destroying the painting and blowing on halos.

realistically, i began playing the first, "halo," four or five days ago.

it was my intention to work through it, and then the follow-up in preparation for the third coming the end of this month.

see, i like to think it's because of all the lsd i did from '99 to '02, that i can't retain anything. how a game is from start to finish, what i just read in the current run of JLA, or anything tv related.

if i do something continuously, over and over, no problem, but if it's one time through and a few weeks pass, i forget it completely. which, is why i'm replaying the games from scratch... so as to keep the master chief storyline fresh in my memory for the third.

i worked through the first one like i said, the past four/five days, and finally came to the end. it's a six minute race to escape from the soon to destruct, pillar of autumn...

needless to say, i'm stuck there.

if it's one thing i've loathed throughout the halo games, is that the vehicles, with the exception of the scorpion and banshee, are next to impossible to handle properly. case in point, this last race having to race out with the shitty steered warthog.

i'm confident i can do it, just not this morning. i tried three times, and after eighteen minutes of death, you tend to give up.

but this morning, captivated in the forthcoming of the end, i was briefly transfered back to when i was dating jess, and she lived here with me.

it wasn't a focus on her, but more of how i felt at that time.

i was twenty-five, and the 360 had just come out, and i was hooked on this caffeinated shower soap that think geek makes, and how i looked forward to reading the newest penny arcade's... i think that year was one of my better, despite living with a woman who was... now, in thinking back, cold as ice. i mean, the weather was chilly then, but one could say that she was literally, frosty, in personality.

recently, i discovered a painting she had done for me as a gift. i looked at it for almost an hour trying to figure it out. just randoms blurred strokes. red, blue, black... i came to a conclusion. i hate art in the sense that it's full of soul and personality. i hate someone who paints an obscure mess and says, "this took me forever, and i poured myself into completely, to bare witness to those who convey it..."

...i destroyed that painting she gave to me. i took it out back, and whaled it against an avocado tree, picked it up, and just began tearing the canvas apart with my hands. when i was done, i crumpled it all up, and threw it in a garbage can.

i need a glass of orange juice.