Nindo

And he'll stay quiet.
He'll listen and he'll nod.
He'll do what you ask,
Even if it's wrong.

He'll meet your expectations,
If he falls short then he'll stop,
Approach it from a new way,
Until your mind has calmed.

He doesn't ask for much,
When he wants something he deals.
He knows that if he wants it,
It clashes with your style.

It not because he's tired,
Or cause he doesn't care.
It's never done on purpose,
Malicious isn't his style.

He hates the passive comments,
But never says a word.
He hates it when you judge him,
But never says a thing.

He doesn't kick,
Or scream,
Or fight.
He nods and stays out of sight.
Cause the further he stays from outside the gaze the less his brain will hurt.

He doesn't want to hurt you,
Cause your way is yours to have.
He just wants quiet, and peace.
Something he's rarely had.

He doesn't do it to hurt you,
He wants you to have your best.
So he'll bottle all his frustration,
And burn within himself.

Dead Bullets: Cold Street

I've decided on a name, let's do this

Dead Bullets

Chapter 2

Cold Street

The night walks by, the usual song and dance when the cops show up. All bluster and pomp, yellin' in my face trying to get me to confess to a crime they know for damn sure I didn't commit, stomping their feet and bouncing through their text book of how you should treat a "suspect". They never take me in though, know they couldn't even if they tried. I'm not sure why they continue to hound me when they know they'll eventually end up with a broken arm, or a smashed face. Cops in this town have learned to stay out of my way.
That is, until I tangled with Detective Mullin.
She...
Well. Interesting Dame. Maybe not the right word. Dame implies an air of frailty, a desirable woman who is in way over her head. I know plenty of dames in my line of work, but Mullin, she is something different. I've known of her for quite a while, but this is the first time I've seen her with my own two eyes.
She stands out among the sea of dark and light blue cops, her outfit showing of flashes of red and orange, her coat reflects the light trickling down the alley behind my office and she kicks at a nearby bin, a seemingly useless effort which yields a small used brush which she picks up and inspects. She hasn't seen me yet but I know she's aware of my presence. Judging by her record she's the only cop in the whole precinct who's worth the money they pay her and she didn't get to be a detective on her looks that's for sure. All to often you see broads climbin' the ranks for no good reason, end up getting good folks killed.
Different times after the world rotated on bullets for so many years.
I suddenly feel nauseous. Tired. Hung over? The cop who I've been ignoring picks up on my blank stare and, with a sigh, simply walks away from me muttering to himself. Finally. I look at my watch, 5:30am. Damn.
I lean on the wall, suddenly awash with dizziness. I reach for a cigarette, my new habit crunching down on my brain and sucking out the healthy juices, replacing them with tar and smoke and fire. If I'm ever going to catch this killer then I need to stop thinking like a man, start thinking like a beast, an animal, the piece of shit who tortured a little girl for weeks then stuffed her in a drain to suffocate or bleed out or be eaten. Sick.
I breathe deeply, my cigarette lights up and reveals the top of her head. I look down to meet her gaze. Her eyes size me up, unwavering and determined. I can't quite tell if she's intimidated or impressed, either way she's very good at hiding her emotions. First time for everything I suppose, woman who can mask herself well. My initial theory holds true, I am not looking at a dame.
"Hmmm" She hums, her voice was not what I expected, hint of irish in her tone "Who are you again?" I'm unconvinced, she's feigning ignorance and she knows damn well who I am. But she's trying to get under my skin and it's already working.
"Law" I say, folding my arms and blowing smoke above her up done hair.
