[P2TM Chat] The Restaurant at the End of the Multiverse

[Gvozdevsk]

Aye. Country music is supposed to talk about growing up dirt poor and how your ma was an alcoholic and your pa either beat you or wasn't there, of how you killed a man who was cheating with your wife and went to prison, and so on.

Now it has deep message such as.

Trucks.

Beer.

Women.

Tight jeans.

Riverbanks

And award winning music videos of girls in revealing cloths or bikini's.

My mom randomly decided she's only going to listen to country music and it makes me angry every time I go home. At least she doesn't listen to Nickelback anymore though.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Now it has deep message such as.

Trucks.

Beer.

Women.

Tight jeans.

Riverbanks

And award winning music videos of girls in revealing cloths or bikini's.

My mom randomly decided she's only going to listen to country music and it makes me angry every time I go home. At least she doesn't listen to Nickelback anymore though.

I never did understand the hate towards that band.

[The Grey Wolf]

I don't even want to know.

It's not too disturbing. I cut much out. It was merely beginning to hit too close to home.

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

[Zeinbrad]

It's not too disturbing. I cut much out. It was merely beginning to hit too close to home.

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

Grey Wolf has written about a princess of somekind going from being rich to a young teenage prostitute.

I don't think Grey's medicine was working.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

It's not too disturbing. I cut much out. It was merely beginning to hit too close to home.

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

Well, obviously it's not going to make much of an impact if it's not related to something personal, no matter how heinous.

[Nationstatelandsville]

It's not too disturbing. I cut much out. It was merely beginning to hit too close to home.

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

Ha! Khan's done much worse.

But real art comes from yourself, and sometimes you cut too deep.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

Ha! Khan's done much worse.

But real art comes from yourself, and sometimes you cut too deep.

Indeed.

The scene in question was a scene about a character who has very heavy depression, and writing that scene was becoming uncomfortable for myself personally due to my own experiences. So I shortened it.

[The Grey Wolf]

I've written about incest, prostitution, and hinted at horrible things, yet I've never had this feeling.

If Khan'a decency outweighs my own, maybe I need to have a look at my life.

Have felt guilty about killing NPC's in rp's though, if that counts.

Grey Wolf has written about a princess of somekind going from being rich to a young teenage prostitute.

I don't think Grey's medicine was working.

A man tried to make me take my medicine once.

I made him take his.

[Zeinbrad]

Grey Wolf has written about a princess of somekind going from being rich to a young teenage prostitute.

I don't think Grey's medicine was working.

A man tried to make me take my medicine once.

I made him take his.

When you came out of the womb did they instantly put you in the psychiatric ward?

[The Grey Wolf]

A man tried to make me take my medicine once.

I made him take his.

When you came out of the womb did they instantly put you in the psychiatric ward?

Yeah. They say when I was born, and the doctor smacked me, the hospital called it "Bloody Friday."

Some say you can still hear the screaming. And it wasn't mine.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

Not really.

Had planned some pretty brutal posts for a 40K rp, but it died before I could work on 'em. Nothing that's disturbed me so far.

Come to think of it, maybe taking away a woman's newly bor baby wasn't very nice, but it was for the good of the Empire, and for the bad of those silly rebels in Skyrim!

[Zeinbrad]

When you came out of the womb did they instantly put you in the psychiatric ward?

Yeah. They say when I was born, and the doctor smacked me, the hospital called it "Bloody Friday."

Some say you can still hear the screaming. And it wasn't mine.

Were your parents a part of a satanic cult in any way?

[Esternial]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

One that disturbed others, sure, but not myself.

I think my short story entry was one of those posts.

viewtopic.php?p=12179042#p12179042
That baby got me second place

[The Grey Wolf]

Yeah. They say when I was born, and the doctor smacked me, the hospital called it "Bloody Friday."

Some say you can still hear the screaming. And it wasn't mine.

Were your parents a part of a satanic cult in any way?

They were Baptist.

So yeah.

[The Grey Wolf]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

Not really.

Had planned some pretty brutal posts for a 40K rp, but it died before I could work on 'em. Nothing that's disturbed me so far.

Come to think of it, maybe taking away a woman's newly bor baby wasn't very nice, but it was for the good of the Empire, and for the bad of those silly rebels in Skyrim!

Considering she threw herself out of a tower afterward, probably.

[Zeinbrad]

Were your parents a part of a satanic cult in any way?

