The Dark Balloon

A weblog by Hao Lian.
A terrible secret guarded by golems.
A note that thanks you for being born, all those years ago.

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Super Smash Brothers from Solid Snake.

Here’s a normal day for in: I show up at the Central Toybox Station—which by the way has the architectural aesthetic of a pig on fire. I clock in and go to my assigned stage. Then I follow orders: Up-B, Down Tap-A, Held R then A. I knock the living stuffing out of my friends. Sure we’re so doped up on anesthesia that none of us feel anything physically. But that poison latches onto more adverbs: emotionally, romantically. I can’t even make love to my wife anymore. I feel nothing when I look at my children. Sure I’m a tough guy; I’m nothing like my loser Fluid Lizard. I try not to cry. But what’s the point of it all? Am I just here to smash into people. These “characters” are my friends. Do you have any idea how traumatizing it is to violently pummel your friends all day long? We tried unionizing. We tried striking. We tried petty vandalism. None of it worked. I’m making below-minimum wage doing this job to which the government has turned a blind eye. I’m not even winning first place anymore ever since the guy turned the CPU level up to five. I feel like a prostitute, and I can’t keep this up anymore. It’s just me and this gun. Does God even exist anymore?; what’s life after death: more of this? This gun is all I have. This gun is all I have. Give me the courage to kill myself.

[(2008 August 7) • • .]

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Recent posts (10/06, The myth and the man.) • (09/13, 2011 Sep 13.) • (08/21, Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike.) • (08/21, Failing beautifully.) • (08/18, Shameless.).

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Super Smash Brothers from a local Parisian.

There is a noise in the room. In the middle is a chair, and on that chair sits me—eminent French existentialist. The noise? It is suspiration, mingled with the tendrils of boredom and infused with that dreaded e-word. This game before me lighting up the syphilitic television screen holds, nay dangles, pearls of joy away from me. This game is Super Smash Brothers. The CPU level is five. What is first place anymore? It is no longer mine. And without possession, whence identity? Why must I forever console myself with the swigs of second or third place? Mario’s special spin is special no longer; Ice Climbers’ freezies seem, ugh, ordinary. No matter the combination, life only holds second place. To lose, perchance to bore. Here lies Mario, paralyzed for moments on the ground. Or is he sleeping? How I long to sleep. What’s the point of it all? What’s the point of it all?

[(2008 August 7) • • .]