"And your first name..." I see a flash of fire in her eyes.
"You know my damn name." I spit. I realise how tired I am and make a mental note not to lose my composure again.
"Hmmm." She hums again, the irish sprinkle rearing again. She writes something in her little note pad and returns the pen into the back of her hair. She taps on her pad and stares me down. "What are you doing here Mr. Law?"
I refuse to reply. I just stare at her, mapping out the features on her face. Red Coral Lipstick, Orchid Eye Shadow, Apple Red Rouge, Nail Polish too. Her Jacket is expensive, definitely something she would have had to save up for on a detective salary. Her hand is red, bruised and raw.
"Well?" She insists. I blink.
"I live here" I reply coldly, I'm not going to give her anything she doesn't need, they screwed this case up, I'm not giving them any reason to red tape it up again.
"We know you live here, up in apartment 204 Mr. Law." She flips her pad over a few pages revealing a rather lengthy scrawl of information, assuredly about me. "We know you're a licensed private investigator, we know your mother lives up north, we know you're three payments late on your rent and we know that this killing has something to do with you. Did you remove any evidence from the crime scene?"
She's sharp, her intelligence is bad though. I transfer the weight of my shotgun to the other hand, bouncing it as a move it across my chest. The piece of paper left by those goons shuffles further down into the barrel and out of sight.
"My mother is dead" I say abruptly, locking eyes with her.
She seems taken aback and consults her notes again
"I... I'm sorry." She looks down as she responds. Good, I struck a nerve.
"Also, I'm only a single payment behind. Maybe you should get the guy across from me to do his job better, then your information wouldn't be useless?"
"Oh." She seems lost for words and looks over at the guy who's been watching me from across the alley for months now. I look up and give him a short nod, making sure to look as menacing as possible. He's not seen anything worth sharing with them anyway, he's just picking up errant information I've been feeding. Writing letters to dear old ma' upstate and mailing them to an abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere. The rent is at least in the ball park.
I return to studying the detective as she fumbles through her notepad. She wears what look like Converse runners, strange for a lady, but upon further consideration make sense for a police officer. Her jacket begins to sway in the wind as the rain picks up. Her gun, a large pistol. Custom 38 Special maybe? I lean in to get a better look and she perks back up, stepping back and closing up the front of her shiny shirt. She looks taken aback.
"Mr. Law!" she starts, indignant "Could you at least be a little professional? I tho..."
I cut her off.
"I was looking at your gun" I point at her hip and roll my eyes. Take another long drag from my cigarette and drop it to the floor, letting it smoulder at my feet.
"What about it?" She gets defensive, but she knows what I'm about to say
"It's too big for you."
"No it's not!"
I don't have time for this.
"Look at your hand, it's beaten up to shit. Every time you fire that it's damaging your wrist and arm as well. You should stop using a custom job and switch down to the regular 38. Heck, even something smaller?"
"I'll have you know..."
I really don't have time for this. I let her talk and stare through her head.
My mind swims and I remember that I'm very tired. I blink and she's still talking.
I rub my face and she's still talking.
The evidence left for me runs away with the falling rain as this woman probes me for information I don't have. Maybe the reports were false. Maybe she isn't all she's cracked up to be. Or she figured it out in the few minutes before she approached?
Maybe I need to leave.
She's gone. They're all gone. I'm in the alley alone.
It's 7am.

Hello

Hello there world.

