Narrate yourself!

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animalcrackers likes the idea of this thread.

ArtificialLynn is observing this thread while debating on whether or not she should get some cheese to eat or focus on her mathematics notes.

Sciuridae is squirreling around, as usual.

Theta is tired, but is so close to running the board tonight, that he decides he will press valiantly on.

Sciuridae is in the middle of interrupting ThetaIn3D's board run, still fighting tiredness.

PcGoblin looked at the dog. Perhaps sensing she was being watched, she looked up. Thinking this was a gesture to make contact, the dog stood up, walked over, and laid her head on his leg. He scratched her neck, and then brushed her fur. All the while he wondered when her owner would pick her up, and how could she shed so much fur and not be naked? She then placed her front paws on his leg and laid her head against his white tee-shirt. Such a sweet dog.

Girly_Aspie read about the sweet dog and sighed, resigned. That dog did sound incredibly sweet, and she couldn't help but wonder how different her life might have been if she, too, had a sweet dog and not Loki: the demon cat. The sounds of Loki running up and down the stairs in a state of inexplicable frenzy drowned out the clicking Girly's fingers made with the keyboard. She already knew that the bathroom garbage was tipped over, and there was litter all over the tile floor ... again.

"Loki!" she called out, which made the cat turn his head to look at her with pupils the size of Volkswagen hubcaps in the nearly perfect darkness of the stairwell. Girly and the cat had a stand off, staring at each other without blinking for what felt like a month before the cat gave up and resumed his obsessive wind-sprints up and down the stairs.

A sweet dog sounded nice right about then, something cuddly and endearing, not a rocket with claws.

ThetaIn3D "sat" with a decidedly improvisational posture at his dining room table, chasing spaghetti sauce scraps in a bowl with his fork tines. Today had been a good, if exhausting day. The weather was beautiful, the productivity high, the looming catastrophes averted. He felt peaceful in the comfortable quiet, enshrouded by the evening and the soft glow of the living area lamps. Peaceful, and slightly tipsy.

"What have I been doing all night?" he wondered for the umpteenth time, mystified as to how he could have allowed himself to go past ten o'clock before eating dinner. The answer, as he quickly remembered, involved pirates. And perhaps some ADD.

Life had its problems, but Theta at long last was no longer perturbed by several. He had just been thinking to himself, "I think it's true after all; in my heart of hearts, I know I've always been an Aspie."

The war was perhaps finally over, and knowledge made him happy. Acceptance was key, but no more so than gratitude. He had a growing sense that he should always have believed what he knew from the first; that being Aspie, that being a Theta sort of Aspie, was a good thing. That he was healthy and complete. That he was who he was meant to be.

Theta was genuinely surprised that the thread he was in hadn't received more postings. It was a great idea, he thought. "Quality over quantity", he mused. Deciding that after a week of erratic sleep it was time for bed, he asked himself if he could improve on what he was writing; decided no, and clicked "Submit".

The day was good and then suddenly it took a nose dive. PcGoblin was brought down by his own imperfection with language. He edited a post, a long post, one of those posts where as he read it, wondered what version of English was loaded in his head at the time. He made many corrections, but realized he needed to return to his programming. At the end, he added a comment that he would need to come back and tidy it up, because it was too long and erratic. He clicked submit, and returned to his program. Within five minutes, he decided to check the post again, rereading it, he spotted something that needed correcting. He clicked edit.

You are only allowed to edit your post within the first 3000 minute(s) of it being submitted.

No. He must just have missed the cutoff. He didn’t like this. It was too long, and it was a tad insane. He clicked edit again with the same outcome. He realized this was also a tad insane. He missed is opportunity. Maybe he could plead his case that it really needed to be fixed and web admin would flag the post or something so it could be edited. Was Alex the admin? PcGoblin clicked on the contact page. He sat staring at it for a while. No, he couldn’t bother Alex about this. Alex probably gets tons of e-mails. This was just a stupid post, but then maybe he would understand about needing it to be just right, or at least something resembling communication. Maybe he could delete it. PcGoblin didn’t have a problem with that. He sat and thought about it. He needed to fix it, but he knew he couldn’t. PcGoblin began to get a little depressed. It was time to go home. Early to work. Early to leave.

It was hot and sticky. He didn’t notice his surroundings as he was pacing around in his thoughts. He decided he should probably just not post anything again. That would be for the best. He wondered if the web site was such a good idea. When he opened himself up to the public, it was never a good idea. He reached his car, parked far from the hospital. He enjoyed the walk, and this was about the only time of day he got any walking done.

The drive home was uneventful. Maybe he was over reacting? What exactly did it say? It described how his Asperger’s conflicted with his job. No it should have described that, but instead, it veered into crazy land. PcGoblin pulled into his driveway. He should have been more concise, or he should have just deleted it.

