Writing books is pretty fun ngl

[Bojack]

Gives an incel some shut to do ngl

 

[Deleted member 20370]

Gives an incel some shut to do ngl

post sum

 

[Deleted member 61703]

post sum

"Bizzare adventure of bojack"

 

[Bojack]

post sum

can't figure out how to post word files the attach files button doesn't work

 

[Deleted member 20370]

can't figure out how to post word files the attach files button doesn't work

copy paste a paragraph

 

[romanstock]

can't figure out how to post word files the attach files button doesn't work

Just copy/paste some of the text dimwit

 

[Bojack]

"Bizzare adventure of bojack"

layjit

 

[Bojack]

Just copy/paste some of the text dimwit

fek alright

Prologue: The Beginning of a Story​

Gary Craig gave the moon the gaze with a vicious antipathy. Of course, that was impossible, there was no physical moon that one could touch or feel in his small, unkempt ward-room. This was due to precisely the fact that no windows were allowed in the ward—or any ward in the district for reasons that even the most amateur detective can reason why. Whether through deductive reasoning, or simple reasoning in and of itself one could infer several reasons why windows weren’t allowed in ward rooms. But why exactly? thought Gary. If it’s due to fear of suicide, shan’t it be up to the patient themselves to make such a choice themselves. It is our lives of course, therefore, it is our choice to end our existence or not!

Back to sleep with you, Gary. And don’t use the word shan’t anymore. We don’t live in the middle ages! Gary obeyed the disembodied voice in his mind and went back to slumber.

“Shan’t, shouldn’t. It all means the same thing!” yelled Gary with force. Gary closed his eyes for a moment, only to awaken again a moment later with burning red eyes! The author gave up on getting Gary to sleep. It should be known to the reader that unknown to Gary and perhaps the author that the duo have up to this point—and perhaps to the end of time—become inextricably psychologically linked. How or why this link occurred has been lost to the annals of history, but it is no doubt real. There is a medical term for such a condition: schizophrenia. Gary and the author had been diagnosed with the dreaded disease for longer than one would dare to count, but more on that later.

An intangible moon was ever present in his mind that Gary could somehow palpably contact and perceive. The moon in Gary’s schizophrenic mind was a very different moon than the one your contemporary reader would know—or care to know. For one, this moon was hollow at its core—and housed thousands of intergalactic beings hellbent on the enslavement of mankind. And instead of craters there were tree houses and unicorns. At least, that is what the script said. And the script was a biblical law as far as Gary was concerned.

He smiled at this with a wolfish grin that revealed rows of crooked teeth that a dentist would no doubt gawk at. He laughed gleefully and danced around his room with the assured deftness of a Hollywood ballerina. He had made too much of a ruckus and the ward nurse that was unfortunately assigned to him peeked into the room with a ghastly stare. Now that was a gaze bang-up enough for the Pinborough’s Wards Yearly Acting Award. Vaandar sheepishly looked away and returned to his foamed bed. He had no desire to be punished by the ward staff, at least not until his plan was not yet enacted. There would be no gleeful dancing for the time being.

As Vaandar laid in his foam cot; he thought of the concept of time. Primarily how much of it there was, and how little of it the average human experiences. We get like what eighty years to live on this Earth? What a waste. We should at least get a thousand to complete all of the things that need to be done! One can’t possibly finish all there is—or think all that there is to know in just under a hundred years. You’d have to be a genius to think all thoughts! You must become a god to accomplish all things! Maybe I am a god! Vaandar thought on that last part in in a melancholic manner—which was a stark contrast to his previous blissful behavior. If he was a God; the fact was he was getting old; he didn’t have much time left. Time was of the essence.

