random stuff

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

Done!

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[AYM]

View attachment 23717

Tim Tim Tim Tim Tim Tim ??

 

[Corty]

View attachment 23711

I know all three of them.

 

[Tempokai]

- YouTube

Enjoy the videos and music you love, upload original content, and share it all with friends, family, and the world on YouTube.

youtube.com

 

[Tempokai]

A bedtime story for those whose experiencing heavy fog outside:

Spoiler

Once upon a mundane Thursday, our intrepid narrator, a legendary hero in his own living room, decided to embark on an epic quest. The quest, mind you, wasn't to slay dragons or rescue damsels in distress. No, it was something far more perilous and daunting - venturing outside to restock groceries. You see, after a week of subsisting on the culinary delights of instant noodles and the occasional brave venture into the uncharted territory of canned beans, his fridge was as barren as a desert and his stomach as grumbly as a bear in hibernation.

With the courage of a thousand men, or at least the courage of one moderately hungry man, he flung open the front door, ready to face the world. But alas, the world had other plans. A thick, Silent Hill-esque fog blanketed the outside world, turning his familiar neighborhood into a scene straight out of a low-budget horror movie.

He stood there, on the threshold of his abode, staring into the impenetrable mist. "Fuck no," he eloquently uttered, the sheer poetic nature of his words enough to make Shakespeare weep in his grave. This was not the weather he had signed up for. No siree. He was prepared for the glare of the sun, the chill of the wind, maybe even a drizzle. But a fog so thick you couldn't see the hand in front of your face? That was where he drew the line.

Retreating back into the safety of his fortress of solitude, our hero decided that starvation was a preferable fate to wandering into the foggy abyss. He slithered back to his room, moving with the grace of a sloth on tranquilizers. Once in the sanctuary of his bedroom, he transformed into a creature most ancient and wise - an insect curling into itself, seeking refuge under the safe, cozy environs of his bed covers.

There, in the cocoon of his blankets, he pondered the mysteries of life. Why leave the comfort of a warm bed to face the unknown? Why face the fog when you could face the far more manageable task of figuring out if the fuzzy thing at the corner of his room was a dust bunny or an actual bunny? These were the questions that plagued his mind as he lay in wait, a valiant knight in pajama armor, a solitary guardian of his own lethargy.

As the hours ticked by, our hero's stomach continued its symphony of growls and grumbles, a reminder of his failed quest. But fear not, for our narrator was a man of action - or at least, a man capable of action if really, really pushed. He decided to undertake a different kind of quest, one that required bravery of a different sort. He reached for his phone, the modern-day Excalibur, and summoned sustenance through the ancient ritual of online food delivery.

With a few taps and swipes, he vanquished his hunger, proving once again that in the modern age, one need not face the elements to feast like a king. And as he waited for his delivery, snug under his blankets, he couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Sure, he hadn't braved the fog, but he had braved the far scarier task of choosing between pepperoni and Margherita pizza.

Thus, our narrator's tale comes to a close, not with a bang, but with a whimper - or more accurately, with the sound of a doorbell and the aroma of pizza. And as he feasted in his bed-turned-dining hall, he realized something profound - sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is nothing at all. And with that thought, he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a world where groceries shopped for themselves, and fog was just something that happened to other people. The end.

 

[Woolen_Monkey]

 

[NotaNuffian]

View attachment 23725

Try run in AI again?

 

[Tempokai]

A bedtime story for the 2000s nostalgia song listening aficionados:

Spoiler

Ah, nostalgia. That treacherous, rose-tinted beast that makes us reminisce about the 'good old days'—a time when our biggest worry was whether our favorite TV show would be renewed for another season. But then, like an uninvited guest at a party, comes the memory of Enrique Iglesias' "Do You Know?" Ah yes, the song that haunts me like a persistent telemarketer who just won't take "no" for an answer. It's been 20 years, and yet, here it is, prancing around in my brain like it owns the place.

Let's be clear: I have no fond memories attached to this song. None. Zero. Nada. Its persistent echo in my mind is not due to some lost love or a poignant life moment. Oh no, it's because of the girl whose name escapes me—let's call her Jane Doe for narrative convenience. She sat at the next table in high school, blissfully unaware of the auditory torture she inflicted upon her fellow classmates with her technologically archaic flip phone and its equally ancient headphones.

These headphones, mind you, were so poorly designed that they should have been featured in a museum exhibit titled "The Dark Ages of Personal Audio." The song, with its repetitive chorus and Enrique's earnest crooning, leaked out of those headphones like a faucet that just wouldn't stop dripping, no matter how hard you tried to tighten it.

