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School's out!

2010-06-13 18:40:47 by DevilDog016

Hell Yeaaaaaah!

Just 3 more days of school!
Hello, summer!
Hello, sleeping 'till 10!
Hello, spending entire days outside and organizing online killfests!
Bye-Bye homework, loud lunch-breaks and annoying idiots fighting over the ketchup bottles!

Finally. I can start having some real goddamn fun.


/* */

With regret in my soul, I say that my dog, Tara, passed from this world.

We got her 12 years ago, when she was just 3 year old, abandoned by a hunter who didn't need her. She was a unique dog: peaceful, loving, loyal, determined and tenacious. I couldn't have possibly asked for more, and most certainly this world would not have been able to provide no better friend and companion as Tara was. Every walk was a joy, and every moment at home was full of attention and fun. Never did she fail to impress us with her love and infinite energy, and she charmed everyone who met her.
However, time does not stop for anyone, and age shows its signs. Even the unstoppable determination of the freest soul cannot resist the decay of our mortal vessels. Muscles weaken, senses falter, and you become vulnerable and fragile. She had many illnesses, most of which she fought off.. She lost an eye, broke a leg, suffered from Cushing's... but in the end, she just couldn't fight anymore. For the last year, I've carried her, in my arms, up and down the stairs, because her legs were too weak to help her up the stairs. She could walk, but she couldn't climb. I kept her comfortable when she was scared, I kept her warm when she was cold; she was always free to do as she pleased, no limitations at all; and we both benefited enormously our unique relationship of love and friendship. She was the reason I'd smile when coming home from school, she was the reason I'd smile when sitting at the TV, she made me - us happy just by being there.

She was 15. She died on a warm, sunny May day, surrounded by her family. We were there, I was there for her, as I promised her I'd be whenever I could.

The vets come in their black van, solemn yet cold. It's their job to end lives, so they can't start getting sentimental with you - it's not "professional". They smile comfortingly for a second, shuffle in silently. Open their kits, ask us to sign some papers, give some information about Tara. They ask us to sit by her as they proceed with their job.
It's such a simple and straightforward procedure, yet your heart is ripped apart by anguish and pain, each passing second stabbing another cold dagger in your soul.
In half an hour, all the preparation steps are done.

I try to fight back the sorrow and the rage, and to maintain your composure. It is excruciatingly hard, to keep yourself from not breaking down. In the end, I give her a hug, a final kiss on the nose, I thank her for making my life happy, and I take 5 minutes to just silently vent out my feelings, my head on the pillow, next to hers...

Death, though, comes in less than 10 seconds. It is calm and uneventful, as she falls asleep first because of the anesthetics. Then her heart beats slower and slower... and she is gone.

We pay our final respects. Then, they take her to incinerate her and return us her ashes into a funeral urn. A beautiful dog, a paragon of energy and love, now encased in a cold and lifeless ceramic urn.

The black van becomes the ghostly ferry, forlornly drifting away.
The road melts, becoming the deathly-still waters of the Styx.
They become Charon.

And I am left only with memories, the photos in the album, and a cold, black emptiness in my soul. I come home and it is empty, devoid of any happiness. Tara is here no more, sitting on the couch, looking at the door, waiting there for me. The hazel eye that radiated love and care is now closed and plunged into darkness. The house is silent, as the leash with the little cat bell is now lying on the table. I wake up in the morning, and she is not here.
I will never, for my whole life, forget you, Tara. You were there for us, providing us with interminable love and loyalty, making our days happy and warm. I will be here for you, as I promised you long ago, making sure no one will forget you. Every morning, every night, every moment of the day, I will keep you in my heart, remembering you as the best friend I ever had, have, and will have. And maybe, one day, we'll go for a walk in the big dog park in the sky...

~ Rest In Peace ~ 1997 - 2010 ~

The death of an unique friend.

Important Notice.

2010-05-19 21:38:58 by DevilDog016

filler text.

Important Notice.

Room Re-Deco

2010-01-18 21:15:18 by DevilDog016

Fuck, it's taking long.

For two days I'm gonna sit with a fucking 8-foot tall closet frame in my new room. Thing's fucking huge, in the dark it damn freaks me out 'cause it looks like the Monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey
Old desk is gone, to be replaced with a sleek frosted glass one. Gonna have to move everything from my old room to my new one.

Had to move my entire rig, cables n' all, out of my room. Doing homework in the office room. Pisses me off. Had to move like 3 goddamn bookcases worth of books and mags, 'cause the old ones didn't fit the new bed and furniture. Gotta assemble 3 new bookcases (yes, I buy functional and nice-looking bookcases from IKEA, and I pay 3 times less than some do for the same looks), which is gonna be fun - grown man's LEGO. Got a new bed, you could run it over with a truck and it'll still hold out for a couple more years.

Right now my room's a damn mess, but not for long. Circumventing the visual disaster by popping my AC/DC, GN'R and Pink Floyd discs in my DVD-player and perforating my eardrums.