He focused on what was most important: the Pinsborough award. Winning the award was the last thing he wanted to achieve in life—that and teaching Mitch a life lesson or two. He knew that Drake would be on top form for his role, and Gary loathed losing the award last year to him. Not to mention the year before that one. Gary stifled the embarrassing memory that resurfaced in his mind with a special meditation technique he had learned from the past. It involved calling upon a holy entity to cleanse ones being. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When it did, the results were awe inspiring. This was one of those occasions where it did work. He felt the memory fade away. Once his mind was quiet, and the emotional pain subsided—he decided to continue with his acting training—which was going much smoother than he had anticipated.

He practiced the gesture again for a long period of time until it was perfectly second nature to him. It should be noted to the reader that Gary was an aspiring actor in his youth. He had applied himself vigorously to the craft. Starting by mimicking and modeling himself after the great actors of his time. He could do a great Marlon Brando impression—which should give the reader an indicator to how old Gary really is. But, unfortunately; he was never truly a successful actor in the monetary sense. Even so, this skill had helped him out on more than one occasion in the real world. Still, he should not be so precocious as to believe he was worthy of the award with one powerful gesticulation—no matter how awe inspiring a motion it was. He would have to make it more interesting somehow. And he knew the perfect process in how to achieve this: method acting!

Gary assumed the role of Vaandar—and ceased to progress onward by his human name. From here on, Gary would now be assumed as Vaandar. Vaandar—unlike Gary—was always a terrible student of acting. His preference was to “wing it” as the kids say. He always thought of “textbook acting” as a disingenuous art that was more suited for women, and not a man of his stature. Though, once again not one person knew his name. Having said that, he was once on a billboard for a popular Broadway musical, but that was a lifetime ago. The reader should note that—unlike Gary—much of Vaandar’s youth was not that far in the past. He was a teenager right around the time before the earliest caveman learned how to use fire to cook food. That last part was a joke, albeit an unfunny one—the author admits to that. Vaandar was a terrible student of everything really—that includes tracking his age. But, that was more due to a lack of effort more than anything else.

In that respect, he was not that different from Mitch, who was also a hard-headed learner. The kid had written an excellent script, however, and the play that the patients of the ward were practicing for was worthy of more attention. Despite the lack of attention the script got; the ward mates had another plan for their wayward friend Mitch. They had found a way to make the magic of the play more real—because unknown to Mitch—magic was definitively real. They just call it Schizophrenia in the medical textbooks, there will be more on that later. And by later; the author means very, very soon.

Vaandar grabbed his “How to Act for Dummies” book off the nightstand and flipped through the pages. On page sixty-four he read out loud, “a good actor—to sell the role—must truly become the role.” That makes sense, thought Vaandar in his mind. Vaandar tossed the book back onto his bed and picked up the script “A New World Order” and began to read through some of it. The pages were worn out from constant use. Vaandar had read through it countless times. The kid was really thorough. He must have spent years writing this all out.

He read the character biography of Mitch’s character Vaandar. Vaandar was an alien from the planet Nibiru. His kind had migrated to the Earth millennia ago in order to harvest the rich resources that the Earth possessed. He skipped more of the boring parts and read about his indomitable features. Vaandar had a strong, forward-grown chin as well as sharp hawk-like eyes that steeped at an incline. None of this mattered as most of his face was covered by a ghoulish mask he wore for reasons that will never be truly known due to Vaandar’s quizzical nature.​

 

[romanstock]

fek alright

Prologue: The Beginning of a Story​

Gary Craig gave the moon the gaze with a vicious antipathy. Of course, that was impossible, there was no physical moon that one could touch or feel in his small, unkempt ward-room. This was due to precisely the fact that no windows were allowed in the ward—or any ward in the district for reasons that even the most amateur detective can reason why. Whether through deductive reasoning, or simple reasoning in and of itself one could infer several reasons why windows weren’t allowed in ward rooms. But why exactly? thought Gary. If it’s due to fear of suicide, shan’t it be up to the patient themselves to make such a choice themselves. It is our lives of course, therefore, it is our choice to end our existence or not!

