes completely memorized. She also read books like I ate entire bags of hot cheetos--practically one a day, no breaks. When she was done, she'd hand me a huge stack, I'd gobble them up, and we'd proceed to gush. No sissy stuff for us; all hardcore fantasy, with the occasional children's/young adult but even those tended to be dark and gritty. That book list, however, is for another day, another horrifyingly long post.

My other best friend suggested we take turns writing a story. So we did, and I was hooked for life. Between school, extracurriculars, games, writing, and books, I don't even know how I slept. By my senior year, I was taking 7am journalism, symphonic orchestra, chinese music lessons, 5 AP courses, Calculus, and still had to figure out how to feed my sister, father, and myself for dinner.

Suffice to say, a good chunk of my world became devoted purely to fantasy. Remember the thing about me being OCD? Yeah, put the two together and imagine what you'd get. I mastered the art of walking and reading--it took me half an hour to walk home everyday, and I read every second of those 30 minutes. I took a book everywhere. I even used them as wallets when I traveled, and it was especially effective in China. No sane person there would look in an English booked titled "Abhorsen" or "Assassin's Apprentice" for moola. My dad, ironically, finally decided I might have some sort of disorder. Pfft, if you can call love a disorder.

Actually...

Well, anyways, after that it was college, a.k.a. SWEET, BEAUTIFUL FREEDOM! It was like I became a whole new person; it only took a bajillion years for me to break free of my old life, but it finally happened. I cut my hair even shorter. I had armies of friends. I laughed all the time. I hardly went on my computer, rode my bike everyday, drank in the sunshine, ate two giant salads a day, and took what ever classes I wanted because I went into freshmen year with 80 AP credits. I rediscovered my passion for art, and I never stopped writing.

La di da, skip a few years, and BOOM. My first break up. Then my first time being dumped. Then, spoken word.

If there was anything in my life I could say truly freed me from my intellectual, emotional, and creative shackles, it would be spoken word. Before I knew it, I was on a stage shouting things about penises, vibrators, stolen cheese, broken hearts, and ugly secrets--all the things I'd been too afraid to talk about until now. The rawness and fearlessness of spoken word helped me grow the biggest, hairiest pair of balls I'd ever metaphorically possessed. My first class, I broke down with fear. Then I went back and did it all over again. Now, whenever I feel like my life is going stagnant, I break. And then I mend, and my creative/intellectual/emotional muscles grow stronger for it.

Perhaps it would be best to end here for today. There is some straight craziness I can't not share, so stay tuned and thanks for reading :)
Last edited by Inari Lorak on October 12th, 2013, 7:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Inari Lorak
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My Blug

Postby Gossamer on October 9th, 2013, 1:25 am

You feel like a kindred spirit. I'm probably twenty years older than you, but there is so much in the above post I can relate too. And I can tell you if you are busting out and having fun in your twenties, just wait until your thirties. I want to hug them and hold on to them forever. Life gets a whole lot better. And just when you think its just this side of perfect, it surprises the hell out of you and gets even deeper.
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Evening Traffic Jams

Postby Vanari on October 9th, 2013, 1:28 am

Such uplifting words, could not have been better said :D ^


In totally unrelated news:


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The caption would be something like: HHUUEEEGGGHHH??? Or, at least, that's what it would be if the sound you make when you get sucker punched in the stomach had a proper onomatopoeic equivalent.

Did you know that 9/10 times, traffic jams are caused by total, complete idiots? I'm not even talking about accidents here, folks. I'm talking routine, everyday, senseless jackassery on the freeway. It is my firm belief that I should be able to drive in the leftmost lane without having to encounter 20+ minivans going 55 MPH on a 65 MPH freeway, the drivers clearly asleep and not paying an ounce of attention to the road. And no, they are never old people, ironically.

I have to face this all yet again in about 20 minutes. I hate it.

Alternatively, this pic could be used for lots of other things, like:

-When you see the price of gas
-When you get a parking ticket
-When people serve into your lane without signaling
-When Mitt Romney speaks
-When Miley Cyr--ah, wait, don't even care enough
-When someone tells you Twilight is the best book they've ever read
-When you find out your favorite food joint is out of business
-When you see some kid's spineless mother feeding him Micky D's. Every. Single. Day.
-When you send a lovey dovey text to your bf, but it accidentally gets sent to your parents.
-When you watch the news and there is a civilian with a gun involved (or, in some cases, multiple civilians with imaginary weapons, and only one with a real gun)
-When you walk by Abercrombie & Fitch and have to smell it
-When your bank charges you for...????
-When someone proclaims their undying love for GoT, but rejected your advice 5 years ago to read the goddamn books because they didn't think fantasy was "real literature"
-When you encounter someone on Mizahar who is the living embodiment of everything NOT to do when RPing
-When your fat ass cat walks all over your keyboard and wipes the entire post you've been slaving over from existence
-When you find out you've run out of whipped cream and your coffee is now undrinkable
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"Your Speech"
"My Speech"
"Vani"
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Chubby Kitty

Postby Inari Lorak on October 10th, 2013, 1:51 am

Teemo: The Kitten Who Wants To Eat The World


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Hello Mizahar! No rants or personal confessions today. Instead, meet Teemo, my silly, fat cat.

