I clicked on a link on facebook sent by my friend. I am generally wary and really it was a stupid mistake because I wasn't thinking straight at the time. Anyway, my laptop is ****ing screwed. I can't access the startup menu or safety mode at all, although it soon goes into the safety mode logon screen. Before logging in, it starts shutting down again and then restarts with the normal screen. Once started, I can't access my malware protection and everything has been turned off. I got Windows firewall back on, but nothing else. McAffee won't even open. I tried typing in some of this info and my computer shut down on its own. I can guarantee that the problem is running under svchost.exe. My computer is an HP G50 laptop with Vista and the Intel Pentium Dual-Core. For now I've removed the battery and it is remaining off.
...and yet nothing I've done has shown up how even?
Pretty much as it says... I haven't bought BBS yet since I don't own a PSP. Would it be worth buying a PSP for? From what I've seen/heard, it's cool and really important, but since money is an issue, would it be worth buying a new handheld for? Do you think it is worth buying?
I've been practicing with placement and colour in some avatars. Figure I'd dump them. CnC would be great. ❤ xxx xxx I may or may not add some others a bit later.
Okay, So I know that a few have been talking about having our own original Sburb session. So far all that we've really talked about so far has been deciding that it will be separate from the Kids' session. We have also decided it will be played by Earthlings, and that there will be contact between the birthers of the universe - whether we decide to keep it with the trolls on Alternia or create another species/race/etc. or have it be humans or whatever. Anyway, Can we discuss the idea of having an original session? We'll need to build most of it, since while there are parallels a lot of each session depends on the players. We refers to Plums, What?, and myself as of now. /quietly does not know how to post in this section
There is literally not a single soul in any of my classes besides my art major that I so much as even enjoy. It's all a bunch of extremely annoying kids that should be in general classes but signed up for advanced ones anyway - even in my AP. >:C I am not pleased. Not to mention that the new grading policy is total bs. 40% homework and classwork 50% tests, quizzes, and finals 10% end of course exam (a new state test that teachers aren't able to see) The EOC exam is total **** because if the teachers don't know what's on the test they can't prepare us for it, and it's reflected in our grades if your teacher even bothered to cover everything. Next year it will be worth 20% of our grades, if it passes SBDM (which it seems it will). #thisisalltotalass****ery
look at people on your profile last and try to come up with reasons for them being there
I figure I'd just dump a little from my trip to Ann Arbor for my past birthday and before that. I can't even speak up around some of the amazing photographers here, but here's for fun. CnC would be awesomely awesome <3 im a graffiti hore there are worse things ****ing angels climb imagine left hand of god heaven judges, hell takes all the sky plants bland our hallow bubble between these boots lies dead, not gone parchment cherry red animals i'm not a leopard stripping floral erections bread pronounced 'bag-et' $2
where members write songs about each other, ship each other, and write fanfics about each other discuss these
