The pressure of a Blog:

Oh, the pressure of a blog - indeed, at the heart of this bemoanment, is the bane of any writers's existence - the pressure of words. The pressure to have all these ideas swimming round one's mind, hurling themselves and crashing into your psyche on a daily basis; the pressure to know that you NEED to write, that you NEED to be creative, that you NEED to tell the world something, ANYTHING, and do so in precious, intelligent, specific manner - to achieve that which is driving you inside, this mysterious pulse of creativity. The pressure of needing to be read, to be heard, to be profound, to be insightful, to be humorous, to be loved, to be crazy, to be lauded - the pressure to write well.

I feel this pressure like I feel my own skin, wound snare-drum tight around me, creaking and stretching with each breathe, needing to be caressed, needing to be released, needing to be sloughed off this writer's skin, and poored onto a page. Not in some horrific wax-museum-gone-wrong meltdown, not some shellacking of the page with a bombardment of random synopses firing at record speed, but in carefully constructed pieces of composition latched down, so when viewed from afar, the seemingly myopic pieces of wisdom and wretchedness form not a seared landscape of half-assed ramblings and utterences, but a kaleidescope of beauty, a stained-glass version of poetic arrangement of the written word, suffused with a kernal of wisdom and truth.

Oh, the pressure of a blog.

My Nazi-slaying lust has hit a snag:

'Tis not an admirable predicament I face, fellow Bloggers - I can no longer smote down the mighty fascist war machine that was Nazi Germany circa 1930's/40's - that is, until I fix that which is currently broken. The bane of my current existence? The pc game version of "Call of Duty 2."

Like my many brothers (and sisters) in arms before me, I answered the mighty call of duty when freedom and oppression cried "Save me!", albeit in an incredibly cowardly and geeky fashion. Nonetheless, I picked up the puissant power of the daunting six-disc install of this recent WWII shooter, and began my Russian campaign in earnest lo the other night. A thunderous clap of shelling did ensue as I led my squad through the trenches and razed buildings of our beloved Motherland, Russia, to a bloody but substantial victory in our once-proud Town Square. But arrive we did, with nary a moment to spare, as we crushed the would-be oppressors who dared venture into our domain, testing the unbending mettle of us fellow "солдат"s (soldiers).

Yet before I could transmit the Allied campaign to the African theatre, those officious gremlins stole into my machine, and via their collective and prodigious skill with all things mechanical, my diminutive green goblin wannabees did wreak havoc upon my precious game install, to the point where it no longer functions as desired. In short: me no kill bad Nazis - me no like.

Worry not, I shall keep freedom and liberation's bell a ringin', circa 1942 - 44, in but a few days. I just need to insert myself digitally back into the gaming world and pulverize the enemy to dusty, mite-sized bits, after I negotiate a playable ".exe" file from the grips of my currently non-function game. How will I achieve such a desirable end? Simple - I just need to think like a gremlin. Starting, of course, with munchin' some chicken after Midnight.

'Scuze me.