Zorba the Hutt (zorbathut) wrote,
Zorba the Hutt
zorbathut

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godshands | what's so different about me? | closed doors

In some ways, it's been really nice to do this level editing again . . . I'm finally remembering what it's like to create something that you can really see and taste. (so to speak). With just a few clicks I can . . . create a cylinder, turn it on its side. Texture it - now it's steel. Add a dome on top. Make the cylinder hollow, add a sliding door . . . and hey, I've got a teleporter pod. And it's *real*. That's the impressive part. It's not just a bunch of polygons or digital information, it's this object you can walk into, you can shoot, whatever. Just click the few buttons . . . and there it is.

Godshands.

I just remembered that when I was working on part of this level . . . I needed to do some adjustments to a certain chunk, so a few manipulations and all the vertexes lit up white, like a strange horseshoe-shaped christmas tree. I needed a better angle, so I shifted the camera around - with the 3d schematic of what I was modifying lying in front of me. Zoom in on one vertex and pull the lines together to make a seamless connection, then back off again . . . no solder to clean up, no welding torch, no need to let the metal cool or anything, you just say, Join yourselves! and they do.

I can't explain it too well . . . it's the feeling of seeing this whole 3d world in front, and knowing that you are the ultimate power in it - and knowing that your goal is to be completely invisible. It shouldn't look like an area a diety walked through. It shouldn't look like you paid attention to every joint, every juncture, every surface - that the grass was placed by hand, that the bush in the corner was a moment of pure genius. It should look like it just happened - like it was built by a dozen workers in a few weeks to vague plans, and that it was Good Enough for its purposes, and maybe modified later. Not that it was the carefully constructed brainchild of a being that could throw up a mile-high wall in mere seconds. Mile-high walls are bad form, after all.

And, of course, the inevitable: and here I am, trying to write an epic on a piece of paper that doesn't accept the letter "m"! GRRRRR. Or the word "orangutan". I *know* half of these restrictions have been avoided, and I *know* I'm using obsolete software. Version 1.5b of a package that's up to 3.2! Every fifteen minutes I have to stop and tangle with arcane error messages just to be able to see what it is I'm doing . . . this is going to drive me crazy here.

Sigh.

Speaking of crazy people . . .

why on earth is it that everyone's been dealing out compliments to me of one sort or another?

Count:

Four people who have said I'm nice.
Three people who have said I'm funny.
Two who have said I'm nice *and* funny. (yes, I'm counting double here.)
Three who have given me a significant compliment within three days of meeting me.
Two who have said I'm more sensitive than the average male.
Two who have wanted to know my real name within two days of meeting me.
One who said it was a really great name. (one who balanced that out, but that's not the point ;) )

Admittedly, yes, I'm covering five people here, total. But still - three days!

Yes, I try to be nice and all - but I don't succeed *that* well!

sheezus . . . if you keep complimenting me, I might start really believing it, and *none* of us wants to have to worry about airborne swine. (swines?)

Guess this is going to turn into a three-parter . . . because I don't feel like ending this on such a cheerful note. (I'm also not sure I could stand another barrage of "but we like you!" - might die of saccharine overdose or something :P (it's appreciated, really! (it's just that I'm not quite sure what the journal might look like to random people wandering through. (not that I'm likely to get any of those. (special kudos to anyone who knows what comic I'm imitating.)))))

One of my good friends - one of my good underage friends (not that that specifier should be necessary, really, with the number of underage girls I seem to have somehow accumulated, but anyway) one of my good underage friends thinks she might be pregnant.

Just think about that for a minute . . . if she is, by the time she has the baby, she *still* won't be as old as I was when I left high school.

. . . And the weird part is, I'm not worried at all about the baby. Not a bit. She's mature enough to handle a baby no problem. Geez, there are maybe only half a dozen people on my friends list that I *wouldn't* believe mature enough to handle a baby.

It's *her* that I'm more concerned about. If I had a baby, I wouldn't end up in the dorm at Oberlin. I wouldn't have met friends there. I wouldn't have done a total personality shift and gotten this gregarious. I wouldn't have . . . well, I wouldn't have met her.

Of course, I can't say my life wouldn't be better with that other path either . . . ah, chaos theory, how would I ever do without you? But . . . it's just so much that she'd miss.

And, of course, it's a lot that I'd miss also. It's a lot you miss either way - raising a child while still underage is, admittedly, a very special experience that very very few people have.

Every time you make a major decision, you're closing off thousands, perhaps millions, of very distinct paths your life could take. Want to go to college? Want to drop out and go to trade school? How about dodging straight into the workforce? Maybe you'll become a world-famous professor. Or maybe you'll take up underwater welding, and work four weeks out of the year, and spend the rest of your life having fun. Or maybe you'll be one of the founders of Megaware, and buy out Microsoft in a decade.

or maybe you'll find yourself overqualified in a rapidly dwindling market, or maybe you'll lose a limb in an industrial accident, or maybe your highest career moment will be manager at a McDonald's in Nowhere, South Dakota.

There's no way to know. Ever. At any moment I could be passing up my chance for true happiness, and so could any of you. If I ran outside right now, maybe I'd run into a beautiful 19-year-old girl who got distracted by an interesting quirk in data structures analysis and is going to Oberlin next year to learn how to draw, and we'd die together in bed at the age of 132. Or maybe I'd run into a black gang member who'd shoot me. (if anyone would shoot me in this neighborhood, it *would* be a black gang member - this is not racism, it's probability theory.)

How can you know?

All you can do is say "I hope it works out alright in the end . . . whatever you choose." And leave it at that.

Gak. Didn't mean to write this much. Do I *always* rant this much when I talk?
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