Down a beer for my suffering.

Also, mandatory cool song. Turn it down at 2:08, guy's killing his guitar for a sec.

/* */

Fab for haffa year!

2010-01-10 21:56:38 by DevilDog016

Oh yeah.
From this day on, I'll be fab 'till the 10th of June 2010. Fab is way too fucking cool.
Goin' fab for 6 months baby! Lights, Neutrals, Darks and Evils see me fabbin', they hatin'
Time to go pink on this motherfucker.

Also, cake. It's not a lie.

Fab for haffa year!

First art Upload!!!

2010-01-07 20:36:58 by DevilDog016

Well, I guess it was time already.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAX!!!!!!! *monitor flies into head*

Had a long discussion about Garrys Mod with some friends this morning at school, and one of them randomly shouted the well-known phrase, "HAAAAX!!!". That gave me the idea of doing some sort of poster related to GMOD. After some preliminary sketching on the math book cover, I came home with a pretty solid plan. The drawing looks alot like the WW2-era Soviet posters, with the Lenin/Stalin in the foreground and the military in the background. Having quite a liking for those posters, I decided to make my final art based on that. It's black-and-white, drawn entirely with a #2 HB pencil. It's probably the most complex drawing I've done in years. Also, my first attempt at making a hand; it's a bit out of proportion, but I sorta like the shading on it. So yeah, enjoy.

First art Upload!!!


2009-11-04 10:45:44 by DevilDog016

"The cerebrum has suffered massive and irreparable damage.
You can never know what has happened to him.
If I have not been sure of this, I would not have permitted him to live."

Where am I?
What happened?
I need help.

What is democracy?
What is democracy?
It got something to do with young men killing each other, Arthur.
When it's comes my turn, will you want me to go?
For democracy, any man would give his only begotten son.

"It is impossible for any decerebrated individual to experience pain,
Dreams or thought of any kind.
This young man will be as unfeeling
As unthinking as the dead
Until the day he joins them."

I don't know weather I'm alive or dreaming or dead or remembering,
How can you tell what's a dream and what's real
When you can't even tell when you're awake and when you're asleep!

Where am I?

I can't remember anything
Can't tell if this is true or dream
Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops with me!

Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up, I cannot see
That there's not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now!

Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please God, wake me!!!

They kept my head and chopped off everything
Oh god, please make them hear me...
They won't listen, they won't hear me...
They got to wake me up I'll be like this for years
Hear me!

Back in the womb it's much too real
In pumps life that I must feel
But can't look forward to reveal
Look to the time when I'll live.

Fed through the tube that sticks in me
Just like a wartime novelty
Tied to machines that make me be
Cut this life off from me!

Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please God, wake me!!!

I'm just like a piece of me that keeps on living
It won't always be like this, will it?

I can't live like this!
I-I can't!
Please no
I can't! I can't!
Help me, help me, help me!
Mother where are ya?
Mommy, mother, I'm having a nightmare and I can't wake up!

Now the world is gone I'm just one
Oh God help me!!!

Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please God, help me!!!

Me lying here like, like some freak in a carnival show
"Here is the armless,
Wonder of the twentieth century!"

"Death has a dignity of its own."
I need help
I'm in terrible trouble and I need help!
"Don't you remember when you were little?
How and you and Bill Harper use to string a wire between the two houses
So you could telegraph to each other?
You'll remember the Morse code?"

Imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell!

"It's Morse code"
"For what?

Has taken my sight
Taken my speech
Taken my hearing
Taken my arms
Taken my legs
Taken my soul
Left me with life in Hell!!!

"What's he saying?"
"Said kill me
Over and over again
Kill me."
Oh god, please make them hear me
"Don't you have any message for him Arthur?"
"He's the product of your profession
Not mine."

Kill me,
I'm asking you to kill me.

Thank you.

Save me please,

"Each man faces death by himself,

Good-bye father.

Inside me I'm screaming nobody pays any attention...
If I had arms, I could kill myself...
If I had legs, I could run away...
If I had a voice, I could talk and be some kind of company for myself...
How do I know they'll kill me?
I could yell for help, but nobody'd help me...
I just got to do some kind of... I don't see how I can go on like this...

S.O.S. help me...
S.O.S. help me...

Keep the home fires burning
While our hearts are yearning...


2009-10-22 13:10:02 by DevilDog016

They don't wear seatbelts.
Express your opinion on this matter.