"Do you know what it feels like," Enrique would ask, over and over, as if he were probing the depths of our teenage souls. But the truth was, Enrique, we didn't know. We didn't know why this song was popular. We didn't know why Jane Doe played it on loop. And most importantly, we didn't know how to ask her to please, for the love of all that is good and pure, stop playing that song.

So here we are, two decades later, and that song is still lurking in the corners of my mind, popping up at the most inopportune moments—like during an important meeting or while trying to meditate. It's become the soundtrack to a memory I never asked for, a reminder of Jane Doe and her musical taste that was as questionable as the fashion choices of the early 2000s.

In conclusion, they say we don't look for old songs; we search for the memories associated with them. Well, in this case, I'd like to kindly return this memory. No refund necessary. Just take it back, Enrique. Please.

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Representing_Tromba]

 

[Tempokai]

A bedtime story for the writers whose novels get accused as harem stories:

Spoiler

Ah, let me tell you about the time I had a nightmare. No, not the kind where you're in high school, naked, with a math test you didn't study for. This was a writer's nightmare, the kind that makes you reconsider your life choices. So there I was, deeply engrossed in writing my magnum opus, a web novel titled "Dreams and Diesel". Catchy, right?

The story? Oh, it's about this average Joe, a truck driver by day, monster slayer by night. In his dreams, he's battling eldritch horrors with a sword that has more backstory than most of my characters. By day, he's just trying not to fall asleep at the wheel. A tale of high adventure and low diesel prices, a riveting mix of supernatural and slice-of-life. Imagine "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" meets "Ice Road Truckers". Pure literary gold.

But the real horror began when I decided to browse the comments about my webnovel. Let's be honest, expecting constructive criticism from internet comments is like expecting a cat to fetch your newspaper. Among the sea of "lol"s and "update plz" was this gem: a reader complaining that my story was turning into a harem. A harem! In my carefully crafted narrative of man versus monster, truck versus traffic!

I paused, contemplating this accusation. The protagonist's world did feature three women: his boss, a no-nonsense lady who could arm-wrestle a bear, and the twins, car repair mechanics who knew more about engines than I knew about plot twists. But a harem? The very notion was as absurd as a vegan at a barbecue.

To be fair, the twins did occasionally flirt with the protagonist, but only in the way that ensures a generous tip, not a place in his heart. And his boss? Please, the only thing she was interested in was getting those deliveries on time and making sure he didn't doze off on the highway.

Yet, here was this reader, implying my deep, character-driven story was just a thinly-veiled excuse for some juvenile fantasy. As if I'd stoop to such cliches. Next, they'd be saying my protagonist was secretly a long-lost prince or something equally trite.

In my agitation, I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, I was in a nightmare. A nightmare where my novel had indeed become a harem story. The truck driver, now inexplicably a chiseled heartthrob, was being fawned over by not just three, but a dozen adoring women, each more one-dimensional than the last. They followed him around like puppies, cooing at his every monster-slaying feat. The plot had become a convoluted mess of love triangles, romantic misunderstandings, and the occasional token monster for good measure.

In this nightmare, my once-praised story was now being ridiculed across the internet. Critics called it "a misguided attempt at genre-blending that fails spectacularly." Readers were abandoning ship faster than rats from a sinking ship. My literary career was sinking into the abyss, dragged down by the weight of its own absurdity.

I woke up screaming, a cold sweat coating my forehead. It took me a moment to realize it was just a dream, a writer's anxiety given form. The comments on my webnovel were still the usual mix of praise, demands for updates, and the odd critique, but no mention of a harem. A wave of relief washed over me, followed closely by the realization that I needed to get back to writing.

So, back to the drawing board I went, determined to steer my story away from the nightmare I had envisioned. I wrote with renewed vigor, ensuring that my protagonist's journey was focused on his battles with monsters and his struggles with the realities of truck driving. No harems, no unnecessary romantic subplots. Just a man, his truck, and the open road, with a side of eldritch abominations.

And if, perchance, a reader still sees a harem where there is none, well, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. In this case, it's harem elements in the eye of the reader. But as long as my protagonist keeps slaying monsters and making his deliveries on time, I think I can live with that. After all, every story is a Rorschach test, and who am I to argue with the wild interpretations of my readers? As long as they keep reading, I'll keep writing. Harems, monsters, and all.

 

[J_Chemist]

View attachment 23420

I feel attacked.