They were Baptist.

So yeah.

Ah that's fine.

I have a friend who may or may not be affiliated with an Ebola Death Cult.

[The Armed Republic of Dutch Coolness]

Not really.

Had planned some pretty brutal posts for a 40K rp, but it died before I could work on 'em. Nothing that's disturbed me so far.

Come to think of it, maybe taking away a woman's newly bor baby wasn't very nice, but it was for the good of the Empire, and for the bad of those silly rebels in Skyrim!

Considering she threw herself out of a tower afterward, probably.

That worked out fine. Blaming the Thalmor always works, as does receiving knighthood!

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

One that disturbed others, sure, but not myself.

I think my short story entry was one of those posts.

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic ... #p12179042
That baby got me second place

I like it. It's good.

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic ... #p21959974

This is what disturbed me. It's not scary or horrifying or violent or whatnot. I've objectively written worse things. But it was the one that had a personal impact on myself, though not necessarily on others.

This bit:

Crowley sat quietly and alone in his Graveyard, meditating on the dying Earth before him. His eyes averted from the statues around him.

He poured himself a drink. A new statue had appeared in this Graveyard, and Crowley took a brief look at it. Minh Taka. Azazel had killed him. But now Azazel was in this Graveyard too, somewhere.

Crowley took a deep breath. The drink was good. The drink kept him numb, able to go on. He was hardly a man, after all. Just a corpse with a heartbeat, with wounds below the skin that ripped and hurt and enraged him every damn day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. That desperate rage, that hatred, that misery.

Crowley knew something very true, a truth that he knew that everyone knew about him, the sole certainty in his life. Aleister Crowley was worthless. Every fucking breath he took was a breath wasted.

He wondered idly if he could stop his breathing, whether that would kill him. But then he'd just start breathing yet again, giving into it at the last minute.

He wondered what it would like if his name joined those already here. Lewis's name was somewhere here too. Shit, so was Valaran Fixban. Richard.

He was so old now. So very old.

A drink. A chug. He wanted to drown in this, drown in a sea of numbness and silence. It was so much easier that way, then facing himself. He had looked in the mirror this morning, hardly recognising the man looking back at him. He glanced down at his hand, bandaged. He had picked the glass shards out shortly afterwards. He would need a new mirror.

Another drink. This bottle was endless. Deliberately so. Perhaps if he never moved forward, there would never be a past. Just the present. Just now. Just him and this bottle. So simple when looked at that way.

Life was simple then. Just stay still. Don't move on. He was worthless, but this bottle...ah, it helped. It helped him. The dull pain in his hand helped him, as did the pain in his wrists and elsewhere. That was a good pain. That distracted him.

He shut his eyes to keep away the ghosts. They were there. They were sad. They wanted to know why they weren't saved, why they were dead. Crowley could face them later. Later when he proved he couldn't save himself too.

Simple life. Simple bottle.

He suddenly threw the bottle to the ground. "FUCK YOU!" he roared suddenly into the empty space. "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU DIE DIE DIE DIE FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the only person in this pocket universe.

"Fuck me." he said sadly. He was alone. Alone with the ghosts. And the rage. And the hatred. And the misery.

Worthless life. Worthless bottle. Worthless Crowley.

[Esternial]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

Not really.

Had planned some pretty brutal posts for a 40K rp, but it died before I could work on 'em. Nothing that's disturbed me so far.

Come to think of it, maybe taking away a woman's newly bor baby wasn't very nice, but it was for the good of the Empire, and for the bad of those silly rebels in Skyrim!

Occasionally writing a descriptive death scene can be quite amusing. I've done so several times.

I think it was Elfen High where I did that several times, or was it Border of Reality? Maybe both.

[Esternial]

One that disturbed others, sure, but not myself.

I think my short story entry was one of those posts.

viewtopic.php?p=12179042#p12179042
That baby got me second place

I like it. It's good.

viewtopic.php?p=21959974#p21959974

This is what disturbed me. It's not scary or horrifying or violent or whatnot. I've objectively written worse things. But it was the one that had a personal impact on myself, though not necessarily on others.

This bit:

Crowley sat quietly and alone in his Graveyard, meditating on the dying Earth before him. His eyes averted from the statues around him.

He poured himself a drink. A new statue had appeared in this Graveyard, and Crowley took a brief look at it. Minh Taka. Azazel had killed him. But now Azazel was in this Graveyard too, somewhere.