S.T.A.L.K.E.R babbling

2009-10-15 08:28:49 by DevilDog016

As I entered the lab through the rusty door, the cold, stale air met me in a chilling embrace. The whole place was exactly as Sakharov told me - a hellhole, a dark, ruined, haunted relic that hid secrets so horrific, noone dared to enter - and whoever was brave or foolish enough to do so, never came out. I slowly proceeded forward, treading through the muck on the floor, 3-4 fingers-deep of slime created by years of leaking water that mixed with the debris, dust, and remains of whatever died in here. I froze in fear as I heard a low roar - an unearthly sound somewhere between the scream of a raging warrior and the gurgling of someone dying from rabies as their mouth foams up - then a long series of footsteps. This... thing must have been massive, because dust started falling off the ceiling, and the whole place was rumbling. I remained still until all the noise stopped. Old, rusted machinery lay on the ground - consoles with endless rows of dials, gauges and switches; storage units filled with broken vials and bottles; complicated machinery that, long time ago, served a purpose I don't even want to know. Old papers everywhere, streams of data filling them from end to end. As I slowly moved forward, a familiar smell filled the air. I slowly turned around, shining my light in a corner, my eyes falling in horror on the corpse lying there, his back propped against the wall, his lower half crushed by a piece of wall that obviously didn't belong in that place - probably thrown by that thing that roams the dark halls of this forgotten place. Arms were ripped off, there was a huge hole in his chest, and sprays of dried blood on the slab of concrete served to mark his horrible death. His spherical visor - this guy must have been one of the scientists from the bunker lab - was smashed, and I could see his half-mummified face, his head tilted up in agony, and his jaw hanging only from one side, gaping monstrously as it immortalized the poor soul's screams of pain and fear as he was torn apart by whatever burrows in this forsaken dump... I stay there for a few minutes, contemplating his fate, when I suddenly have a strange feeling, as if I'm being watched... I hear something like a struggled breathing... Fearing the worst, I slowly turn to look behind me, and my light falls on-...

I wake up in the middle of the night, and I let out an almost inhuman scream of pure fear. Cold sweat was trickling on my face, and icy shivers were shaking my body. As my head cleared, I slowly realized I was back in Cordon, in my sleeping bag, safe from any dangers - fellow stalkers had gathered around the house, and Wolf peered into the attic: "Marked One, what the hell happened? You screamed loud enough to wake up the dead!" - when he noticed my expression, he immediately frowned and asked me "It's, uh, another one of the nightmares. Right?". Still unable to speak, I nod my head at him. He reaches out and gives me a pat on the shoulder, saying "Don't let it break you down, fella. It's all in the past." then goes down and ushers away the curious mob of snickering rookies - "What are you staring at? If you were inside that place, you'd be already in something's stomach! Now go off!"
As the rooks return to their usual state of fooling around, I finally relax enough and drop my back on the sleeping bag. As I sit there, I remember how many nights I've been woken up by these nightmares, and how much they can tear down one's morale. I tell from my own experience - if you go inside the X16 lab, you don't come out alive. And if you do, you always lose a part of your mind in there. If the Zone has a Ninth Circle of Hell, then the labs at Yantar are the place.


2009-09-11 20:12:48 by DevilDog016

Check out this faggot, he's a prime example of failure at life.

I can't believe some people can stoop so low on the intelligence scale. These people should be incinerated until reduced to pure carbon, and their genes removed from the gene pool, then thrown into the boiling chlorine bucket.


A sad pathetic excuse for a male; not necessarily of Italian descent, but most likely; usually native to the New York/New Jersey Tri-State area.

WARDROBE: tight zipper shirts, tracksuits, designer jeans, fuzzy kangol hats, tiny hoop earrings, fake gold chains, and related Euro-trash garb and tacky cheese-wear.

NATURAL HABITAT: Known to frequent Tri-State area malls looking for club gear to waste their week's pay on (most likely spotted shopping at "Bang Bang" in Staten Island). During the day when not at their food delivery, telemarketting, or construction job, can be located at their local gym tanning or lifting weights. Can be found nightly at mainstream danceclubs they read about online (SF, Webster Hall, Etc.). Most notable for cruising the Jersey shore in an old car (Honda, Mustang, etc.) which has been tinted, painted and sports $1,000-$3,000 rims in a feeble attempt to look like new. Guido cars usually have a boomin' system through which cheesy music like freestyle, commercial club/trance and hip-hop (anything KTU plays) is loudly blasted.

GENETIC LINKS: Directly related to modern day urban-guidos, A.K.A. "wiggers," A.K.A. "wegros;" urban-guidos are white males who once exhibited the traits referenced above, but have now instead opted to keep it unreal, with wardrobes consisting of clothes from labels like FUBU and Rocawear which they bought on sale at Macy's. These individuals still listen to the same music and drive the same type of car as their predecessor; it is usually just their choice of attire and use of slang and poor speech skills that differentiate them from the classic guido. Most guidos are distrusting of non-whites despite the fact some of their attire and music can be traced to non-white origins.

PASSTIMES/RECREATIONAL ACTIVITIES: Guidos enjoy beating up a non-white or homosexual while assisted by a group of 5-10 guido friends backing them up; engaging in date rape; and displaying their lack of rhythm by dancing poorly in the middle of a club's dance floor while non-guidos look on in disbelief.