>>> Ten days...

I am rather amazed.

I've not had a cigarette in ten days. Not since my monstrous asthmatic attack that sent me to the hospital. It's quite surprising, honestly. No withdrawal symptoms nor any hallucinations of any sort.

At least, not yet.

Not to say that I haven't had the urge or temptation to smoke. I mean, even thinking about subject has me in the grip of the urge. And right now, my stomch is currently scrunched up in a fetal position which is rather uncomfortable.

And with no cigarettes comes no alcohol. Haven't had a drop in what feels like an age, not even a little during the BeerFest, which is an irony in of itself.

I think that I might finally be going Straight Edge proper. We'll see what I'm like in a month, and then in three months. If I survive that long, I'll design a Straight Edge tattoo for myself. Why? As a constant reminder to not go wander off the path and keep to it. I mean, do I really wanna get something permanently inscribed onto my skin and then make it meaningless? No, I didn't think so either.

And speaking of tattoos, I [finally] finished designing the top half of a personal half-sleeve. Inspiration and reference was derived from the Time Lord sigils/seals from the Doctor Who series. I've also added my own simply designed numbers to each "planet". The central one represents my mother, the one to its left is for my father, and going anti-clockwise from there is mine, my younger brother and then the youngest brother. The two smaller ones in the lower half represent the two dogs (we always seem to own them in pairs, I have no idea why.). The star was based off something I saw on Bolter & Chainsword, and stands for freedom and a galaxy of extended family & friends since they're all stars in their own right. yes, Iknow, it all sounds so lame when it's all put down in writing, but what can you do, right? There still might be some editing later, but for now, I'm quite happy with it. I'm just trying to figure out whether it really should go on my arm or my leg.

I'll post better pictures when I can get my grubby hands on a scanner [Oh, Ghooooooooouuuuuuuullll~!!! - Kaze] and then you'll see the insanity that my mind produces in its proper form.

*laughs*

Oh, and would someone buy this for me, please? *puppy-dog-eyes*

Anyways, I have this track on my iPod and I think that it's rather brilliant. I'm not sure if anyone else is following or listening to this band, but so far, I'm pretty much happy with their sound and groove. It has me headbanging, so, yeah, of course, I'm happy! I sincerely suggest checking them out if you're into metalcore.

And now my youngest brother has me cracking my head about what metalcore song he heard a while ago from my laptop. Argh. I feel a headache coming.

Well, I'm off, still lots to do and ever so little time to do it all in.

If only I could disappear in a puff of smoke like the Nightcrawler.

Oh, well.

Laters!

... and not a puff of smoke.

>>> It's not my fault...

A little while ago, a friend [whose identity shall remain a secret to protect her life (LOL) so we shall just call her 'Jazz' for now] told me, rather loudly in an Uptown bookstore, that I am way too generous and thoughtful that it's stupid.

My response?

An increduluous look.

Why did she even say such a thing?

Apparently because (1) I saw this Moleskine® Book Journal (Yes, I had to include the ® mark!) and I thought that it would be perfect for Miss Purple, which cost, well, half a mighty hundred. And then, (2) I saw this comic that seemed like it was right up Brighteyes' alley, the Pride of Baghdad , but I'm not sure why. *laughs* And the ultimate culmination of my "stupidity" was (3) purchasing the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows novel - which was on sale, mind you, for a whopping nine dollars - for my youngest brother since his original copy was stolen. Jazz, the same friend and not the music genre, almost hit me with another hardcover novel in the same pile because (4) I was considering buying the Special Edition instead, which cost a quarter of a hundred dollars.

*shrug*

So I like, or would like, to purchase things that seem appropriate or useful or something along those lines for people who I know, love and all that jazz. Jazz - yes, the friend - informed me that even if it's so-called normal for me, it's awkward for a lot of people. Especially the exes. And if life was like a comic book, her words would probably have been highlighted in bold, too. I was kind of flabbergasted, and told her that that's their problem, and not mine. People around me who are my friends and who know what I'm like should just accept the things that I do, like buying gifts and the like.

It's what I do.

Money's not an issue when I have it. Never has been. If I have it, I use it. Simple as that. And, for me, the best use of money, on something other than food, is on my family, extended family and friends. Hell, I'd give away my last dollar if it helped someone else.

It doesn't matter if I'm cash-strapped later, I'll figure something out later. Always do. So, there's no real need to worry.