Crowley took a deep breath. The drink was good. The drink kept him numb, able to go on. He was hardly a man, after all. Just a corpse with a heartbeat, with wounds below the skin that ripped and hurt and enraged him every damn day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. That desperate rage, that hatred, that misery.

Crowley knew something very true, a truth that he knew that everyone knew about him, the sole certainty in his life. Aleister Crowley was worthless. Every fucking breath he took was a breath wasted.

He wondered idly if he could stop his breathing, whether that would kill him. But then he'd just start breathing yet again, giving into it at the last minute.

He wondered what it would like if his name joined those already here. Lewis's name was somewhere here too. Shit, so was Valaran Fixban. Richard.

He was so old now. So very old.

A drink. A chug. He wanted to drown in this, drown in a sea of numbness and silence. It was so much easier that way, then facing himself. He had looked in the mirror this morning, hardly recognising the man looking back at him. He glanced down at his hand, bandaged. He had picked the glass shards out shortly afterwards. He would need a new mirror.

Another drink. This bottle was endless. Deliberately so. Perhaps if he never moved forward, there would never be a past. Just the present. Just now. Just him and this bottle. So simple when looked at that way.

Life was simple then. Just stay still. Don't move on. He was worthless, but this bottle...ah, it helped. It helped him. The dull pain in his hand helped him, as did the pain in his wrists and elsewhere. That was a good pain. That distracted him.

He shut his eyes to keep away the ghosts. They were there. They were sad. They wanted to know why they weren't saved, why they were dead. Crowley could face them later. Later when he proved he couldn't save himself too.

Simple life. Simple bottle.

He suddenly threw the bottle to the ground. "FUCK YOU!" he roared suddenly into the empty space. "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU DIE DIE DIE DIE FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the only person in this pocket universe.

"Fuck me." he said sadly. He was alone. Alone with the ghosts. And the rage. And the hatred. And the misery.

Worthless life. Worthless bottle. Worthless Crowley.

That's different, I feel. Posts like that makes you wonder if the writer is expressing their own personal thoughts through that character. They're not disturbing but rather...disconcerting, I suppose? Similar word, sorta different meaning. Kinda dark, in a way.

My brand favored brand of disturbing posts would make me a psychopath if you used the same reasoning.

[Agritum]

One that disturbed others, sure, but not myself.

I think my short story entry was one of those posts.

viewtopic.php?p=12179042#p12179042
That baby got me second place

I like it. It's good.

viewtopic.php?p=21959974#p21959974

This is what disturbed me. It's not scary or horrifying or violent or whatnot. I've objectively written worse things. But it was the one that had a personal impact on myself, though not necessarily on others.

This bit:

Crowley sat quietly and alone in his Graveyard, meditating on the dying Earth before him. His eyes averted from the statues around him.

He poured himself a drink. A new statue had appeared in this Graveyard, and Crowley took a brief look at it. Minh Taka. Azazel had killed him. But now Azazel was in this Graveyard too, somewhere.

Crowley took a deep breath. The drink was good. The drink kept him numb, able to go on. He was hardly a man, after all. Just a corpse with a heartbeat, with wounds below the skin that ripped and hurt and enraged him every damn day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. That desperate rage, that hatred, that misery.

Crowley knew something very true, a truth that he knew that everyone knew about him, the sole certainty in his life. Aleister Crowley was worthless. Every fucking breath he took was a breath wasted.

He wondered idly if he could stop his breathing, whether that would kill him. But then he'd just start breathing yet again, giving into it at the last minute.

He wondered what it would like if his name joined those already here. Lewis's name was somewhere here too. Shit, so was Valaran Fixban. Richard.

He was so old now. So very old.

A drink. A chug. He wanted to drown in this, drown in a sea of numbness and silence. It was so much easier that way, then facing himself. He had looked in the mirror this morning, hardly recognising the man looking back at him. He glanced down at his hand, bandaged. He had picked the glass shards out shortly afterwards. He would need a new mirror.

Another drink. This bottle was endless. Deliberately so. Perhaps if he never moved forward, there would never be a past. Just the present. Just now. Just him and this bottle. So simple when looked at that way.

Life was simple then. Just stay still. Don't move on. He was worthless, but this bottle...ah, it helped. It helped him. The dull pain in his hand helped him, as did the pain in his wrists and elsewhere. That was a good pain. That distracted him.