Breed: British Shorthair
Color: Fawn and White Bicolor
Gender: Female
Age: About 5 Months
Weight: Heavy as f***

Teemo, formerly known as Your Majesty Ivetta, is a kitty with a royal past. She was born a princess in the Belgorod Region, Starry Oskol of Russia to lovely, chocolate and white Simpampulka and handsome, lilac Fandango of the Pepper King. Somehow, she came into the world with delicate shades of fawn and white, but we'll leave that to the geneticists.

Her kingdom was simply called Your Majesty and was run by two fanatical cat ladies. Beside her were many brothers of round, adorable natures, but she was the roundest and most adorable of all. Being the only girl was no problem for Teemo; she was, after all, the biggest and chubbiest of her litter. It wasn't long before a love-stricken suitor laid eyes upon her and, after nearly emptying her coffers to pay the princess's dowry, brought Teemo all the way to America to be by her side forever and ever.

Teemo is a pro when it comes to travel. She ensures for herself that every inch of her mode of travel is to her satisfaction before finding a nice place to huddle down and stare as intensely as possible at anything and everything. Often, she enjoys lying by her human and purring contentedly, her fat body and stubby limbs drooping over the armrest.

Whether she is at home or visiting her human's workplace, Teemo has many hobbies to engage in on a daily basis. Some of her favorites include batting at shoelaces, prowling every square foot she can squeeze into or jump on top of, and eating about 20 times a day. Her human tries to feed her set meals, but she will have none of that rubbish. She cries and cries and cries if she doesn't get her 15th meal of the day, even if she's already eaten buttloads beforehand.

Another one of Teemo's top forms of entertainment is walking all over her human's keyboard as her human tries to complete a post on Mizahar. This she does at least 8-10 times in one sitting. Other times, she prefers to find bizarre places to sleep, such as under the curtains, next to her litterbox, or on top of a slippery stack of magazines that forces her to continuously readjust herself as she slides slowly out of position.

Last but not least, Teemo loooooves to talk. She talks all the time, especially if you talk back. Most of her conversations make no sense, but Teemo does not mind. She is also a purring machine and will immediately rev her kitty engines if you do so much as look in her direction. This, however, is usually only after you've fed her. Again.

When she first set paw in California, she was quite the wee thing. Now she is a miniature beast, and her human predicts she will surpass most medium sized dogs in a couple years.

Cheers, Teemo! May you live long and fatten.
Last edited by Inari Lorak on October 10th, 2013, 3:32 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Inari Lorak
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My Blug

Postby Fiora Radacke on October 10th, 2013, 2:13 am

Ari,

You are awesome! These posts are absolutely marvelous! You can write so well and I'm so glad that you found Fi so that I got to know you better! And I'm still wallowing my way through your stories, I promise! They are really good! We MUST collaborate on something. Perhaps we should collab for NaNo....

Love ya! Oh, and your drawing is hilarious. As is your kitty.
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Postby Vanari on October 10th, 2013, 3:23 am

Hahahaha and likewise dearest BFF. We must indeed! Collabs are allowed??!?! LET'S DO IT!! It would motivate me more too, don't know if I could do it all on my own xD

Mucho Gracias, te quiero tambien xoxo

p.s. Teemo is gurgling at the moment from eating too fast...
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My Blug

Postby Wrenmae on October 10th, 2013, 7:32 pm

Record one of your spoken word poems and belt it out :P

We all want to hear.

*Speaks for everyone on the forum*
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This PC has the Blight gnosis. As such, you as a player need to be aware of what that consists of. Wrenmae has an invisible aura that amplifies sickness and disease. Wounds may become infected, small sneezes may become coughing, and a slight fever may become more serious. A nuit's body will also break down faster in the presence of the Blight. These effects may not be immediate, but within the few days following your encounter, the symptoms will manifest. Some sooner than others. I cannot control your character, so creativity will be left up to you. Best wishes and stay healthy!

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My Blug

Postby Inari Lorak on October 10th, 2013, 9:21 pm

Aw god, just thinking about it....Yeahhh, I don't think I have a single mild or pleasant piece. It would all be angsty and psychotic and possibly gruesome. But since the Mighty and Blighty Wrenmae has asked, I shall try to find a way and make this happen...

...eventually.

*scurries off to panic and dig through computer*
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How To Obtain Happiness?