Dead Bullets: Soggy Bread

Cigarettes. Piled up.
How many are there?
How long have I been here?
Two packs. No. Where did they go?
Why am I smoking? I've smoked two packets through while on this case and I've barely scratched the paint.
This car is making a beeline for the river and if I don't pull the door off soon then it'll slip through my fingers. Another mess spinning down the drain, taking all of my dough with it.
Soggy bread.
It must've slipped off my desk when I slipped away and landed in the puddle. Roof's dripping, should get that looked at. Passed out? I'm not sure.
Solve case. Get money. The puddle has siblings now, Billy Bucket and William Washcloth. They're both pricks, can't even do what they were made for. Billy spills water and William only soaks up so much before he gets full and useless. Wring him out and he'll complain, even rip. Find one of his twins and it's all ok for a few tries, then death again.
I can smell whiskey. It's me? Probably the reason for my current state.
Cigarettes and Whiskey. My office smells like a toilet. Wait. It's only me. I peel my face off the ink blotter and brush my hair out of my eyes. What time is it? Am I still alive? Did I drown in my whiskey? Or choke on my cigarette? Or maybe Billy and William finally betrayed me and they're the reason I drowned. I doubt Billy could have actually held enough water to drown a grown man but still, with William's help maybe it was possible. I reach for my eye but only succeed in poking myself. Coordination off, whiskey definitely involved.
Little girl. Dirty bastard. Little girl down a drain and no one can find out why. Cops cry foul, throw their hands up and quit. Protect their own pockets and serve their own interests. 'Don't piss off the Kingpin', they say to me 'He'll have you whacked Reece'. My beard is covered in crumbs, pre-soggy bread no doubt.
Brush. Brush is gone. Lost in a stupor. Thrown from the balcony into the alley where my butts pile up to the fire escape. Thrown away for what? Why would I forsake my brush? And why have I been smoking? I've never smoked, never put the pipe in my mouth. And now I'm ripping through two packets, drinking whiskey, wondering about soggy bread and worrying about whether I'll get revenge for a little girl I've never met.
Phone rings, brings me back to reality. Fan swirling lazily above my head, crumbs catching the soot sprites which live in my roof. Phone's still ringing. I pick it up.
'Reece?' She says, I burble a grunt at her and lean back in my old chair 'Reece where are you?'
I pause to think of whether her question was rhetorical, it's not like the line she called was portable, clearly I'm in my office, sitting in my old chair trying to clean the cobwebs out of my brain.
'Office' I reply 'You called the office'
'I need that money Reece. You said you have the cash at the pub 45 minutes ago' she pauses as if to wait for a response, I don't indulge her and I have no intention of filling the awkward silence.
'Well?' She insisted
'How old are you Vivian?' I asked
'What?'
'How old are you?'
'23' she replied proudly, as if this particular age meant anything to me.
'Ok. Being 23 I feel like you would have learned about the powers of deduction by now?'
'Of course I have!' She spat back 'I'm not an idiot Reece!'
'So if I'm not there then obviously...' This time I pause for effect. The silence went on longer than it would have taken most to put the pieces together. Then again I never assumed Vivian was blessed with an abundance of intelligence.
'You don't have it do you?'
'Bingo' I hung up the phone and moved to pull the connection out. My chair buckles and one of the wheels snaps.
Hello floor.
Hello soggy bread.
Hello puddle.
I've been here before. Still drunk, like all the other times I've found myself sprawled on the sticky carpet. Not so sticky now thanks to the puddle, which had begun taking on a milky porridge colour, more slippery than anything else. Mushed chunks sucked on my arm and soaked into my sleeves. Never much cared for business shirts anyway, but the game requires a certain look and that look should be equal parts professional and intimidating. Something about a man in a coat and tie with a bad attitude seemed to claw at the fears of crooks in this town and I make every effort to be that fear in the flesh. Though I suspect in my current state I wouldn't succeed in intimidating a cat let alone the piece of shit who killed that little girl. What was her name? Tina? Geena? Goldie? Mind draws a blank, too focused on remaining conscious.
Phone rings again.
Fuck off Vivian.
I let it ring out and the answering machine kicks in. I reach out and swat at the desk, trying to push the answering machine off onto the floor but I just hurt my fingertips and scare a mouse back into it's hole in the wall.
'Reece!' a shrill cry rings through my dusty office and then silence. The machine gives out and the speaker blows, a small but much desired break for me. I'm not helping anyone down here. My brain does it's best to roll me over but I just struggle with my jacket for a little while.
Hours pass.
I awaken again, this time it's to the sound of a gunshot. Outside.
Move body move. Get going.
I roll to the side, three or four times and force myself to stand, groping at the wall for anything to assist in my ascent. I find the closet door and hold tight to the handle, righting myself and rearing to full height.
Head rush, stood up too quickly, but no time to deal with that now. To the door, go!
I nearly slip in the soggy puddle but my new found determination keeps me from falling over as I grab my 37 Stakeout from the umbrella stand and burst through the door, knocking the 'L' off of the sign on my door. It now read 'Re__e _aw'.
No time. Stop thinking about the door. MOVE!
I race down the stairs, kicking out the door at the bottom and rushing into the night air.
3am.
3am and a dead body in the alley below my window.
There's a note, perp must have left it behind. For who?
'Stay away Law. Keep your nose out of the Kingpin's affairs. The girl was an accident. Let it go. Or else.'
The last bit was written in blood.
They don't realise what they've done. My resolve bolsters as it started to rain and I pump the Ithica, holding it steadily in my hand.
'The Law always wins.' I tell the night.