If it's awkward or something for you, then fine, I'm sorry. But that's just you, nothing to do with me. My "job" in life is to help people, to make the people I know happy. I have no qualms with doing that, it doesn't make me feel at all.

And no one has the right to shove that on me or anyone else.

I do what I do because it makes others happy which in turn makes me feel good. A little selfish, perhaps, but everyone wins.

Bottom-line?

Don't make me responsible for what you feel when I've not done anything to warrant it. It's just me and the way I am, if you really knew me as a friend, then you'd know all this already.

This left Jazz a little dizzy, but she left it alone with a shake of her head, a toss of her hair and a distinct "Hummmph!".

*laughs*

But I know that she's just trying to protect me, in her own way.

She also realizes that I'm a sucker for young adult sci-fi and fantasy novels, like Catherine Jink's The Abused Werewolf Group, Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan, Angie Sage's Septimus Heap series, John Flanagan's The Ranger's Apprentice series and their ilk. [There's a hint in there somewhere.] She thinks that if she dropped a pile of them in front of me, I'd ignore the rest of the world. Her words: "I wouldn't even know if an atomic bomb went off right in my face."

She's probably right.

Hell, no, in fact, she IS right.

"Even when right next to you, close enough to tickle your nape with my breath, I am nowhere near. For as soon as I open a book, I am far away."

Books are both my escape and my inspiration.

And they make me, well, me, too.

*shrugs with a laugh*

And with that, I end this rather link-heavy entry, leaving you all to a wonderful week ahead and the Pride of Baghdad wallpaper that sits below.

ENJOY!


... if I'm a giving person.

>>> BAD PANDA KLAN...

The first crew tee designed by yours truly, KAZE, with elements contributed by LIBRE and LOKEL. Wouldn't have been possible without the support from the Family! You know who you are.


This tee is designed from random elements found online while bored. This tee may never be produced, having been done for the sheer hell of it to help tire me out before I sleep. "With wings to see and eyes to fly."

There's some meaning behind that line, but I'll let y'all try to figure it out before I ever explain it.

See yas!

.... rolling through!

>>> More geekness...

Battle-Brother Caendirn
Roaring Iron, Thunder's Vengeance
Storm Warden Devastator (Deathwatch Devastator Marine)

DW Caendirn

... pervades my vicinity.

>>> High School...

... never ends for anyone!

>>> Such a geek am I...

Geiarsson Krakenspear
Lightning Across The Ice, Young Wolf of the Forge, Blood Trail of Stars
Space Wolf Iron Priest (Deathwatch Techmarine)

Geiarsson, before his elevation to the ranks of the Sky Warriors, was a young, tribeless hunter who wandered the seas of Fenris with his surviving kin, trading half or more of their hunts for shelter and protection of other sympathetic tribes.

While resting under the protection of another tribe, they wer set upon by unknown foes while most of its warriors were away. With first bow and arrow, then blade and spear, the young hunter danced along the walls and grounds of the village, carving a bloody furrow through the numerically superior foe. Darting here and there like greased lightning, sweat and blood steaming off his body, protecting kin and ally alike with a song of the hunt and a ghostly grin upon his lips.

Until he was finally surrounded, spent of energy, covered in the bloody gore of the foe and his lifeblood trickling slowly out of over two dozen wounds. Panting heavily, he stood erect with a lopsided grin as a giant in dark crimson stalked across the blood-soaked ground. With a rumbling growl, the giant picked up Geiarsson and corralled his surviving kin, and disappeared into the wintry wastes of Fenris.

That was over two centuries ago. Since then, Geiarsson has been one of the youngest Wolves to be inducted and initiated into the Iron Priesthood, his knack for craft- and forge-work standing him in good stead. He has proven to be a hunter of prodigious skill and fortune, having hunted almost all manner of Fenrisian creatures, from the fabled Wolves of Asaheim to the almost mythic Kraken of the Fenrisian Depths.

He has sailed the Ocean of Stars amongst the retinues Great Companies, setting his own saga in iron and stone amongst the epics of another Great Hunt which set him against many foes of the Imperium, amongst them the Traitor Legions. Now, his saga has brought him to the Watch Fortress of Erioch, to lend his skills and experience to the Deathwatch of the Ordo Xenos.

Description: A giant of a man, wrapped in a leather bodysuit, stands proudly in the middle of his meditation chamber, eyes the colour of a winter storm ringed in gold looking out from a weather-beaten, darkly-tanned face criss-crossed with pale blade scars, his gigantic arms crossed across his immense chest. His scalp half shorn for the trio of electro-grafts implanted behind his ear at the base of his skull, his red mane worn long to fall over the right of his head. He is clean-shaven except for a clean, plaited goatee of red on his chin.

