It means that that stupid song is stuck in my head -_- GAH! Fungus, my planks are better than yours, but yes, Bob's planks and running was fail of the century. Hope he doesn't read this blog... or I'm dead. *laughs with Hana* (I do reply to my comments, in my posts *is proud*)
Still sore. Very sore. -_-
Music: Linkin Park, The Catalyst.
Book: Tuneful, a book on inkpop. http://www.inkpop.com/projects/83003/tuneful/ Great piece of work.
Hmm... well, update on Retro-Specter. I'm now at a little over 50,000 words, and you are going to hate what I do after that. Well, you love it, but hate it at the same time. Hehe.... :P deal with it. Trendies rule. Saying that now, thats what side I'm on.
How was your day? New music? Plans for the weekend?
DOWNLOAD THE FILE ALREADY!!!!! IT IS GOOD FOR YOUR PERSONAL HEALTH!!!!! Anyways, I run faster than everyone else, giving me the right to semi-fail on my planks. I will link the download again here.
ReplyDeleteǝldoǝd ollǝɥ
ReplyDeleteI now feel the joy Mark Clark feels when he decides to skip a few days of practice and it turns out those days we were practicing with Senior. Yes, a brilliant feeling it is! Anyways, in Mabinogi (mabinogi.nexon.net), I died about four times trying to kill the Grim Reaper at the end of the Hamlet storyline. That's something to fear. Oh, and dropping a baby to the ground will probably get you in trouble with Child Protective Services. Anyways, speaking about Hamlet, and also saying I would spam this blog, I'll give you a quote/spam:
ReplyDelete"To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered."
- Hamlet/Shakespeare
Well then, I have successfully took a large chunk of your blog space by posting "To be or not to be". I think I'll do it again. It's very entertaining to do so. So here it is again:
"To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered."
- Hamlet/Shakespeare
Ok, now I am done