agent of innocent: flip phone

greenie made a beautiful UI for the game: Perfect’s INNOCENT-issue flip phone. the last time phones were MANLY.

check your stats, fashion, inventory, messages; each menu is a program in your phone, and you can unlock more (i like the idea of porn, malware, “lil pal” progs, etc…)

“back button”? ok homo. how about you kill something if you want to go back that bad?

when it comes to UI, style is INFINITELY more important than substance. we do not “User Interface” we “Loser Interface”. from the moment your player clicks the mouse they have lost. they are undoubtedly a slimy failure and cannot be reasoned with. it is beyond fact that “gamers” are the ruined fuckholes of the consumer world.
“good UI”? “minimal”? “clarity”? “accessibility features”?
get the fuck out of here…
the gamer is an animal who will click through ten menus in their favorite jrpg just to pick up a rock or some shit. gaming is an expression of their innate desire to submit. “SUBmenus”? hello???

UI is also an expression of the player’s stats. the higher a stat, the more it inflicts its way of organizing information on you…but that’s a story for another day!!

agent of innocent: perfect tense

working on a BL game with greenie (beautiful art!!) and riley (beautiful music!!)

that’s right
a Bug’s Life game, sickos

Bug’s Love?
it’s a horror game about vermin, sugar, knees, fashion, torture, obsession, just normal guy stuff

the GUI must display the name of the protagonist and his zodiac sign at all times
no serious game would deviate from this principle

Perfect Tense is an agent of INNOCENT

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honeydew toxicity event

>mom comes in
>anon why are there one million mountain dew bottles
>mountain dew is a complete protein dont be a faggot mom
>dumb cunt looks at me like i just blew her fucking mind

Do you fuck your mom?
she’s a faggot and you’re a butt baby
AIDS baby
hydrofags ITT
water made my sister bipolar
Mountain Drew
Anon has a serious problem and we need to be sensitive. If you don’t get your hydration purely from pussy juice kys inshallah
__call it au jus the way you’re penciling roasties
____only walls homies getting are when he activates onetap

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Soft Now

My corner store lighter drops to the blackened heath where thousands of charred worms lay. I pick it up and flick it until my censer lights and I close my eyes as the fumes fill me with a better world.

Baas looks up from his twelve hammers, trying to assess a body count from the different colors of hair sticking to the claws. β€œYou know that kills you, right?”

β€œIt kills them faster.”

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Xrafstar Killers

your friend played this game. he helped you beat the parts you couldn’t beat. but he’s gone now. you’re at his house as the rain beats down and the living room smells like wet wood and carpet uncleaned since you were kids. Dim light cuts the room in half, the rest shadow from which you deliver his old CDs and cartridges into a cardboard box because his parents said do whatever with his stuff, wouldn’t understand what they were looking at, what it means to a kid. Xrafstar Killers for the PSP, the scratched, smeared disc so light in your hands like it couldn’t possibly contain that deep, dark, beautiful world you stumbled through, grabbing the console back, trying to impress him, plastic sticky from shared sweat.

you break the disc in the kitchen and pick up the biggest shard. you’re running out of things to believe in. you cut yourself in the lines you learned before that post was deleted for violating the community code of conduct. this world is the false one. the dream is real. the post warned that every captive world has become hell in the absence of the hearts of children. that tyrants have taken control. that you should think twice about entering a place where death is torture’s blink. where you can’t shut it off if it becomes too much, a razor-lined wheel of reincarnation. it doesn’t matter. you’ll see him again, in whatever form you fit inside, in the world of Xrafstar Killers. To never be alone.

Why Have You Not Yet Gone to War

On that day, I was supposed to go to the festival and trade my knife in. I was supposed to meet the old man at his table and hand it over. This was a promise I made to him, after a long and serious discussion. He was the kind of dignified old man who did not become angry, only disappointed. The kind where silence became its own condemnation, not from him, necessarily, but because you were reminded of every good thing you were letting down. Something fine and noble in the universe reflected off him, bounced from some unknown source beyond my own access. So the promise had some weight to me.

The festival was to be held at the high school, on the lawn and parking lot, with all kinds of tables and booths. There was even supposed to be an animal of some kind there, for entertainment.

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the body crushes the soul

I grew up thinking people like me are bad.
But the way society is set up.
There’s no way to be close to people.

I was terrified the first time.
Thought I was going to throw up.
It’s about getting in the right mental place.
Letting it build up.
Late at night.
Drugs help. But they can impair your judgment. You don’t want to lose track of time. Peripheral vision. Or you start to psyche yourself out. A little alcohol is fine for confidence. Too much and you fuck yourself over. Can’t get hard. Can’t keep track of time. Weed is out. Stimulants are better.

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