His left eye dons a facial tattoo, a variation of the Iron Wolf totem, its jaws wrapping around his eye socket.

Inscribed around his thick, bullish neck are Fenrisian runes that read, to those who know how, Iron Within, Iron Without, Indomitable Redoubt.

His left arm is a a utilitarian yet artistically wrought work of bionics; the colour of gunmetal, a matte sheen like oil slicked across water. The faint traceries of engravings of the lightning streaked skies, stormy oceans and ice floes of Fenris worked across its surface, the foamy waves worked into the silently howling heads of wolves, can be barely seen under the chamber's luminescent glow-orbs.

A fist-sized pendant of bone lies hung by an adamantine chain fashioned in the shape of prayer beads. Carved exactingly from the tooth of a Fenrisian Kraken into the Cog of the Mechanicus with an Iron Wolf skull at its heart and engraved with minute skulls in sectioned inlays, it glows with a faint bluish cast, projecting a chilly yet calming aura.

A wolf pelt the colour of freshly fallen snow, dusted with granite-like grey, and of unimaginable size girds his waist like large kilt, its legs dangling down and covering his thighs, claws curved downwards across his knees. Its noble head, its eyes still seemingly agleam with life, rests between the legs, teeth bared in a deadly rictus grin.

A ghost of a grin plays across his face, somewhat at odds with his martial bearing, showing off a legacy of his forbears, the elongated canines of the Space Wolf.

A true warrior, an accomplished hunter and a forge-master of Fenris. And, now, a member of the Deathwatch, waiting patiently to prove his mettle and deadly worth yet again.

Demeanor: A man proud of his skills and abilities, undaunted by the universe at large, Geiarsson possesses a calculative, highly analytical mind. Constantly assessing nearly everything around him, his creative mind shuffles and files away details for another time and possible use. Some joke that he is infected by a form of memno-virus, but it is mind that not only helps him hunt but to craft and forge, sorting through all the sensory and mental input plus stimuli to achieve his goals.

Like most Wolves, he is honest to a fault, but is tempered by a sense of tact that usually prevents others from being offended. He also does not possess the typical animosity towards Astartes of the Dark Angels and their ilk. Friendly, talkative and a good listening ear, especially over the odd tankard of Fenrisian ale, Geiarsson is a likable and respectable warrior-priest of the Adeptus Astartes and an unusual representative of the Space Wolves.

Optional: Geiarsson possesses a Data-Slate whose body was carved from the bones of a Kraken and Fenrisian Wolf into the cunning design of a puzzlebox which must be unlocked to view the screen. It's inner workings are interlocked, sophisticated systems of recording, relaying, transmitting and receiving all forms of data, with massive storage banks done in nano-detail, with a large touch-screen that can project flat, 2-D images to full holographic videos. It also posseses a port for electro-graft connections. This Data-Slate, for now known affectionately as the Bonebox, may sometimes be carried into battle under his wolf pelt, chained and maglocked to his armoured belt.

DW Geiarsson (Edit)

... that I created a Deathwatch character for fun!

>>> Two-fold meanings...

Iron

Iron within,
Iron without,
Indomitable redoubt,

'Ware her walls,
They shalt hold thee,
Out, away and at bay,
For ever and a day,

Thy efforts futile,
Like waves broken 'pon,
Yon distant, rocky shores.

... for those who may understand.

>>> COZ WE AIN'T...

BAD PANDA KLAN coming through!

Keep a watch out for us, sometime this summer. (Winter if you're Down Under!)


And the awesome design work of LIBRE of BUNKERZ that he put together for us of BPK! Download it, it's a wallpaper!!!

We'll be seeing you this Summer!

See y'all!!!

... NO GOOD PANDAS!

>>> How to survive...

Death.

There are worse things than death.

Indeed, it is true, if cliché, what some villains of the silver screen say, that there are worse things than death.

In so saying, there is also something else that can be said about these "things" that are worse than death:

You'll be surprised what you can live through.

It's true.

After all, one of the things that can be worse than death is heartbreak. It can bring you to the brink, leaving you hanging by a nail, maybe a thread of sinew, and you'd wonder what would it be like to just let go. Sometimes, in some cases, it's like a near-death experience. Or even comparable to a first brush with death.