From phone's heart I stab at thee

I need to be more active and put aside time to nuture my creative side.
Sitting down at my computer isn't the problem, not even close. I can sit and I can read or play or watch but create, no. For whatever reason as soon as I'm in that chair all thought of imaginative writing falls off the table.
Maybe left over bad feelings from all those nights spent at the computer writing about things I'm not bothered about, sometimes things that I was. Endless hours tapping at my keyboard writing about paintings and plays by strange men and women.
So here, few readers, I write from the flat and smooth screen of my shiny new phone. Blessed with a far better battery life then I am accustomed to I've decided to try and burn away the old homework feelings by starting the ball rolling in a slightly different medium.

Apparently my fingers naturally gravitate towards the full stop rather than the space bar.

I used a tablet to chronicle my adventures in America and that seemed to get a pretty good response so this will do fine.

So why does my brain rebel against something that I actually genuinely enjoy? Writing used to be one of the most fun things I could do, young Reece would imagine up hundreds of different characters and plots, jotting down a few every once and a while, sharing with friends at school until the paper was all crumpled and torn. Maybe it's the paper? It's so easy to just go: 'HERE LOOK AT THIS!' By throwing content at a facebook wall or a forum (Yes almost 100% of the people reading this came here from one of those places). There's something about holding the paper in your hand and seeing the mistakes scribbled out or the tears where a word was erased 3 times because it just didn't sound right. No backspace button 7 times mistake gone forever, the pencil or pen leaves a mark on the paper until it's incineration, telling you more about the writer than the writer knows.

So I write here, these thoughts dominating most of my night and I occassionally pick up my phone to add sections to whatever this here is. It's 2am and I wish it could stay like this longer, alone with thoughts of infinity until dawn breaks and light ruins the moment. What is it about the silence, the soft dripping outside, the breathing of nearby aouls recuperating for the day ahead? Why can't I explain to myself, in these times of solitude, why I can't sit at the computer and create? An empty mind is calm and without ripples, it can't look me in the eye and actually tell me anything. It just waits.

For those who don't know me, my name is Reece. I have a fabulous beard and I don't know what I want.

Our Beast

So I wrote this.




