Dawn Olmo

Interactivity, immersion and the flow theory as seen in the design of the user interfaces of massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPG)

It’s a working title, but I think I will do my thesis on just such a thing.

There’s just something about guns. I don’t know what it is. I can guess, though. Maybe it hearkens back to days of old, back to the time when men were men and women were hit over the head with a club if a man wanted her. Throughout time, men were the breadwinners, the food killers, the hot, hunky, tasty home protectors. They knew what they wanted, and they took it, or killed it. If you read any romance book, any at all, the men resemble that description. They are muscular, strong, and commanding. They only show their softer sides to the ladies they love, and only then when it seems they may be losing them. I could analyze that idea a bit more in-depth as well. How many people have been with a man like that? Sure, he shows his feelings, but not all the time, and not as much as he will if it looks like he may be on the verge of losing you to another piece of man-flesh. MmmmMMm man-flesh.

Anyway, whenever I see Dee cocking his pistol, or when I know he’s carrying, I get a little tingly. I find it sexy and scary. “What if it goes off?” I think. “What if, God forbid, something horrible happens right this minute, and I lose him forever?” There is this urge I get, this wanting to touch him while he’s touching it. Is that, what do those old people call it? TMI? Am I sharing too much? I don’t think so, I’m sure others out there can and will agree with me. I’m sure if he had a hobby of collecting bows and arrows it’d be the same. If I saw him pulling back on a string, all taught and quivering… yeah I can see that.

Now, here is where the title comes in. We’re upstairs, finally, after having forced Yvonne to watch Zombieland. My back is killing me, I’m tired as hell, and all I can think about is how nice it will be to lie down and maybe, perhaps, sleep. He brings up a box of ammo (unbeknownst to me) and takes the gun out of the safe and removes the clip. He recently bought “defensive” ammo (which mostly means the bullet won’t go through a body, therefore killing innocent bystanders) and wanted to change out the non-defensive bullets that were currently in the clip. Let me correct myself. It isn’t a clip, it’s a magazine. A clip is when the bullets are exposed, like in the old machine guns. A magazine is when the bullets are enclosed. I correct Dee all the time for his silly English snafu’s, he can correct me for inane gun-part names.

So, I look over and see him pulling back the slide, after having replaced the magazine. Now and then he forgets his 1911 has a hammer, and so the bullet wouldn’t pop into the chamber. This causes the slide to stay open. All I saw was him, pulling back the slide, looking all sexy and gangsta.

I wanted him. In that moment, the pain in my back, the long-ass day at school, the drive to and from Cheney, all these things were far away from my brain. My libido had kicked in. (This doesn’t happen often, just ask him.) I’d been chattering about something inconsequential when I noticed this, and he was doing his best to ignore me as he tried to figure out why the bullet wouldn’t engage. I ignored his ignoring of me and said, “Hey you know what?” I was going to tell him how sexy he was, and how much I wanted to throw him down and make sweet love to him. (Please don’t vomit, that hurts me.)

Instead, without even looking at me, he said, “What! I’m kinda doing something here!”

Instantly, I felt like weeping. Like crying and bawling like a big old baby, and I knew it was stupid for me to feel that way. I mean, he was holding something that was potentially dangerous, something that could perhaps maim or kill either of us, and I was thinking with my she-dick.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being a tad too touchy.

But, he doesn’t know what he missed, because my libido shriveled into its regular tiny, cranky, dried-up husk and went to sleep. I may be too touchy, but now he’s not getting any touchy. Ha! So there.

Now, my back hurts again. I’m going to curl up with my netbook and read some more from Life After Death by Jennifer Adams, and then, maybe sleep. Perhaps to dream. I wonder if I will dream of some hot, hunky, hunter from the great unknown, training his pistol into the distance, telling me, “Stay back, love. Something dark and wicked this way comes.”

That’s right. I’m changing the world, one word at a time. I started at Urbandictionary.com. Soon, my neologisms will be uttered at all sorts of restaurants that use chopsticks. Korean, Thai, Chinese, you name it, you will hear them.

Although with one of the words, I can’t take full credit, as I searched for it after I “invented” it and found it mentioned on google quite a few times, the second word was not found. Also, I’m the only one who put it up on Urban Dictionary, so there.