Postby Inari Lorak on October 20th, 2013, 9:31 am

A Gentle Reminder


So I'm sitting in this gorgeous cathedral, resplendent with gold leaf and painstakingly carved decor and a ceiling so high any and all noise was lent an extra dose of gravitas and grandeur. I'm not religious in the slightest, but the place was definitely filled with a sense of spiritual energy. It certainly helped that my good friend and mentor Yuval Ron, along with his and many other ensembles, were prepared to launch into a full blown peace concert organized to help spread awareness of harmony between all religions and make an effort to assist charities in feeding those too destitute to help themselves.

Yeah, that may have had a little something to do with it...

I found, as I always do in the presence of such pure unity and goodwill, myself feeling calm and warm, and my soul being cleansed a little of the dirt and grime it accumulates as I drag it around through heavy traffic, endless days in a cubicle, and dealing with one obligation after another.

I don't believe in a single God or religion at the moment, but I do believe in faith. Faith in goodness, in hope, in change, in creativity, in ingenuity. Faith in the universal language of love and desire for peace and harmony. Faith in truth. Faith in doing what's right.

But what is right? When do we know we're doing the right thing versus doing something that seems right but only makes us utterly miserable at the end of the day? Is the latter just the way it's supposed to be most of the time, or has that simply been something beaten into our heads by lonely, struggling heroes and heroines, a by product of media and society and traditional, conservative parenting?

In Chinese culture, pain is good. Suffering is necessary. Bitter food and medicine not only cleanses your body of toxins, but makes everything else taste that much sweeter. I lived my whole life believing that my suffering was needed, was the only flavor to life. I thought that it was just normal for us to be mostly miserable, mostly all the time. I wouldn't do my situation the injustice of simply accusing myself of being negative or depressed or anything like that. No, I believed things had to be that way.

Jobs had to be boring. School had to be hard. Parents had to be harder. Medicine had to be bitter. Exercise had to be painful. Relationships, even more painful, and infinitely more bitter. Everything was a giant pill I had to swallow; moping about such things was reserved for the weak willed and unambitious.

I carried my pain on my back like I did my 50 pound backpack in middle school. Through thick or thin, rain or shine, it was there, and I bore it. For the longest time, I didn't know there was an alternative that came with being open and honest and insatiably curious about what life has to offer. I just kept on trudging, repeating the mantra passed down from generation to generation that this is all good for me. This is all good for me. This is all...

...fucking terrible. God, where have I been all this time?

I see Yuval's family and feel no jealousy, only great happiness and admiration. This is a feat on it's own, because you see I am the SUPER jealous type. I like to win, and I don't like seeing other people win more than me, so I harbor this little poison in side of me, adding more and more toxins to it till it eats me inside out.

Or, at least, that's how I used to be.

I see the gentle musician's smiling face, his lovely wife lit with an undimmable glow as friends and fans alike come to greet them on stage. I see Seelon in her arms, prettier than all the roses being handed to her, beaming with ease and humility as she is showered with love and admiration. I see them, and I want to be like them. I want to live a life so pure, so true to my faiths that I have nothing to apologize for.

I want happiness. I want freedom from my doubt and guilt and shame. I suppose, amongst other reasons, that is why most people turn to religion in the first place.

But I tried that route, and it didn't work for me. So what now? I must find my own faith, my own ultimate goal to pursue to find true happiness, but where do I even begin? How do I even know what it looks or feels like? Is simply being a good person enough, or do I need to be a little more ambitious than that?

If I could, I would never hurt anyone in my life ever again, as I have done in the past. But life doesn't work that way, especially not for a young, confused, head-in-the-clouds idealist who can barely tell the difference between doing what's right and doing what feels best at the moment.

I hope, in time, that I get it. I really, really do.

Anyway, this was a strange piece of writing...I normally edit about 100x before I post but I'm just going to hit "submit" and be done with it.

Here's to hoping and trying and failing and trying again!
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Inari Lorak
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Postby William Renegade on October 21st, 2013, 11:57 pm

I must say it's quite a thing that you can express this in such clear words and I gotta admit it is something I can really relate to after studying religion in my spare time for the past two years. Now I won't bother you with my story but I wrote something a while back that I feel is fitting of the subject. You could say it's my answer to a question I was asked which I think remarkably summed up everything you just said.

Pleasure, Pain, Happiness and Love:
Pleasure is not happiness; it is but a counter balance to pain. Happiness is that which stands in the balance between pleasure and pain. Pain is an essential part of the process due to it being a result of effort. That fragile balance can only be reached through patience, understanding and love. Now I do not mean love as in finding a person you like and making a life with them, that is but a single form of love amongst millions. Love at its core is the will to accept and embrace something for what it is. It is the art of learning and teaching in its purest form. A person you love is someone you can truly learn from and whom can truly learn from you. In a way it can be measured by the efforts made in accomplishing these; embracing the truth, learning from it, then sharing this knowledge threw actions or words. These can be observed both when sharing and receiving love.
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