Gary Glen had been waiting for this day his whole life.
Teeth thrashed and clenched like eating utensils, clattering through the darkness of the cave where Gary Glen faced his greatest fear and the icon of everything he hated.
He gripped his sword in his sweaty palms, perspiring through a combination of fear and determination coupled with the journey he'd endured, his shield an improvised ragged board he'd found in a broken down hut near the beast's lair. The walls echoed with his footsteps as he progressed further into the darkness, torches flickering out around him as if a great mighty wind had been blown through the cavern, the work of The Beast no doubt.
A flicker out of the corner of Gary Glen's eye and he wheeled around on the spot brandishing his sword out in front of him, throwing his training to the wind and flailing wildly like a child.
"Calm your mind" Gary Glen's mentor's voice whispered in his ear
"Ok" Gary Glen said to himself, breathing deep and inhaling the murk around him. He settled his mind and listened to the empty space around him. Shuffling. Creaking. Dripping. The cave sounded strange. Almost, artificial. Gary Glen wasn't entirely sure about a lot of things but he was certain this cave was not a natural formation and The Beast had created this environment with a purpose in mind, he would have to be sharp and focused to fell this foe.
Suddenly the wall behind him exploded and a great meaty fist sailed over Gary Glen's head, barely missing it's mark and sending debris flying in every direction. Gary Glen spun once again but this time his sword moved with precision and poise, parrying the fist to the floor and slashing at it's palm. Every cut rung out a dull clang as his sword left small scratches and marks on the tough skin. Giving the fist his attention Gary Glen didn't see the glow of hundreds of degrees of burning gas coming towards him as The Beast breathed in the fumes in it's chest and belched them forward in a large cone. Barely a chance to pull his shield up Glen Gary rolled forward, extinguishing the fire burning his cheap armour but sending him tumbling into the wall.
The Beast let loose a husky chuckle and advanced out of the black to where Gary Glen lied, sprawled and upside down on some wooden support beams. The Beast placed a steel foot on Gary Glen's arm and destroyed his shield with it's giant fist. Splinters stabbed into Gary Glen's arm and he reeled with pain, thrashing and squirming in an attempt to escape The Beast's wrath.
"Stop" The Beast growled "Get OUT!"
"DIE!" Gary Glen choked through cries of agony and swung with all his might, taking The Beasts arm off at the elbow and rending his mighty blows useless. The beast stumbled backwards seemingly unaffected by the loss of it's limb but more surprised at Gary Glen's bravery. Not wasting any time to stand around and think about his next move Gary Glen ran out of the cave the way he came vaulting rocks and mess left by the beast never letting up the vice grip he had on his sword, his other arm hanging at his side leaving a train of blood as he went.
"His power is an illusion little brother" echoed Gary Glen's mentor "His power over you is nothing more than a construct of your own mind."
Gary Glen dove into the nearest room and rolled into the corner, crouched and ready to charge should The Beast enter his line of sight. Through the buzzing sound in the caverns he could make out the shuffling of The Beast searching for it's quarry, knocking down parts of the cavern in it's rage and destroying everything it had created.
More torches in the room struggled to stay lit and obscured Gary Glen's vision. He'd learned as much as he could, he'd studied and fought and watched until he could attend no more but it was never enough. It was never going to be enough.
"I'm going to die here" though Gary Glen "I'm going to die here and my brother will never be free, my mother will go unavenged and this Beast will infiltrate and deconstruct someone Else's life."
The Beast had defeated Gary Glen's older brother in combat, rending him unable to fight ever again and capturing his broken body to hold captive in his sinister lair. Gary Glen had done his best to fend for himself without the aid of his sibling but having no parents to care for him he'd given in to living on the streets and begging for or stealing what he needed to survive. A tear of his shirt and Gary Glen bandaged up his arm as best he could, even enough to keep the blood of his hand was enough.
