Glitch Tybalt and His Missives from The Tubes

OH GOD HOW DID THIS GET HERE I AM NOT GOOD WITH COMPUTER

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

A star sticks to the sky, a cloud disperses.

The fan spins, languid on the dark ceiling. What little circulation it may provide is wasted halfway down. The air, while not unbearable, opresses. The stillness is palpable.

In the distance, gears click. Their unending dance follows its precise form, step by step. Each click, another moment logged. Every whir, another moment passed.

Our hero blinks. From his vista, he surveys his empire. He needn't gaze far, for it has not begun to grow. The fields, once fallow, now prepare to bear forth their fruit. Structures unbuilt groan and shudder, straining against their expected weight. Hands unfound hover, poised over the tools not yet provided. The day does not begin. 

What is a man's empire before its completion? One could consider it simply a task not yet undertaken. But this belies a belief in spontaneous creation; it simply is nothing more than a matter of time which hasn't passed yet. Implications of a state of preordination. That a man's empire is merely something owed to him. All he must do, to grossly understate the matter, is begin work.

But where does the empire truly come from? A vision? A spark? From what seed does this grow? One must journey deeper into the heart to determine.

Smoke curls from the lips of our hero, reaching towards the ceiling. Dancing on gentle eddys, defeating the one thing that truly keeps our hero grounded, it nears its destination. Silently, the smoke is dashed against the blades of the fan, unaware of its own demise. The fan continues, undaunted and unaffected.

It is a deep unease from which the spark is formed. A discontentment with the state of being, as it is perceived. From a desire for a more perfect place it gains its fuel. The fire consumes the heart and refocuses the mind. And in this focus lies the plans for a greater world. The fire gives force to the hands and feet, granting the strength to begin. Once in motion, the only options which remain are to continue or to perish. Thus, it could be posited that an empire is not a goal, but merely a result.

Our hero closes his eyes and sighs. For a moment, his breath shudders. Fist clenched tightly against a sheet, it relaxes. Gears continue to click. The fan completes another circuit.

A gear sticks.

The day does not begin.

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Sad post, please ignore.

I wrote this a little while ago on reddit.  I figured I would save it here.  Don't bother reading, it's sad.

August, 2006. I'm mowing the lawn. I'm excited to goof off with my friends that night. I haven't had time to hang out for quite a while, I had started a new job that was soaking up most of my free time.

I'm nearly finished when my mother runs out of the house screaming. She's a fairly calm and collected woman, not prone to fits of hysteria. This is a side of her I've never seen.

"It's bad! It's bad! Oh God, it's bad!"

I'm 20.

My father worked in Television most of his life. If you're American, then many of the faces in news broadcasting you know today have worked with him at some time. Times were tough then, as he retired to work on two exciting new projects that disappeared from underneath him. So, after 35 years of Production Management, he had to take a job managing the night shift of one broadcast at the local ABC affiliate for a fraction of what he was worth. It was the only thing available at the time.

He stepped off a riser wrong one night. Figured he might have pulled a muscle. No big deal. He just strapped on a back brace and kept working. Two weeks later, the pain hadn't stopped. Hell, probably a fractured rib, then. No big deal. He went to a doctor who ordered a CT scan. We waited a week to hear back. They called and left a message at 4:58 pm. I was mowing the lawn.

No big deal.

One week later, he couldn't walk. The best oncologist in the state was called in. He took the case personally. Called it 'catastrophic cancer.' There wasn't a real term for it. Type 4 of the lung. Type 3 of the pancreas. Type 2 on the liver. Masses at two points of his spine [these grew to a size that pinched off his lower spinal column]. Spots on his brain.

I went to see him every day. Even after visiting hours, since my job had a tendency to work me late. They don't really adhere to the hours rule on the 4th floor.

My mother went into overdrive, making things as normal as possible. I ripped out the cabling of the built in TV in his room so we could attach a DVD player for him. The staff turned a blind eye to this.

My little brother would visit with him often as well. Mom would bring him out. He would work on his homework in the room, asking Dad for help with his math. Just like normal.

The kicker was my Father never looked ill. He was the same man I grew up with. Quick with a smile. Dry, sarcastic humor, every day. Even when he started chemo and radiation, nothing changed. Sure, he lost a little weight, but that was from laying in a bed all the time.

They made a pressed plastic mesh the shape of his head that would hold his head still while receiving his rad treatments. Once he brought it back with him and showed it to my brother, much like he would show us some interesting bit of camera tech he'd bring home from work.