because blahh i'm on a twewy kick. this is already on fanfiction.net but i figured the chances of it being read are higher on here. here goes. cnc etc etc~ "I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord. But, you don't really care for music do you?" That smile is worn like faded blue jeans and a bandana that hides his face in the night. Joshua is amused, for Hanekoma has always been original, if nothing else. "It goes like this - the fourth, the fifth; the minor fall, the major lift; the baffled king, Composing Hallelujah." Joshua is far across the marble floor, sitting on his onix throne, yet he hears the cold sarcasm as if Hanekoma is whispering into his ear, warm breath wetting his lobes. Neither man is smiling any longer, for how is Joshua to enjoy his silence when Hanekoma is criticising him and how is Hanekoma to smile when his Lord is unhappy? "You're right. I hate music. I suppose you can blame my father for that." Joshua's nose is crinkled slightly, as if he is more annoyed than he is (at this point, really, he is only slightly irritated). Hanekoma shrugs. He supposes some people never stop to listen. xxx In between lines of crowded, noisy bass, Neku swears he hears someone talking. He's heard voices inside his head before, and it feels a little like this. "Your faith was strong - " he presses the plastic closer to his skull " - But you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof; her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you." He pulls off his headphones and tosses them at the wall with force he didn't know was availiable. The voice is louder. "She broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the h a l l e l u j a h." Shiki means the world, and he ends at her borders. Pins and needles and cherry blossoms at his wrists and she's screaming at him again to let her inside. "We're falling apart!" She yells, fists beating against his chest. Their shoes are red, the floor is red, shining like the devil's skin. xxx "Maybe I've been here before." It is your home. "I know this room, I have walked this floor." You slept here as a babe, and I watched over you like a Guardian Reaper-. "I used to live alone, before I knew you." We've always been together, Rhyme?./ She knows something is wrong, the way Beat is staring away from her without a smile. Ghosts whisper in his mind, telling him all the awful things. "I've seen your flag on the marble arch - LoVe is not a ViCtOrY march." Never have I loved since then! "It's a cold and it's a broken HALLELUJAH..." xxx Joshua does not like the feeling of cold hands on his shoulders, warming his ice skin. "There was a time you let me know what's really going on below. But now you never show it to me, do you?" Joshua closes his eyes and leans back on the hands that would never drop him. "Remember when I moved in you - " Joshua tenses " - the h O l y d A r k was moving too," a moan of discomfort, because heisnotallowedtobehere; because angelsanddemonsareenemies; because Joshua is Composing and Hanekoma is compressing&compacting and Producing; because "every breath we drew was H a LL e L u J a H." xxx Maybe there is a G O D above , 'Joshua muses' and all I ever learned from LoVE is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you... 'he raises the gun straight and true and Neku will die again by his hand but why should j o s h u a care? it's all going to end and he will stand and shibuya will fall.' And its not a cry you can hear at night, its not somebody who's seen the light, its a C O L D and its a BrOkEn H A L L E L U J A H! Spoiler forever hoping someone catches onto all this bullshittery--
you've given too much rep today i'm sorry i love you guys so much
No they don't.
Mine is a veggie panino. How about you?
Okay, just a thought, but would it be possible to run the site in multiple languages? We wouldn't have to change much (as far as my inexperienced self knows), but I think it would be nice to run it in maybe Spanish as well as English. It's not a priority problem or anything, just an idea. I'm sure a bunch of the people here know Spanish/French/Japanese/Italian/Russian/etc. and I think it would be an interesting way to encourage more people to post if we offered the site in their language. Not that we could translate all threads or anything, but instead maybe offer a <foreign language> forum and it could be moderated by someone who is fluent. -- not sure if this has been brought up, I looked and couldn't find it anywhere, so.