Some would say that heartbreak is a death of sorts. The death of a love, even. Someone once told me that it felt like his heart was literally shriveling up and dying by the yard. I can't say that I felt that way, but, personally, it's always left me feeling empty inside, like something tore my heart out and poured cold, nebulous vacuum from space into my chest cavity.

But at the end of it all, you're still pretty much stuck in place with the thoughts of the women you've loved waltzing through your mind with alarmingly frequency.

And, then, horrifyingly, perhaps you realize that there's only space in your heart for one but you know that it'll never happen but you can't quite let go, so, it's a I'm-sorry-that-room-isn't-for-rent-or-sale-can't-have-it-thanks-have-a-nice-life-bye kinda thing if any other women end up entering your life. Or it'll end up coloring your future relationships in stark shades, in a horrid contrast to your past. Which might be even more horrifying.

Plus, Fate may keep throwing you curveballs by setting up happenstance run-ins with at least one of them in places that you least expect, with random phone-calls and text messages out of the blue from the far side of the moon. But you'll be nice, even when everything inside of you screams bloody murder while being thrown through and shredded by the industrial meat grinder that are your emotions and metaphorical heart.

And you don't know whether you want something more or less from that person. You can't decide whether you want that person to disappear from your life for-freaking-ever or to always have them there. And there's no real middle ground.

You just can't make up your mind at all which will send your mind into a vortex of frustration, angst, pain and sorrow, with perhaps a little sorrow thrown in for good measure, which it may or may not exit in one functioning piece.

But you'll survive, you'll get over it soon enough.

Even if you feel somewhat lobotomized by the whole chained series of events.

After two failed relationships in under a year and the 'death' of something before it even began, it makes me wonder how on earth do you ever get over such an event, let alone a chain of them? And how long does it take before you feel "back to normal"? What kind of closure is required for the chapter to be ended, to reach le fin?

I have no clue.

None what-so-ever.

And, yes, I'm still on this trip, this godforsaken path to somewhere that's hopefully not here. No, I'm not completely A-OK, even after such a long period of time. I can't keep up the facade of being alright and functioning with everyone, sorry.

My closest friends know how I really feel and have been feeling over the past year. It has been a constant source of frustration for me and of some irritation to my familia, my extended family of friends.

Does that make me a hypocrite? For keeping up a mask and appearances around most people, but dropping it with the closest people to myself?

Probably.

Not that I care about that. Much.

It's hard to be okay, I guess. The pain is still there, hiding in shadowy corners, being vague and then incredibly sharp. And, yet, there is that contradictory feeling of happiness and pride when speaking about either of my somewhat recent two exes, the stories of, what were to me, very important and interesting memories, that war with the after-recital feelings of nostalgic sadness and incompleteness.

And, perhaps, it's even harder to "get over it" since it can't quite reconcile with my hardwired [romantic] belief that, regardless of what happens, a part of one's self will always love them.

Perhaps it's a lesson or even a test. Or even one gigantic joke woven by the Fates.

Who the hell knows?

And we've already established that I certainly don't.

So, I try to distract myself.

Bury myself in any kind of work. Lose a job. Hang out with my friends as much as possible. Throw myself into projects that may or may not see fruition. Look for a new vocation. Smoke. Go to new places, try new things. Read webcomics and online stories of any kind. Read more books. Look at girls, random and known. Maybe unknowingly flirt if they stop to give me the time of day. Skate. Buy stuff online. Stumble across porn and watch for less than five minutes before realizing that my mind has better ideas about sex. Think. Get tattooed. Compose lyrics and poetry. Make crazy plans for the future that may never happen. Go for counselling to beat and break the steel of negativity that binds and constricts me. Smoke helluva lot more. Eat over irregular periods. Go out late with no real agenda. Play silly Facebook games. Skate more. Get physically hurt while skating. Smoke a little more to ease the pain on a psychological level. Sleep late and get kicked out of bed for no real reason. Lie to the rest of the world that I'm okay when I'm not. Hit a club. Dance. Get wasted. Smoke even more. Draw. Sketch. Write. Blog. Sleep. Dream.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

Until either I break or I get through and over.

Even while claiming to the world that I'm over it all.

So, yes, there is something worse than death.

Bitches, please. Y'all survive. Maybe live even.

I'm right here and I know.

Right now, I barely EXIST.

But, somehow...

... I'll survive.

We all will.

Somehow.

... a car wreck of a heart, after the fact.