"One clean strike. That's all I need. Just one brother. That's all."
He saw him through a crack in the wall, facing away from the room where Gary Glen was hiding. Somehow The Beast had reattached it's fist! He had something, something living.
"Brother!" Gary Glen shouted out foolishly. Clapping his hands over his mouth he ducked down hoping to avoid detection but it was too late, The Beast had sharp senses.
"Come out here boy! Don't you want to see your dearest brother?" The Beast chuckled it's husky smoke filled laugh.
"Ok! Just don't hurt him, I yield" Gary Glen admitted defeat and emerged from the room he was hiding in. Gary Glen's brother was in a bad way, The Beast had him sitting in a small wheely chair, bound to it with gnarled straps so he couldn't get up or escape. His brother tried to speak but struggled and stammered only managing short rough moans or blubs. Anger fired in Gary Glen's gut as he approached the idol of his fury, seeing it for the first time in many years and it was more terrifying then he ever imagined.
The Beast, when reared to it's full height towered over anyone Gary Glen had ever met, it's mouth twisted into a permanent sideways scowl billowing black and grey smoke out of one side. His skin wrinkled and leathery, hair matted and unwashed tumbling down it's back in a loose ponytail.
The Beast lumbered past Gary Glen's brother toward his enemy, his strides unsure and wobbly as if drunk or under the effects of a substance. Never the less Gary Glen froze in place holding his sword tightly, now with both of his hands. Fearless, The Beast approached Gary Glen and patted his cheek with it's fist.
"You've grown boy. You'd have grown up to be a nice fine lad had you listened to the right people. Unfortunately I gotta take you in now, so you don't hurt anyone else."
"Hurt anyone else?" Gary Glen shouted as he swatted The Beasts limb away with his sword "You're the one hurting people!"
The Beast reeled back and swing down with his fist, barely missing Gary Glen as he rolled to the side, bringing up his sword and taking off the arm once again, this time making sure it wouldn't go back on by hacking at the stump where the arm had been attached. Anger peaked in his mind and Gary Glen swung his sword into The Beasts great solid head smashing the sword into splinters.
"Splinters?" Gary Glen thought. His rage was too much to stop and wonder what trickery The Beast had laid upon this place. Gary Glen threw off his gloves and charged, knocking the discombobulated brute onto the ground. The Beast tried to rise but Gary Glen sat atop it's chest and headbutted it square between the eyes, smashing it's head into the floorboards and splattering blood across the decking and up the wall. The Beast eyes rolled around in it's head, a combination of surprise and mortal fear.
Gary Glen used a shard of his broken sword to nail The Beasts good arm to the ground.
"STOP!" The Beast gurgled, dazed "Please... he needs..." The Beast didn't get a chance to finish it's sentence as Gary Glen wrapped his numb, bloody hands around it's throat squeezing with a power he'd never possessed until now.
"Now you'll know what it's like for her" Gary Glen spat through gritted teeth, his zeal unstoppable "Now you'll know what it's like for him!"
With one final surge of his muscles Gary Glen poured his hate, sadness and all of his fear into his hands and squeezed.
"Son..." The Beast whimpered "Son... I'm afraid..."
The Beast shuddered, making one final attempt to free itself. It's life ended.
Gary Glen sat back relieved. Until he opened his eyes.
Teeth became dinner formalities. Swords became Baseball Bat's. Fumes and smoke became alcohol and cigarettes. Rocks and debris became unpacked furniture. Chairs became respirators and life support systems. Fire became pleading appeals and words of calming. A hulking, terrible fist became a comforting hand. And a cavern build by a horrible beast became and unfinished home of a father who was punished all too much for the mistakes he had made.
Gary Glen's brother bobbed in his chair, trying to roll towards the man who had just killed his father.