[/all pieces have been stripped of the original names used unless they are of blinding importance.] * These are not the shoes she wanted to wear. Crystalline eyes scrutinize the black Mary-Janes, the rips and wear across their sides. This is not what she wanted to present herself as, but she had been late and God forbid she wear thick boots to such an event. The lights dim, the curtain falls, and the shoes are spared another moment of fatal glaring. There are words she could use to describe the feeling of her chest relaxing, her bones poppling against each other beneath her skin and muscles and rags, but she quiets her mind for the High Mass of the Arts. The dancers twirl their bodies over the stage, twisting and contorting into elegant structures and for just a moment she begins to believe that a little girl’s new dolly boy has been broken and she has shrunk to save him from the evil rat king who threatens the love budding between her blossoming breasts. She can almost believe the twisted tale of the broken jawed soldier doll swording the rat king and tossing out evil. But, alas, such a spiel is naught but fairyist propaganda, spelling out false immortality between the frontal lobes of the audience’s collective mind. She has taught herself against propaganda, has distributed and believed too many times to fall once more to such a level of infidelity to honesty. When The Nutcracker is over she remains in her seat, looking out at the crowd leaving the proud standing theatre and talking with such foolishness about costume and music and do they not see how disturbed she feels when the sinister tones of the mause creeping up her spine like little triplets? Oh, how she loathes the ballet performance, she abhors it so vehemently and yet every time it comes anywhere reasonable she snatches tickets to a balcony in half a heartbeat. This time it was held in New York, and she hopes that the voice behind her is not who she believes is talking to her. These clothes are rags, she is so afraid, and these shoes are not the ones she wanted to wear today. And so she stands with inrecognition of his words and runs from the little toy soldier like she was born to do. She is the ratess, the siastra cara pacuki, the princess who will watch as the King overthrows the tiny toy soldier, broken in ideals, throw him down and beat him brainless before the people he protects. He is calling out to her, following her, grabbing her hand, and it is snowing. “I will watch you fall, scaukunok,” she hisses, the words dripping off her palate virulentuously. They are a warning, though she wishes they were a threat. “You may be a soldier, but you are broken.” She scowls, eyes razor thin and glowing. He does not look broken. He looks determined, strong, handsome, and she thinks, for a moment, if she is the girl and not the ratess. But she cannot play the role of the girl. She is not fit for the part, she cannot dance cannot twirl cannot spin cannot whirl and, “I cannot fix you,” she tells him, her voice as dead as the marshland. “I do not love you.” * There’s no trademark smile on his face as he walks through the fields of wheat and weeds, one hand jammed deep into his pocket. The sky is drab as ever, rain threatening with vivacity to pelt through his clothes and sting his shoulders with a pH of four. He grimaces, fumbling with the coin in his jeans. He’s really let this place go – the once rich meadows and neat rows of wheat stock now in utter disarray, patches of milkweed and dandelion and thorny pest plants jutting out towards the sky as if they have reason to live. How often has he visited his home in the last few decades? There is hardly the time for a luxury like denim overalls and a corduroy button up when you’re busy tearing yourself to pieces. Bullet marks make jagged holes in the earth below his ratty sneakers, and they blow apart the trees that surround the field like guard rails on a pot-holed highway just west of Civilized America. How perfect the setting as he stumbles through the mess of fiber, headed to God-Knows-Where, USA. A flipped car marks the beginning of what once was obviously a shining headpoint. The sea isn’t far from here, but he sits back and leans against the riddled and corroded metal of his forgotten Volkswagen. These days his hunger for Audi has become only more insatiable. With his free hand he digs for his squashed package of Marlboros, and sticks one cigarette between his chapped lips, then reaches into his pocket for a lighter. He uses both hands to light his cancer, one still cradling the quarter dollar piece on the tender stretch from pinkie to ring. As the blue eye contaminates his atmosphere with carcinogenic smoke, he examines the silverish coin not a centimeter from his handcrafted eyeglass lens. The embossed eagle has faded, hardly distinguishable from the matrix, and tarnish and lime have crept into any defined edges. The rustic undertone makes him grin for a moment in spite of the soft ripping he feels at the sight of the eagle so worn and degraded. He remembers how much he misses this simplicity, then quickly pats out a smolder he’s started in the wheat. Once he’s inhaling naught but tuft, he disposes of his burnt out stick in a napkin in the glove compartment of the dying scenery. A glance to the north reveals that rain is coming, sneaking toward him from the east. He gets moving to cover as much ground as possible before he is drenched in slightly acidic precipitation. A hum on the tips of his lips, he pounds the coin back into his pocket and keeps on walking, fondling the metal in his finger pads beneath the indigo denim.
While this new theme is quite amusing, it's even more amusing to see all the people complaining about missing the old days etc. etc. How is everyone tonight?
What. What is this. I came back to find all my poetry for my school portfolio and... :I
[Si, puedo] CnCplz. <3
New ****. CnC, please and thankya. <3
I demand to see them immediately, served on a silver platter rimmed with titanium.