He shut his eyes to keep away the ghosts. They were there. They were sad. They wanted to know why they weren't saved, why they were dead. Crowley could face them later. Later when he proved he couldn't save himself too.

Simple life. Simple bottle.

He suddenly threw the bottle to the ground. "FUCK YOU!" he roared suddenly into the empty space. "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU DIE DIE DIE DIE FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the only person in this pocket universe.

"Fuck me." he said sadly. He was alone. Alone with the ghosts. And the rage. And the hatred. And the misery.

Worthless life. Worthless bottle. Worthless Crowley.

It didn't disturb me. Just hit me in a poignant matter. I treat RPs like movies I watch.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

I like it. It's good.

http://forum.nationstates.net/viewtopic ... #p21959974

This is what disturbed me. It's not scary or horrifying or violent or whatnot. I've objectively written worse things. But it was the one that had a personal impact on myself, though not necessarily on others.

This bit:

Crowley sat quietly and alone in his Graveyard, meditating on the dying Earth before him. His eyes averted from the statues around him.

He poured himself a drink. A new statue had appeared in this Graveyard, and Crowley took a brief look at it. Minh Taka. Azazel had killed him. But now Azazel was in this Graveyard too, somewhere.

Crowley took a deep breath. The drink was good. The drink kept him numb, able to go on. He was hardly a man, after all. Just a corpse with a heartbeat, with wounds below the skin that ripped and hurt and enraged him every damn day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. Every fucking day. That desperate rage, that hatred, that misery.

Crowley knew something very true, a truth that he knew that everyone knew about him, the sole certainty in his life. Aleister Crowley was worthless. Every fucking breath he took was a breath wasted.

He wondered idly if he could stop his breathing, whether that would kill him. But then he'd just start breathing yet again, giving into it at the last minute.

He wondered what it would like if his name joined those already here. Lewis's name was somewhere here too. Shit, so was Valaran Fixban. Richard.

He was so old now. So very old.

A drink. A chug. He wanted to drown in this, drown in a sea of numbness and silence. It was so much easier that way, then facing himself. He had looked in the mirror this morning, hardly recognising the man looking back at him. He glanced down at his hand, bandaged. He had picked the glass shards out shortly afterwards. He would need a new mirror.

Another drink. This bottle was endless. Deliberately so. Perhaps if he never moved forward, there would never be a past. Just the present. Just now. Just him and this bottle. So simple when looked at that way.

Life was simple then. Just stay still. Don't move on. He was worthless, but this bottle...ah, it helped. It helped him. The dull pain in his hand helped him, as did the pain in his wrists and elsewhere. That was a good pain. That distracted him.

He shut his eyes to keep away the ghosts. They were there. They were sad. They wanted to know why they weren't saved, why they were dead. Crowley could face them later. Later when he proved he couldn't save himself too.

Simple life. Simple bottle.

He suddenly threw the bottle to the ground. "FUCK YOU!" he roared suddenly into the empty space. "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU DIE DIE DIE DIE FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the only person in this pocket universe.

"Fuck me." he said sadly. He was alone. Alone with the ghosts. And the rage. And the hatred. And the misery.

Worthless life. Worthless bottle. Worthless Crowley.

That's different, I feel. Posts like that makes you wonder if the writer is expressing their own personal thoughts through that character. They're not disturbing but rather...disconcerting, I suppose? Similar word, sorta different meaning. Kinda dark, in a way.

My brand favored brand of disturbing posts would make me a psychopath if you used the same reasoning.

Indeed. In order to write that, I did have to go off experience and my own demons. I did not enjoy doing it, so I cut it off short.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Rest of you lot - ever written a post that's disturbed you?

Nope. Not that I can remember, anyway, which isn't saying much. I don't really bring here the things that disturb me, frankly.

[Esternial]

That's different, I feel. Posts like that makes you wonder if the writer is expressing their own personal thoughts through that character. They're not disturbing but rather...disconcerting, I suppose? Similar word, sorta different meaning. Kinda dark, in a way.

My brand favored brand of disturbing posts would make me a psychopath if you used the same reasoning.

Indeed. In order to write that, I did have to go off experience and my own demons. I did not enjoy doing it, so I cut it off short.

If I based all my characters on me, my thoughts and my demons you probably would start to think I'm a psychopath.

I'm not quite The Joker yet, though.