I need to go now though. I have to run to the college bookstore and buy another electronic pencil sharpener. This time, I’m told, not a pink one. As though pink electric pencil sharpeners are what separates men from the boys. Go figure.

My words are here: http://www.urbandictionary.com

My friend Jennifer took this pictures.  I love them. Zoe Madeline is 3 weeks old in these shots.

On the 9th of March, I had a ton of contractions, but they petered out as soon as I got to the birth center. On the 10th, I went to my appointment and my blood pressure was pretty high. Turns out, it had been pretty high. My blood pressure is not normally high, but had been for the last three weeks. I didn’t know that. I didn’t want to die (You can die from pre-eclampsia) or wait for symptoms to worsen. Plus, I was already at 4 cm dilation.

So on Wednesday, March 11th I went in to the birth center to get things rolling. I had my first contraction at 3:15pm and at 6:13pm Zoe Madeline was born weighing 6lbs 6oz and 19.25 inches long.

She is adorable, by the way.

This is my baby. It’s dark. I blame the camera (want to buy me a new one?) and photobucket. It’s not this dark on my computer…

Cheyenne Jackson was a friend of mine from High School. He always was into acting and had a great voice. I have to say that while all the girls lusted after him, I never did. Sure, I thought he was cute and hot and all that, but to me, he was always just a friend. I never thought of him in any other way. I thought about his older brother in lustful ways. OMG, did I ever. Well, I thought of A LOT of guys in other ways, but never him. So, when I was told he was gay (in a shocking voice, as though it was a horrible thing) I just nodded and said, “I thought so.” It was just something I’d always wondered about him… The person who told me said, “He always went out with the most beautiful girls in school, but always broke up with them when it got too real.” Or something close to that, maybe she said intimate, but this girl isn’t the smartest kid in kindergarten, so I could be wrong. I thought back to all the girls I’d known about, and really, she was way too liberal with the word beautiful. This is my catty side coming out, of course, but one of the girls he dated was really really skinny. She looked like a reanimated skeleton. She would not have been beautiful if she’d had fat under that skin, or muscle. I feel mean saying that, because she was beautiful inside, I suppose, though I never got to know her well. Anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal to me. I love his website (http://cheyennejackson.com) and wonder who keeps it up. I doubt it is him. So, yeah. Ok. Whatever Dawn, let’s get back on track.

Anyway, I dvr’d the early show last friday, cuz he was on it. Damn them waiting until the end of the show to show Xanadu and Cheyenne. But it was neat seeing him on my TV, when before I’d only seen him in my classes, or on stage at school. I was supposed to play his mother in Bye Bye Birdie, but my stepmom was being whorey and didn’t want to drive to Newport everyday to pick me up so another girl took the part. I’m not bitter. Really. I left Newport after 10th grade, so I missed any other performances he may have been in…

So it was awesome. Yvonne said, “This looks gay.” And then I found this on YouTube and laughed my ass off.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GAFpdQ6ZAfA

I love Nathan Lane. I’m a bit jealous of Cheyenne, I’ll have to admit it. Such a jerk!

I’m kidding. He’s never been a jerk. I just wish he’d hurry it up and make it big so that the few things I have from him could be worth something lol. Not that I’d sell the picture of me he drew, or the signature book he said “You can too sing!” in (see, he was always nice) but it’d be nice to frame lol.

Well. Anyway, just wanted to share. It’s too bad they were all wearing those fakey underwear. If i was more into broadway and youtube, I’d know who this cubby bernstein fella was. I’m not, and I don’t care, really, so I’m not going to bother looking into it.

On a different note, I finally get a chance to read for pleasure and I can’t find any books that interest me. There is this one that Theresa at the S. Hill hastings recommended, it says, “Awe inspiring!” on the cover. It is called, Across the Face of the World and not even half-through the book I have found a sentence with the title’s name in it. I don’t know if the title was the author’s idea, or if it was the editor’s idea. It doesn’t matter… it was a bad one, plus I have not been inspired to awe. I’ve been inspired to, “Ahhh this is crap,” but that’s it. The writing is horrible (it feels like something that was never edited for clarity) and the storyline is the same storyline you can find in ANY fantasy book. It is like the author liked the ideas from all the books he’s read and tried to incorporate them into one book. It keeps pissing me off. I keep reading it, hoping that maybe it will get better. I am starting to give up hope.