Back to sleep with you, Gary. And don’t use the word shan’t anymore. We don’t live in the middle ages! Gary obeyed the disembodied voice in his mind and went back to slumber.

“Shan’t, shouldn’t. It all means the same thing!” yelled Gary with force. Gary closed his eyes for a moment, only to awaken again a moment later with burning red eyes! The author gave up on getting Gary to sleep. It should be known to the reader that unknown to Gary and perhaps the author that the duo have up to this point—and perhaps to the end of time—become inextricably psychologically linked. How or why this link occurred has been lost to the annals of history, but it is no doubt real. There is a medical term for such a condition: schizophrenia. Gary and the author had been diagnosed with the dreaded disease for longer than one would dare to count, but more on that later.

An intangible moon was ever present in his mind that Gary could somehow palpably contact and perceive. The moon in Gary’s schizophrenic mind was a very different moon than the one your contemporary reader would know—or care to know. For one, this moon was hollow at its core—and housed thousands of intergalactic beings hellbent on the enslavement of mankind. And instead of craters there were tree houses and unicorns. At least, that is what the script said. And the script was a biblical law as far as Gary was concerned.

He smiled at this with a wolfish grin that revealed rows of crooked teeth that a dentist would no doubt gawk at. He laughed gleefully and danced around his room with the assured deftness of a Hollywood ballerina. He had made too much of a ruckus and the ward nurse that was unfortunately assigned to him peeked into the room with a ghastly stare. Now that was a gaze bang-up enough for the Pinborough’s Wards Yearly Acting Award. Vaandar sheepishly looked away and returned to his foamed bed. He had no desire to be punished by the ward staff, at least not until his plan was not yet enacted. There would be no gleeful dancing for the time being.

As Vaandar laid in his foam cot; he thought of the concept of time. Primarily how much of it there was, and how little of it the average human experiences. We get like what eighty years to live on this Earth? What a waste. We should at least get a thousand to complete all of the things that need to be done! One can’t possibly finish all there is—or think all that there is to know in just under a hundred years. You’d have to be a genius to think all thoughts! You must become a god to accomplish all things! Maybe I am a god! Vaandar thought on that last part in in a melancholic manner—which was a stark contrast to his previous blissful behavior. If he was a God; the fact was he was getting old; he didn’t have much time left. Time was of the essence.

He focused on what was most important: the Pinsborough award. Winning the award was the last thing he wanted to achieve in life—that and teaching Mitch a life lesson or two. He knew that Drake would be on top form for his role, and Gary loathed losing the award last year to him. Not to mention the year before that one. Gary stifled the embarrassing memory that resurfaced in his mind with a special meditation technique he had learned from the past. It involved calling upon a holy entity to cleanse ones being. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When it did, the results were awe inspiring. This was one of those occasions where it did work. He felt the memory fade away. Once his mind was quiet, and the emotional pain subsided—he decided to continue with his acting training—which was going much smoother than he had anticipated.

He practiced the gesture again for a long period of time until it was perfectly second nature to him. It should be noted to the reader that Gary was an aspiring actor in his youth. He had applied himself vigorously to the craft. Starting by mimicking and modeling himself after the great actors of his time. He could do a great Marlon Brando impression—which should give the reader an indicator to how old Gary really is. But, unfortunately; he was never truly a successful actor in the monetary sense. Even so, this skill had helped him out on more than one occasion in the real world. Still, he should not be so precocious as to believe he was worthy of the award with one powerful gesticulation—no matter how awe inspiring a motion it was. He would have to make it more interesting somehow. And he knew the perfect process in how to achieve this: method acting!