Mortimer Glen was found dead in his unfinished townhouse late yesterday with his disabled son Jeffrey Glen, who is now in protective care. Mr. Glen was found to have been strangulated to death.
His other son, Gary Glen, is being sought for questioning and identification of the body.
The killer is still at large.

By Reece Law

ASMR vs Frission

I'm sure you'll know what I'm talking about when I explain it.
It's that feeling you get when you listen to a piece of music and you start to feel those tingly chills all over the back of your neck and down your spine. Sometimes it tingles up into your head and ears, your cheeks abuzz with prickling joy.
I don't experience it overly often, usually 1-2 times a month. My most recent experience was when I listened to this:

The title screen credits for one of my favourite games of all time, Legend of Mana (One which I often forget to put on my 'top games of ever' lists.)
I'd been hoping that Sony would see fit to release this fantastic game on the PS3 store as a PS1 classic, like it already has been on it's North American counterpart. But like most fantastic services, Australia is always either forgotten or not deemed a 'big enough market' to justify it's inclusion. So I went in search on Amazon.com to try and purchase an original copy of the game for PS1 (My family has 4 PS1's back at home so finding one would not be an issue) but, not much to my surprise considering how fantastic it is, the game is selling wrapped in original packaging for $100+. After much consideration I decided not to fork out for it, though I was very close to doing so I went to my old ROM library and booted the game up from there.
Ready to start my adventure I configured my emulator to take inputs from my gamepad (So I could play it with a controller) and started. I rewatched the title sequence, something I tend to do when I replay a game I haven't experienced in a long while, and was dropped on the title screen:

As I went to thumb the A button to start a new game up started the song and I was stopped dead in my tracks as it's simple melody infected my brain (Fuck yeah headphones). It was one of the most calming and comforting feelings I have ever experienced. I've had the tinglies from music before, but never like this, the feeling grew and covered my back, shot up through my neck and into my eyes and ears and nose. I even had time to close my eyes and put the controller down to more fully enjoy it. About a minute in I snapped out of it and remembered how much I'd loved the game as a kid, this game made my brain remember some of the best times I'd ever had when I was young, firing off good times and feelings like an exploding sparkler bomb.
If you haven't played it I'd encourage you to do so. Easily one of Squaresoft's finest accomplishments.

So with all that lead in we come to the point, ASMR vs Frission.
Now I wasn't sure, after experiencing this for much of my life, what or if this phenomenon was actually classified by science. Turns out, that it can be caused by one of two things:

ASMR: Autonomous sensory meridian response, AKA attention induced head orgasm, attention induced euphoria, and attention induced observant euphoria, (Second one is the best).
Reading through some info about it on the wiki and in the sub-Reddit dedicated to the feeling; ASMR Sub-Reddit it became increasingly apparent to me that from what little research has been done into this it seems like the feeling is solely developed internally by the persons own individual experiences.

Then there's Frisson, which has a lot less info but seems like it may also be relevant here: A Comparison of ASMR and Frisson
Described as more of a physical reaction than an internal one, Frisson is also likened to Cold Chills.

I wonder if you can feel them all at the same time? Or if experiencing one can cancel out the other?
Maybe they're like Peanut Butter and Jam, delicious on their own but also delicious together.

Irrelevant of what the feeling is actually classified as I love it. And it's one of the feelings that makes life worth living.


What makes you feel ASMR or Frisson? Let's share in the comments!

I need an interesting sign off line,
Reece

Make a blog they said...

It'll be fine they said.
I very recently (By this I mean a few minutes ago), embarked on a journey to start something creative again and I've discovered a corner of the internet which I hope I never have to return to.
Ever.

Oh yeah.

Hello.

Welcome to my new blog. (I had an exclamation mark here but it seemed kinda weird. Now it's a dot.)
Now with 98% less teenage angst!
Seriously, if you want a good laugh, go and read a Beginner's guide, I read over it before I started this and god damn, that is just way to funny to delete. Why did I share all that stuff?! Dammit past Reece.
It even looked weird, so dark and meaningful.

But, as you well know appearances can be deceiving which brings me back to the reason why we're here; Blogger template sites. I wanted to start off with a big bang, some interesting graphic or something which would make people go: Oooo-aaaa! I think I'll come back and read this when I'm on my phone in the loo. So I went to google, like any self respecting user of technology, and searched for free blogger templates.
The horror, dear reader. The horror.
Sure, there were some perfectly normal websites (Most of which demanded I part with money to take advantage of a look I'll probably get sick of in a few weeks.) but as I searched deeper I only managed to fall further into a horrible vortex of creepy anime pictures, I stress creepy, and pictures of androgynous Koreans. And to top it all off, most of them didn't even work!

I mean.
Erm.

So I'm stuck with this default skin, until I decide to brave the depths again.
This might be more informative (Baha, yeah right Reece) next time. I'm tired.

Places I'd like to visit: Black Books

I need an interesting sign off line,
Reece