Once upon a time, I ate whatever and wherever I wanted, without even a trickle of apprehension. I stayed between 120 and 125 on the scale, and my tits never grew out of a size AA. I was flat, but goodness, I was tiny. And I mean tiny. Oh, those routines of coming out of the changing rooms, cheerfully content with my size 2's and size 4's.
Then something happened, and I noticed a little flab one day. No big deal, thought I. My ass stuck further out the back but it never really got bigger. My tits grew into a full A. Okay, this is good. I'll take the...lemme look at the scale...er....135? Alright, I guess. Wait, 140? What the hell is happening? Now I have nice respectable tits and a flabby belly....what the actual fuck? Did they make size 6 smaller? I know I'm not bigger, but...what's this flab? Oh fuck. Crunches. I don't mind exercises, but...the carpet in my apartment was laid about the same time as Sputnik and it's itchy and frayed and filled with lingering, crawly things that bite. So now if I want to fit into my clothes that somehow magically shrunk I have to find someplace to do these crunches, and every day, all day. And start eating Panera's miserly portions. And eating things like quinoa. And broccoli. All the time. Which means I'll have to cook...which means I'll have to spend all my time cleaning.
WHAT THE FUCK.
Can nothing be simple?
I'll do it for you, new dress. And I'll try not to resent you for it.
Bravely Default, thoughts.
It's the winter of 1992-93. A girl sits alone in a quiet, sunlit bedroom, the morning's rays flickering down onto her carpeted floor. She's home from school today - maybe her mom called her in sick, maybe there was a doctor's appointment. But she's here now, and the cold winter morning still sits peacefully outside her window. She sits down with some excitement in front of her SNES and little television and grabs the rented copy of Final Fantasy II, pushing it down into the console with a k-chunk. The story comes to life on her screen, and there are many enemies to be fought and characters to be renamed before she gets to the end. All she can hope is that her mother will let her keep it an extra day.
That's what video games mean to me, this snowy time of year. Each season has its video game nostalgia for me, but this is one of my favorite memories of winter. So needless to say, I was a little surprised when these memories came flickering back when I popped my brand new copy of Bravely Default into the brand new 3ds my partner got me. The gameplay and character system are a lovely throwback to the days of Final Fantasy II and III (which we Americans later found were actually FF IV and VI), with the separate screen for party management and the turn-based battles. I've actually heard some people say that it's a Final Fantasy game without the franchise name on it, which might be true. It's got the later FF additions we came to love...the job system, the spell names. But there's just...something...this game captures that few other RPG's have captured since childhood. And I'm at a loss to describe exactly what it is.
That's what video games mean to me, this snowy time of year. Each season has its video game nostalgia for me, but this is one of my favorite memories of winter. So needless to say, I was a little surprised when these memories came flickering back when I popped my brand new copy of Bravely Default into the brand new 3ds my partner got me. The gameplay and character system are a lovely throwback to the days of Final Fantasy II and III (which we Americans later found were actually FF IV and VI), with the separate screen for party management and the turn-based battles. I've actually heard some people say that it's a Final Fantasy game without the franchise name on it, which might be true. It's got the later FF additions we came to love...the job system, the spell names. But there's just...something...this game captures that few other RPG's have captured since childhood. And I'm at a loss to describe exactly what it is.
On Writing.
One time some preposterous twat tried to tell me that when you write,
you always write for other people. It’s all for them. Like some kind
of altruistic nightmare where you dress up in a giant ape suit made of
itchy fake fur and dance on a stage so brainless plebs can throw banana
peels and clumps of shit at you. I didn’t bother to correct her. It’s
good that she went on thinking that, and it’s good that other writing
failures believe that too. The dodgy outer suburbs of our global
village are packed with filthy tenements full of unsuccessful creatives,
and they all believe they’re better, smarter, more profound, than
everyone else in the world. It’s my firm conviction that they should
stay there, smelling bad and growing old in filthy cluttered apartments,
still trying feebly to convince the world that they’re brilliant. As
the last dying light of self-assurance in their eyes flickers out, their
hubris will fade into equally devout cynicism and bitterness at how
nobody gets recognized. Night will come, and maybe before they end
they’ll end up on the ground floor of some office building, possibly not
as arrogant as they were before, but believing with all their hearts
that it’s the only way to have a decent life. And their hatred and
jealousy, companions throughout life, will remain when they tumble into
their shallow, cheap graves.
Great authors, great artists, great photographers all have one thing in common. The best of them are generally humble people. Self-confident, of course, and self-assured. But there’s no cheap jabs there, no cold shoulders, no fawning ass-kissing for those one step up on the ladder of success. Great creatives are always great, from the time they’re obscure and on into their recognition, and by great, I mean that there’s something about them, some vibe of wafting talent you sense when you get near, some spark of greatness lurking about them. Greatness has no room for pompousness, and arrogance is the first herald of one’s miserable demise and imminent obscurity.
My name is Emma Yorke, and I’m here to make you uncomfortable.
Great authors, great artists, great photographers all have one thing in common. The best of them are generally humble people. Self-confident, of course, and self-assured. But there’s no cheap jabs there, no cold shoulders, no fawning ass-kissing for those one step up on the ladder of success. Great creatives are always great, from the time they’re obscure and on into their recognition, and by great, I mean that there’s something about them, some vibe of wafting talent you sense when you get near, some spark of greatness lurking about them. Greatness has no room for pompousness, and arrogance is the first herald of one’s miserable demise and imminent obscurity.
My name is Emma Yorke, and I’m here to make you uncomfortable.
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