Gary assumed the role of Vaandar—and ceased to progress onward by his human name. From here on, Gary would now be assumed as Vaandar. Vaandar—unlike Gary—was always a terrible student of acting. His preference was to “wing it” as the kids say. He always thought of “textbook acting” as a disingenuous art that was more suited for women, and not a man of his stature. Though, once again not one person knew his name. Having said that, he was once on a billboard for a popular Broadway musical, but that was a lifetime ago. The reader should note that—unlike Gary—much of Vaandar’s youth was not that far in the past. He was a teenager right around the time before the earliest caveman learned how to use fire to cook food. That last part was a joke, albeit an unfunny one—the author admits to that. Vaandar was a terrible student of everything really—that includes tracking his age. But, that was more due to a lack of effort more than anything else.

In that respect, he was not that different from Mitch, who was also a hard-headed learner. The kid had written an excellent script, however, and the play that the patients of the ward were practicing for was worthy of more attention. Despite the lack of attention the script got; the ward mates had another plan for their wayward friend Mitch. They had found a way to make the magic of the play more real—because unknown to Mitch—magic was definitively real. They just call it Schizophrenia in the medical textbooks, there will be more on that later. And by later; the author means very, very soon.

Vaandar grabbed his “How to Act for Dummies” book off the nightstand and flipped through the pages. On page sixty-four he read out loud, “a good actor—to sell the role—must truly become the role.” That makes sense, thought Vaandar in his mind. Vaandar tossed the book back onto his bed and picked up the script “A New World Order” and began to read through some of it. The pages were worn out from constant use. Vaandar had read through it countless times. The kid was really thorough. He must have spent years writing this all out.

He read the character biography of Mitch’s character Vaandar. Vaandar was an alien from the planet Nibiru. His kind had migrated to the Earth millennia ago in order to harvest the rich resources that the Earth possessed. He skipped more of the boring parts and read about his indomitable features. Vaandar had a strong, forward-grown chin as well as sharp hawk-like eyes that steeped at an incline. None of this mattered as most of his face was covered by a ghoulish mask he wore for reasons that will never be truly known due to Vaandar’s quizzical nature.​

Mine's better.

 

[Bojack]

Mine's better.

post bro

 

[romanstock]

post bro

Glorious Cadmus, ruler of the city Thebes, glittered refulgently as he looked out from his self-eponymous palace, the Cadmea. Glory was his indeed, glorious as the salubrious rays of Helios reflecting with sparkles the gift given him by the gods: a golden necklace wrought in the shape of two serpents, their open mouths interposed by a purple jewel. An amethyst? Cadmus was uncertain, but he would allow no assessment, no examination other than his own, for he guarded its light jealously. It appeared too dense to be an amethyst, and within oft flickered a red swimming light, sometimes congealing to appear like a tiny beating heart. The gift he had received while propitiating at the Temple of Ismenius Apollo, directed by a moving hammer of light to sight the glow of purple reposing amidst the ancient Pelasgian graves. At first he had considered it a mere burial treasure arisen by the rains, but when he had worn it – he knew the touch of unity as an inductee of the mysteries, but this was to be of it, to channel the all abounding energy – to feel like a god.

The signs he had realised thereafter. Always he had been an acclaimant of Apollo, for who could not be? Helios, the almighty incarnate form of Apollo’s essence, the infuser of life source, the greatest embodiment of the gods; of Hephaestus he knew but recently, having learned by demand the arcane arts of the smiths. The hammer of light had been no coincidence of timing, beating upon the jewel to engender light sparkles. The two gods foremost in his thoughts had consorted to aid him, providing him with the power needed to spread his dominion beyond mere Thebes, from the Peloponesse to the Northern Reaches, Sealord of all the islands; perhaps even tyrant of Aegyptus and beyond.

Yet upon the gift’s receival, a voice within had whispered, urging the token be given to Harmonia upon their day of bliss. A woman’s voice. Cadmus had scoffed at the ruse: Athena, undoubtedly. No sign of hers had directed him to the offering. And what could a woman do with such power?

‘Great lord, a message from the Lokrians. They beseech your eminent assistance.’