My brother was at our neighbors house when my father passed. We had received a call from the hospital the night before, explaining that his breathing had become irregular. It was midnight, so we picked my brother up and walked him next door. The neighbors had been very supportive.

When we got to the fourth floor, they were prepping him for a transfer to ICU. As they wheeled him out with a breather strapped to his face, he grabbed my mother's arm and kept repeating "I love you. I love you."

"I love you."

4 am. The tech comes into our room, exasperated. Somehow, my father has broken two rebreathers. These are large air pump machines that force positive and negative air pressure in a pattern designed to encourage healthy airflow. My father, far gone on pain killers, was having none of that. He'd breathe the way he wanted to, thank you very much. Stubborn to his last moments.

5:30 AM. I'm watching my father's heartbeat stagger on the screen. My mother, not known for fits of hysterics, is leaning on the bed next to him, cradling his face, repeating " I love you. I love you."

"I love you."

5:38 AM. I'm resting my hand on my mother's shoulder. I hear myself saying "It's over now. It's done." This is startling to me, as I don't remember hearing any sound for the past 20 minutes.

I'm 21. It's been two months since we got the phone call.

My brother is brought to the hospital a few hours later. In the chapel, my mother is keeping calm while talking to him about what has happened. When asked if he understands, he says

"His story is over. Mine is still being written. When my story is over, I'll be with him."

He is 11.

Oh, look at that. it seems to be raining on my keyboard.

[trebaolsmovingcastle]

I don’t care what hour it is, I am gonna go to sleep when I damn well please!

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

DONT

FUCKING

CARE

[trebaolsmovingcastle]

glitch-tybalt replied to your post: Fat Charlie the archangel sloped into the room, he…

GO TO BED, GODDAMMIT.

FUCK YOU, YOU GO TO BED, YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE, MEG ISN’T AROUND TO NEED SOMEONE TO DRIVE HER TO THE AIRPORT, AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANT FRIENDS THERE TO GET BAGELS WITH LOX WITH EITHER!

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

I WORK NIGHT SHIFTS AND HAVE A COMPLETELY FLIPPED CIRCADIAN RHYTHM NOW, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON SOME ART PROJECTS, AND THE BAKERY IS OPEN SO I WILL DROWN MY SORROWS IN DONUTS AND KOLACHES!

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

F̸ͮ͌͛͆̀̊͑̋l̷̡̑ͨ̍̋̇ͣ̀̅ͨ͞ỡ̸̷̌͛͌͛̇̄ȃͥ̐͋ͯt̸̀̓ͦ͂̌͟

edit: dammit, I originally posted the source.  Sorry, two people who saw that.

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

L̞̲̙̦̱͕̳̽ͨ͗i̱̣͖͙̤̻̹̩͊͛̏ͣḡ͚h͈̝̥̍ͩ̒ͫt̲͛̅ͤ̏ ̝̬̫̖̟̄ͤ̍̎ͤi͕͖̙͔̼̘͍͈͋̒ͯ̇̀͋̌̅n̖̝̞̤̥̞͍̽̋̏ͅ ̳̜̱̞̟̔̊ͅͅt̘̟͎ͮͫͭ̈́ͯ̀͋̈́̏ḧ̳̰̝͓͚̠̫̟̜́̎̚e̘̍ͪ Dark

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Ȃ̲̔ͦͥͬ̆ͣͧN̷̢̳̱͖̥͉̣̹̿ͭͭ ̷̴̗̗ͧ͋́̉ͅO̊̎̓͛̀҉̨̮̜̬̬͇̙̯̩̘F̰̼̘̫̜͙̺̝́̍͊́̿͜͟F̯̬͓̭̩̲͚͇̟̐̉ͪͤ̀͢͡E̵̤̲̙̳̞̤̞͌̀̉́R̡̨͔̭̺̲̰͛̎͋ͦ͟ͅḬ̜̪̳̻̣̼͖̼̆ͩͪ̊̂͠NG

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Ḑ̵̳̤̫͖͕̭̬̊̑ͪ́̎ͧ͑̀A͉̼͈͊̏͊͋̂̐̿̿̍̕͡R̴̤͎͎̹͉͆̇̋ͫ̄̅ͥK̷͕̋̀̌ͬ̌̄͜F̤̯̺͙̙̖̜ͨ̋̂̃̕͢O͍̳͕̠̫͚̳̼ͬ̔̋̎̊͘G̴̺̟̻̟̩̹̲ͤͩ