He opened up the door, and the dog was there to meet him, tail wagging. Unable to contain her excitement, she raised herself up, her paws reaching out as if to hug him, but her claws stung as they raked down his front. She continued to hop up and down, touching him as if to say “You’re home! You’re home!”

He turned on his computer, sat down, looked at the post again. There was nothing he could do. This was so depressing. He clicked back to the index of topics and saw one about IT and appreciation. He opened it and thought about it for a few minutes. Then he opened his word processor and began drafting a post. He was already regretting it. What made him think he had answers when his confidence was always swinging back and forth? Well that was just it. He didn’t have any answers. He only had observations and speculation. Maybe there was some worthwhile in his ramblings. Still it bothered him that the expression of those ideas was flawed, because if the expression is flawed, then the message was flawed. Maybe it was like a painting. It wasn’t the subject matter, but the artist’s brush strokes, the artist’s finger prints that gave it expression? So what did it expressed?

He checked the puzzles and games threads, and all the image threads were updated. He could hardly wait to see the pictures, and post an exploitation movie title.

Maia is supposed to be drawing but can't because she is rearranging her studio and kitting it out with more storage for her growing collection of children's books and never ending want of new art materials. She could draw downstairs as she has so often done before or she could get a sketchbook and draw just about anywhere. She could. But as she has a certain routine to working and finds it difficult to adapt to her temporary ecosystem, she decides to wait. She feels out of place. She is forced to interact with her fellow herd. She laughs on the outside... and cries on the inside. She is also making a nice shelter away from the hazardous wasteland some call 'Meltdown'. There will be food and water there- for the mind. And warmth and comfort.
As she reflects on this in WP she realizes that while this jargon is coming out of her mouth, or fingers or head......
Her head hurts.
She doesn't understand half of what she is typing. She can express the english language pretty well or so she has been told. She doesn't understand it.
She drifts off to sleep now slumped over the laptop..................zzzzZZZzzZZzzzZZZ

pcGoblin is beginning to think the wish granting genies are being inept on purpose. Okay. Some wishes may be a tad ambiguous, but the genies are batting a 1000. pcGoblin wonders how one bats a 1000? A thousand what? Balls? pcGoblin shakes his head thinking if those wish granting genies were told they were batting a thousand, and they suspected it meant batting balls, if they would start whacking men in the privates, or possibly think it had something to do with sewing. Batting a thousand. pcGoblin was now fixated on this question, and there was only one thing to do. Go to bed. It was getting late and he was on call tomorrow. Batting a thousand??? Why isn't it batting a hundred or batting two dozen? Batting a score? That suggested someone might be doing harm to a composer, and no good could come of that. He imagine bad puns about taking a rest after getting the beat down. pcGoblin made up his mind. He would ask his non-sports playing son what it means. Those wish granters take the cake though. The rich delicious chocolate cake of failure.

Wow! Michael Weston has bullets that cause people to die in slow motion!

Nick007 clicked on a post called "Narrate yourself!" & read the description. He then went to YouTube.com & searched for a vid , watched it, copied the url & then posted it in the tread

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMRRNE5G6AI[/youtube]

animalcrackers is tired of words. They give him a headache.

Beppie was bored. Tired of wandering through the day without being productive in the the least bit. She sighed as thoughts of the oncoming tomorrow quickly approached. Oh, might as well go to Wrong Planet. Beppie thought. She quickly scrolled through the Writer's forum and gleefully smiled as she got the answer from an up and coming comic book writer. Even though his art was terrible the idea behind the character was a good one, so she was excited for the story. She thanked the writer for answering and moved onto another forum.
She went to Roleplaying forum, what caught her eye wasn't the infinitely ever increasing "Corrupt a Wish". It was the "Narrate Yourself" discussion. She clicked on the link and glanced over the various narratives. Some were good, and others were not so much. She was in thought about replying when her step-mother asked for the money that she had used earlier in the day to buy groceries.
"Oh.. Um.. They're..." Beppie trailed off as she went upstairs to room. On the floor of the bedroom were her pants that she wore to the store. She pulled out her pockets and the money fell into her hand. She ran back down and tossed the money onto the couch that her step-mother was sitting on.
"Thanks." her step-mother said in a sincere voice.
"Umm.. Can I have some Coke?" Beppie asked.
"Sure."
Beppie went into kitchen and grabbed the first glass she could see. It was purple glass with the words "Coca-Cola" on it. She smiled. At least the little things in life worked out for her.
Glassed filled with the desired beverage, and mind filled with ideas she began to type. Into the second line her step-mother began pestering her with questions. The ones filled with "Does this sound good?". Beppie herself didn't care about what was being asked, but she did listen anyway. It was important to do this, because it mattered to her step-mother. She said it was good, and went back to type. She typed and typed until she reached the present. There was nothing left to type. Nothing left at all.