‘The Lokrians?’ Cadmus lowered his blue eyes from the matching heavens to sight his master-steward. ‘I am not to be disturbed by provincial trifles.’

‘They call in the name of Apollo.’

‘What is it?’

‘A manticore, my Lord, roaming the countryside.’

‘A distraction.’ Planted by Athena. I should strike at her heart. ‘So even the Lokrians have heard of my favour. Yet they offer no submission to earn my protection? Merely a request? I shall teach them subordination.’

‘Shall I refuse them?’

‘Nay, they call in the name of Apollo. Perchance a ploy, but if they wish to serve him, they must do so through me, his chosen conduit. Then they may be added to our forces for the march on Attika. Still two moons away?’

‘In two moons all will be ready.’

‘Then in two moons I shall return at the head of a Lokrian army.’

‘You are leaving again?’ Harmonia’s mellifluous voice floated along the terrace.

The master-steward ceded to her arrival, departing to convey the affirmation.

‘My strength is needed,’ said Cadmus.

 

[Bojack]

Glorious Cadmus, ruler of the city Thebes, glittered refulgently as he looked out from his self-eponymous palace, the Cadmea. Glory was his indeed, glorious as the salubrious rays of Helios reflecting with sparkles the gift given him by the gods: a golden necklace wrought in the shape of two serpents, their open mouths interposed by a purple jewel. An amethyst? Cadmus was uncertain, but he would allow no assessment, no examination other than his own, for he guarded its light jealously. It appeared too dense to be an amethyst, and within oft flickered a red swimming light, sometimes congealing to appear like a tiny beating heart. The gift he had received while propitiating at the Temple of Ismenius Apollo, directed by a moving hammer of light to sight the glow of purple reposing amidst the ancient Pelasgian graves. At first he had considered it a mere burial treasure arisen by the rains, but when he had worn it – he knew the touch of unity as an inductee of the mysteries, but this was to be of it, to channel the all abounding energy – to feel like a god.

The signs he had realised thereafter. Always he had been an acclaimant of Apollo, for who could not be? Helios, the almighty incarnate form of Apollo’s essence, the infuser of life source, the greatest embodiment of the gods; of Hephaestus he knew but recently, having learned by demand the arcane arts of the smiths. The hammer of light had been no coincidence of timing, beating upon the jewel to engender light sparkles. The two gods foremost in his thoughts had consorted to aid him, providing him with the power needed to spread his dominion beyond mere Thebes, from the Peloponesse to the Northern Reaches, Sealord of all the islands; perhaps even tyrant of Aegyptus and beyond.

Yet upon the gift’s receival, a voice within had whispered, urging the token be given to Harmonia upon their day of bliss. A woman’s voice. Cadmus had scoffed at the ruse: Athena, undoubtedly. No sign of hers had directed him to the offering. And what could a woman do with such power?

‘Great lord, a message from the Lokrians. They beseech your eminent assistance.’

‘The Lokrians?’ Cadmus lowered his blue eyes from the matching heavens to sight his master-steward. ‘I am not to be disturbed by provincial trifles.’

‘They call in the name of Apollo.’

‘What is it?’

‘A manticore, my Lord, roaming the countryside.’

‘A distraction.’ Planted by Athena. I should strike at her heart. ‘So even the Lokrians have heard of my favour. Yet they offer no submission to earn my protection? Merely a request? I shall teach them subordination.’

‘Shall I refuse them?’

‘Nay, they call in the name of Apollo. Perchance a ploy, but if they wish to serve him, they must do so through me, his chosen conduit. Then they may be added to our forces for the march on Attika. Still two moons away?’

‘In two moons all will be ready.’

‘Then in two moons I shall return at the head of a Lokrian army.’

‘You are leaving again?’ Harmonia’s mellifluous voice floated along the terrace.

The master-steward ceded to her arrival, departing to convey the affirmation.

‘My strength is needed,’ said Cadmus.

Masterful writing, I wish to emulate you bro.