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

t̓͒ũ̾ͭr͘b̆ͫ͋̄ͭ̊̿uͭ̾ͦ͊l̏͐ͭ̓̅ͭͮę̌̈̊ͮn̏̾̈́cͪͭͬ̿è̅̌ͥ́̃̚

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Ḅ̳̼͚͇̆ͫͭ̋͆͘͟Ơ͈̟̦͉̘̳̲̇̈́ͯ͋ͤͬ̔U̱̭͖͍̼̭̎͛̑̚͟ͅN̬͔̟̼̥̞̞̹̖͂͂̇̿͐ͣ̄ͥ̕͠C̫̘̎ͦ͂ͮ͑̕Ë̸̬̬͙̼́ͣ̐ͫ̐̎̍Ḑ̅̊ͫ̽̅͑ͪͣ͢͏̟̺̝͉̻Ö̲͎͇͚̈ͤ̌W̤͕͚͎̮̩͇̯̒̂͌̑́͘N̨ͮ

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Ļ̖͓̖̙͔̤͔͆ͬ̂̀ͥ̋Ô͇͍̞̙͈͔̟ͭ̎Ỏ̭͉͐͘͠K̋̉̀̏́͏̨̮̫Ǐ̵̈́͐ͮ̊́҉͉̣̥̻̞̙̖̲N͑̂҉̴̪̯͕̩͜G̸͉̲͔̰͈̅̐ͫ̀̋́̀ ̱͉̠̑̽̀̄̈́ͦͬͥ͗A̧̻̖̘̖͈ͦ̋ͅH̡̫̜̬̦̣̪̥̾̄͆̆̅͛EAD

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

you need to post more

You are quite right.  Let me get on that.

[bigwaves]

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

I totally destroyed the shit out of one of these in Gradius.

BACK IN THE DAY.

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

BLARG RANTY RANTRANT.

So, I'm sitting in Southlake.  For those of you who aren't familiar with my particular location on this planet of ours, Southlake is a rather posh town nearby where I live.  It's where the soccermoms and teenage drama queens live, for the most part.  It's quite high-income, is what I'm saying.

I feel like I should be looking around at all the excess and ranting against it.  HOW DARE YOU LIVE SUCH EXTRAVAGANT LIVES! BLARG!  and so on. But I just don't feel it.  I'm sitting it what effectively counts as their town square at [yet another] Starbucks.  Across the promenade [complete with gazebo!]  there is an Apple store.  Next to it, a very classy Mexican restaurant [in which I shared drinks with of of the previous executives of Activision].  And in the middle of it, what generally accounts for a civic building, neo-classical in its design.  Oh, and of course, plenty of disaffected youths milling about, shuffling their feet, wearing out the soles of their designer shoes.  

But for some reason, it doesn't really bother me.  Actually, I look around and think it all looks rather nice.  It's a pleasant spot I'm in, and it has more than an adequate amount of public spaces to be in.  I wouldn't mind living in an area like this.  I could just do with out the Excursions with designer white rims, and the teenagers who are trying to slum it with designer labels. 

However, something does bother me.  Really, what could earn my ire out here?  The clock.  The town hall clock.  It's simple, barely readable from 50 feet away, and electric.  It chimes, as any good town hall clock should.  BUT THE CHIME IS ELECTRIC.  It's a speaker.  It's a series of generated tones.  

For some reason, the fact that this upscale place couldn't be fucked to invest in an actual bell-chime system just bugs me.  If you're going to invest in making a place look snazzy and down-homey at the same time, BUY SOME FUCKING CHIMES.

/firstworldrant

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

GODDAMMIT STOP.

So, there's someone sitting behind me, outside my local Starbucks.  And he keeps snorting.  As in, constantly.   And it's not a loud series of SSSSNNNNNNNRRRGGGGGGGGNNNNNGGGKs, oh no.  No, if it were that, I could offer him a napkin or a tissue and look like a nice guy while effectively shutting him up.  No, it's these little snnrt srnggt srrngk noises.  All at the regular interval of 1.3 times a second.  I CAN'T IGNORE IT.  IT DOESN'T BLOCK OUT AT ALL.

Of course, I could just go inside, or perhaps move to a different table.  BUT NO. FUCK YOU FOR EVEN SUGGESTING THAT.  I'VE GOT A PERFECT SPOT WHERE THE SUN IS HITTING ME JUST SO AND I WAS HERE FIRST AND FUCK YOU.  And I want to smoke my cigarettes. So, I will just quietly rant here and 

Oh.

Looks like he's gone now.  That's good.

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

You are followed by a few folk, you know.

YOU LIKE ME.  YOU REALLY LIKE ME.

[glitch-tybalt-blog]

Gotta say, this is kinda rad.