It makes me wonder if it is because I’ve been ruined by all these creative writing classes, or if it’s really bad. Then I remember The Name of the Wind and realize that no, it isn’t that. The Name of the Wind is an awesome book. I fell in love with it… so in all likelihood, it’s a horrible book.

Um… baby is cruising and crawling. Today she stood up next to the table without holding on. It won’t be long before she’s walkin’. Yay. She is into EVERYTHING. Her favorite thing to do is to take things out of things. If it’s in a box, she empties it, a bag… empty. Anything she gets her hands on, empty. I’ve also moved her to yvonne’s room and moved Yvonne to the girls’s room, and she is sleeping all night long. Yay! I get sleep. It is nice.

I’m bored out of my mind.

Haven’t had the chance to read the whole thing yet, but I will. Until then, this is what I’m talking about:

Link (Or you can click on the title)

Blurb:

6. Harshness and critique

This is an unending debate. Let me begin with what I consider to be absolutely unacceptable: personal attacks, racial comments, sexist remarks, and other such idiocy. This is called rudeness. Rudeness is bad. It is different from harshness, because harshness usually has a point and if taken in the right way, can work wonders.

Now, should you be harsh? No, I don’t think so. Firm is better than harsh, but a very fine line separates these two. My rule so far is: if you can’t take someone giving you a critique that is harsh, you certainly shouldn’t be offering a harsh critique to someone else. This said, I would say that harsh critique is acceptable. “Go read a book,” is critique and good critique at that, no matter how much it stings. I would suggest not phrasing it in the same way, and in the event that you feel it is necessary to gear the writer towards better writers, suggest it carefully. Ask what kind of books they read, how often they read, and so on. Suggest books that you think can help them.

A couple of things to consider:

The maturity of the writer: It is important for you to know beforehand whether the writer is capable of taking your criticism or not. Since this is hard to gauge over the Internet (unless you are already familiar with the person whose writing you are critiquing), it is safer to avoid harshness of any kind.

We’re talking about deviantART: There are no moderators who will come swooping down to defend your harsh critique. There are GDs, staff members, and other influential types, yes, but the vastness of the site prevents them from noticing every little quibble.

In conclusion, be honest and firm; try not to be harsh, unless absolutely necessary.

Extra reading:
A discussion at *Amberlouie’s journal about harshness in critique; this is my rather personal opinion on the matter

Now this is from deviantart.com and yes, it’s based on critiques there, however a lot of it can be digested and diverted into other areas of life. Email critique, blog critique, one on one critique… grad school critique.

Chris. You are mean.

I had an idea for a story. It is a horrible story. It came from a dream. Why do I dream like this?

Experimentation

A woman goes out with this nerdy guy at her work to be nice. Somehow, he takes over her mind and she finds herself naked in his shower, then naked in his bed. He comes in with a bucket of liquid metal and tells her to place her legs in it. She says no again and again and blacks out.

She wakes up in a hospital room, drugged and pregnant. She is in an insane asylum and has no idea who she is. The man comes in, rubs her baby bump and sits down. “It’s a girl,” he says. She smiles at him and feels the baby kick. He has a bag with him, a shopping bag from a well-known shopping center. He takes out a pair of bronzed feet. They remind her of bronzed baby booties, but they are size sevens. She smiles at him uncertainly. Why is he showing her this? He says, “Surely you remember, Barbara.” Memories suddenly cascade through her mind.

She sees him over her, pumping into her fiercely while she screams in pain. Her legs ache horribly and feel heavy. He is raping her, and has raped her again and again for the past few weeks. Suddenly he stops, and says, “I can’t do it. You’re getting rank.” He gets off her, covers her up, and finishes on her face. It’s quite disgusting. She spits and continues to scream. She tries to sit up and pain encircles her brain. She uncovers herself and stares down in horror at what has become of her legs. Her feet are encased in bronze and just above the metal her legs are shriveled and black. Bright lines of blood flow up her legs, past her knee, nearly to the middle of her thigh. There are maggots feasting freely in the flesh of her calf. Her legs radiate pain like a light bulb radiates light, and she wonders that he can’t feel it as well. “What have you done?” She asks.

He laughs, shrugs, and says, “Just something else to add to my trophy room.” Her mind drifts to other memories, they happen in a quick succession; she is reliving months of pain and horror in a matter of seconds. She removes the blanket and see the stumps that are her legs.

