Live and let die.
Well, so I did some testing with some of the magenta and orange ink and had some very interesting results. When I did the magenta ink over blood red dried brush over black, it darkened the red. I'm not really sure why, if it's magenta, you'd figure it would lighten up the darker colour instead of making it darker, but nope, it made things darker. I got most of the Red Terror painted up, all the major bits are painted, now I need to do the details, touch ups and cleanups. I think the magenta ink pulls out the details rather nicely, it doesn't seem like it's coming out too sharp, seems to blend in with the darker colours nicely which is a surprise. I'd have thought it'd be stronger, but it's nicer this way. Even though it's mostly green, atleast the bits of red I added will make it still feasible to call it the Red Terror, even though it'll only be used as a ravener. A ravener that's as large as a Hive Tyrant, but atleast it seems more realistic that something that large would smash up from the ground huh? Well, ok, raveners aren't small, but you get the idea.
People keep asking me how I've been. How have I been? I feel like shit would be putting it very lightly. My dad's here for another few days (I wish they had just gone to PEI so I wouldn't have to even see them at all) before heading back to Hong Kong. I've been throwing up multiple times a day, 4 times this morning, just did a few minutes ago, multiple times a day over the past few weeks. I've gotten very good at controlling where I vomit at the very least. Being able to keep it in your mouth and push it back down your throat after it's almost out is rather like gagging yourself on purpose. Atleast it feels very much like it. Try to throw up, choke it back, end up tossing it back down my throat, gag and have a coughing fit. Of course, it's very noticeable so I always have to run off to where no one's around before doing so. Trying a few things to see if they'll help, bloody stomach and heartburn. I swear, I could strangle it if I could, except I can't. So I won't. Weather today isn't as bad as it has been over the past few days. It's not as hot, not as humid, which is a nice change. Yay, the camera decided to charge up to full. Ok, maybe there will be pictures afterall. After I finish this post. Don't have much else to say for now anyways.
Or maybe I do and that's the problem. Too many things to say, too many things I don't know how to say. Ask me not to take things personally? Not like to happen now. How is it that I can always do things for other people, but not when it really matters? Or maybe the problem is that that's the only time I can and never any other time. Listening to Stabbing Westward all morning probably doesn't help my state of mind much either. People ask me if I'm stressed, they ask me if that's the problem with my stomach. Yeah, I'm stressed. More than anyone has any fucking idea. Sick of life. Sick of death. Sick of time. Sick of existence. Sick in body. Sick in mind. Sick. That's what people have always told me I am. In some way or the other. Then again, they probably have a point. Sick or silent. One or the other. Usually both. It doesn't work out too well. No matter how many times I try and succeed the few times, and the other few times I succeed, but of course, how hard I try has never mattered. It's all a matter of the end result isn't it? Just ask anyone. They'll tell you they don't want my effort, they want results from me. Maybe no one will ever understand me that. Then expect me to understand something of theirs? Fuck no. Time and time again, I turn to myself. I have the most appalling timng when it comes to anything. Anyone will tell you that. It bothers me to some extent, but I've never been good at a whole hell of a lot, just decent at a bunch of things. There's no quick fix for me. There never was. I can't undo 15 years of distrust, hatred, secrecy and silence. I can slowly do something about it, but that's about it. Everyone tells me I don't say a whole lot. Trying to break through the same walls I put up myself sure as hell ain't easy.
I know, my paragraphing is horrible. I don't give a fat fuck what my grammar is like right now. If it's attrocious, so be it. If it's good, fine. Frankly, I couldn't care less right now. Devil to all, saviour to none. Hatred be my essence, hated be my name. There is no destiny. There is no fate. Just life and death. Live and let die.
~Damon
People keep asking me how I've been. How have I been? I feel like shit would be putting it very lightly. My dad's here for another few days (I wish they had just gone to PEI so I wouldn't have to even see them at all) before heading back to Hong Kong. I've been throwing up multiple times a day, 4 times this morning, just did a few minutes ago, multiple times a day over the past few weeks. I've gotten very good at controlling where I vomit at the very least. Being able to keep it in your mouth and push it back down your throat after it's almost out is rather like gagging yourself on purpose. Atleast it feels very much like it. Try to throw up, choke it back, end up tossing it back down my throat, gag and have a coughing fit. Of course, it's very noticeable so I always have to run off to where no one's around before doing so. Trying a few things to see if they'll help, bloody stomach and heartburn. I swear, I could strangle it if I could, except I can't. So I won't. Weather today isn't as bad as it has been over the past few days. It's not as hot, not as humid, which is a nice change. Yay, the camera decided to charge up to full. Ok, maybe there will be pictures afterall. After I finish this post. Don't have much else to say for now anyways.
Or maybe I do and that's the problem. Too many things to say, too many things I don't know how to say. Ask me not to take things personally? Not like to happen now. How is it that I can always do things for other people, but not when it really matters? Or maybe the problem is that that's the only time I can and never any other time. Listening to Stabbing Westward all morning probably doesn't help my state of mind much either. People ask me if I'm stressed, they ask me if that's the problem with my stomach. Yeah, I'm stressed. More than anyone has any fucking idea. Sick of life. Sick of death. Sick of time. Sick of existence. Sick in body. Sick in mind. Sick. That's what people have always told me I am. In some way or the other. Then again, they probably have a point. Sick or silent. One or the other. Usually both. It doesn't work out too well. No matter how many times I try and succeed the few times, and the other few times I succeed, but of course, how hard I try has never mattered. It's all a matter of the end result isn't it? Just ask anyone. They'll tell you they don't want my effort, they want results from me. Maybe no one will ever understand me that. Then expect me to understand something of theirs? Fuck no. Time and time again, I turn to myself. I have the most appalling timng when it comes to anything. Anyone will tell you that. It bothers me to some extent, but I've never been good at a whole hell of a lot, just decent at a bunch of things. There's no quick fix for me. There never was. I can't undo 15 years of distrust, hatred, secrecy and silence. I can slowly do something about it, but that's about it. Everyone tells me I don't say a whole lot. Trying to break through the same walls I put up myself sure as hell ain't easy.
I know, my paragraphing is horrible. I don't give a fat fuck what my grammar is like right now. If it's attrocious, so be it. If it's good, fine. Frankly, I couldn't care less right now. Devil to all, saviour to none. Hatred be my essence, hated be my name. There is no destiny. There is no fate. Just life and death. Live and let die.
~Damon
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