“Oh, good.” He says, “You’ve removed the blanket for me. That will make this so much easier.” He cracks his knuckles, a habit she is sure has always grossed her out. “I realized after I found out you were pregnant that I do want a baby to raise.” He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. That was one thing that had never changed in his face. His bald head now was full of hair… his eyes were no longer brown. He didn’t even go by the same name as he did when she worked with him. She was starting to remember more than the pain and hurt he inflicted in the past.

“I’m not Barbara.” She whispers. He reaches into his shopping bag and brings forth a metal hanger and slowly starts straightening it out. She tries to scoot away, but she doesn’t have the strength. “What are you doing?”

“We’ll just have to try again, love.” He says. “I want me a son.” Then he forces her stubs apart and slowly inserts the hanger. “You may feel a pinch.” He says with the same soulless smile. Then he forces the hanger home and says, “Don’t be in such a hurry to push me away.”

She wakes up again. It’s a new day. A nurse walks in and taps the I.V. hanging out of her arm. “How are we today, Mrs. Cleever?” She asks. The woman remembers her pregnancy and reaches down to feel her now flat stomach. It isn’t the smooshy softness she expects, it has an odd firmness she doesn’t associate with the loss of a baby.

“My baby?” She asks.

The nurse rolls her eyes. “Not again, Mrs. Cleever. We’ve been through this before.”

The woman feels tears course down her face. “What happened? Please? I don’t remember.”

The nurse seems to feel some pity and finally tells her she lost it. “Spontaneous abortion. If you’d been a couple weeks further along, it’d be called a premature birth.” The woman decides the pity idea was wrong and lets herself cry. She cries until she vomits all over herself, bringing the nurse back in, and she’s drugged into another sleep.

She wakes up to “Ted” walking into the room. She feels fear at his presence, but doesn’t know why. He smiles at her and whispers, “Hello, love. Ready to try for a boy? I have it on good authority that you are ovulating today.”

She looks at him and almost says no. But then she thinks, a baby… I need a baby. She nods and he shuts the door to her private room. She willingly takes him into her arms. She doesn’t know it, but this is the first time she allows him to kiss her. He takes his time with her, makes love to her as he perhaps has always wanted to. She wants to wrap her legs around him, but she can’t; they are gone. Instead she clasps him to her, they finish together and he whispers, “I love you, Susie.”

“I love you too, Ted.” The fear is beginning to ebb away. He smiles again, but it reaches his eyes this time. She doesn’t quite remember the other smiles, but she does remember that he’s always been there for her. During this whole hospital stay, he is the only one who has come to visit her. He is the only one to show he cares.

“It’s time for you to come home.” He states. She sighs with relief.

It’s good to be going home with the man you love.

My friend just became the owner of two hamsters (more power to her, I really have no luck with them). Then, she made a myspace page for them.

Am I the only one who finds this odd? A lot of Tallulah’s friends (the only hamster name I recall at the moment) are also hamsters with myspace pages. There seems to be a trend.

I think I will make one for my dog. His profile will say bi, because all dogs like it both ways. Then, it will say, “I’m nearly 7, but act 2. I am looking for a home with people who appreciate me and are willing to put up with my shit.” Then he will post a few pictures of himself.

• “This is me in the snow.”
• “This is me in the grass.”
• “This is me sleeping.”
• “This is me sleeping again.”

In the about me section, he will say, “I enjoy barking at nothing, loudly, late at night. I am afraid of loud noises; these can be anything from a firecracker to a motorcycle. Loud noises scare me so much, I want nothing more than to be under my master’s legs, where I can shake uncontrollably. I do not care if there is a door between him and I. I will dig my way through that door. I also enjoy peeing in the bathroom. I have not yet made it to the toilet, and only go on the carpet, but I have hopes that one day, I will be able to go where the master does.” (It’s my belief that if the master hit the toilet better, then this wouldn’t be a problem.) He will go on to say, “I am NOT a virgin! YES! But it’s been years since I’ve been around any bitches. I am looking for a steady relationship.”

Ok, see, now I’ve really gone overboard. Maybe that is how it started–as a joke, and soon it turned into the thing to do!

Well, I’m not havin’ it. I’m not. That’s just too much work.