Cropy Prasta

The following is an excerpt from my OTHER brog. Some bits have been censored for your safety.

We were on a bus to a summer training center for cadets (strange... It's always because of cadets...). This time, instead of a camp, we show up at a mansion/warehouse/school. I reckon we had about 300 or 400 of us there, and we all shared rooms. We were told to meet up at a specific time (though I forgot what the time was, along with who told me this). I followed the trail of cadets to our rooms. An officer directed us to our rooms, as our nametags were scanned.  All the rooms were rather spacious, about the size of a living room. Think a slightly larger average hotel room you find at the Westin, or Mariott, or even a medium sized condo if you will. It was in the shape of a large square, with our rooms along the side. The center of the room is occupied by a large square pillar. I never knew what was inside. It was also very well lit, so I assumed that there were some windows on the other side of the room, blocked from my vision because of the square pillar. Everything was white and bare, save for a TV, a TV shelf, and our beds (were they beds? or were they couches? I dun remember). Anyways, I was looking around after I put my stuff down with the other guys, and I noticed the 42 inch TV sitting nearby. It was sitting on top of the TV shelf, and I thought I saw a PSOne in there. The shelf was black on the outside, with two glass doors that open up to the outside, with smaller shelves in the middle. On top of one of the shelves was a box full of electronic stuff. One of them was a Nintendo 64. Some of the other stuff were controllers, games, and wires. I searched around for a multiplayer game to get started with my friends (who were they? I have no clue. Never remembered their faces. Generic white kids/asians... Now that I think about it, this might as well have been some private school or something...). I looked around for "Super Smash Bros", but I couldn't find it. All I could find was another singleplayer Mario game, along with a multiplayer Kirby game. I gave out a shout of excitement, as my fellow mates went around trying to organize their stuff.
I exited the room, and I took a look. The hallways were massive, with old oak floors. The building was built in a rectangle, with a large square on one end, and the other end leading to another building. In the center were staircases that led up 3 stories (or more... I only remember going up three stories). The square had massive windows that let light in, however it was still enchantingly dark in some areas. I saw cadets organize with the rest of their squadrons in the square, while others were chatting with old camp pals to catch up with the times. It looked busy as hell. I decided to take a stroll outside. The building looked like a massive research institute from the outside. Think Lisgar, but much larger. The concrete steps leading up the school was packed with cadets trying to unload their busses and organize themselves.
I decided to check out what's going on upstairs, as this place was massive. The staircase was also massive; you could probably fit two elephants side to side through the stairs, and still have two lines of people walk by. I think the stairs were made of marble, and the railing was made of varnished wood. Quite elegant. The floor above us was pretty much the same as the main floor, and also the third floor as well.
I remember we were called down to the mess. This is when the dream ended. I blame the PS Vita alarm, which rang too soon (imho). Had I had another 15 min, I could have spent more time in that world.

Short

My, this week went by FAST. If I were to describe this week in one word, it would be "parabolic".

Why parabolic?

The week started off slow. The middle sections went by too quickly. And at last, the last few days went by too slowly. Also, I'm tired.

This update will be quick, as per all my future weekly updates. I may write up a story from time to time.

In other news: I have a whole new respect for artillery people in WoT. That is all. It will be pure physics until Wednesday.

A pledge

I have decided that I'm going to make my posts shorter.

This is in direct contrast to my previous attempts of extending my posts. It seems that they've gotten too rong. Remme remedy that

A funny thing happened the other day...

I was writing up one of my Physics Labs, when some cadet started talking to me.
Young cadet: "Sgt. Liu?"
Me: "Yes, my child?"
Young cadet: "Do you have two girlfriends?"
Me: "No" (I continued typing. And then I start thinking about what he just said. Da fuq?)
And then I freeze mid-equation. I give the cadet a frown.
Me: "What do you mean by that?"
Young cadet: "One of your facebook pictures has you with two girls."
He was, of course, referring to that pic of Alpha-1 and Alpha-2 at one of our performances, where I photobombed their portrait.
Me: "That doesn't necessarily mean that they're my girlfriends. And having more than just one is wrong. Totally wrong."
Young cadet: "Ok"

And that got me thinking. Beyond the fact that he found one of my pictures from grade 9, this entire conversation was probably one of the weirdest I've ever had. Even with Howard. But that one thing lingered in my head: Is it wrong to have more than one girlfriend, if the two are totally alright with it?

Starting off, I would like to say that I have no experience with relationships. All my wisdom is derived from the experiences my friends had, along with my (limited) understanding of the inner workings of a juvenile. In mainstream western society, polygamy is outlawed. Now, I know there is a difference between marriage and courtship, and I'm not mistaking one for the other. We do, however, often base our relationships on the basis of someone we want to spend the rest of our lives with. Should I keep using the word "we"? Meh. Let's go on.

If we base our judgement of our mates with the notion of spending the rest of our lives with said mate, does the courting of two separate mates count as polygamy?

To be fair, those two mates are not bound to you financially and legally, by law (as per the definition of "dating".) So technically, you're just cheating on both partners, but they both know you're cheating on them and they're totally fine with it. That means all parties are not fully committed to the relation, thus it's not really a serious relationship. The system of the three partners is probably that for sex, and sex-related sex topics only.

It's been a while since I last thought about this topic (I started writing this on Wednesday night). So imma drop it. Also, I don't have wheels. Good day to you.

Yeah, yeah, I know

I know this is an early brog post. I'd just like to say that "Peeniss" is probably the best name for a ship. Of all time. OF ALL TIME. I'd also like to say that Super Mario Galaxy has the best soundtrack of all time. Of all time. OF ALL TIME.

Oh, yeah, I got three more tanks on WoT. Also the COH2 beta. WOOOOOOOOOO

For the first time this year, I stared at a blank screen and didn't know what to write. Well, I guess I could start off with a bit of World of Tanks updates...

This weekend, Wargaming.net is commemorating their second anniversary with double credit weekend for all tier 5 tanks, a day of free premium, along with five times the exp for the first victory of the day. Sounds pretty good, no? So I took advantage of this yesterday (SNOW DAY IN APRIL YAY) and got myself a new T6 tank (the, conveniently named, M6 tank). It's essentially the same thing as my T1 Heavy, just with more upgrades. They are exactly the same thing. As in the armour is the same, engines the same, armament the same, etc. So why did I spend a million credits on this thing? Because it leads to the bigger American heavies.

Great, now that I'm done writing that, I've forgotten what else to write. Maybe I should go with some cadet stuff...

Some time within the past five years of my cadet career, I slowly realized the level of education the average level one cadet receives. Now, since I'm in IB and I'm Asian, I could be a little biased in terms of standards. The rest of this story/rant could just be that prejudice coming in, and these standards could be passable for others. I remember during my first year of being a cadet, but this post is not about the experience itself; rather the intelligence of level ones.

There was a kid who always arrived in the baggiest sweater and pants you could buy (something tells me he's wearing XXL or something of the like), with his pants literally dragging on the floor (well, not really. But it's really damn close to the floor). He spends a quarter of his time talking back to the officers and sergeants, a quarter of the time wheeling the chicks in level one, and the last half smoking in the boy's washroom. Keep in mind that the average level one cadet was twelve or thirteen years old (with the exception of Echo... He's an exception, but that's another story). This kid was no exception, so one does wonder why this level one cadet is smoking in the boy's washroom. He's hardly a teenager.

Ok so that was just the first example. Throughout my cadet career, I've seen numerous dudes bear marching. Girls not so much (female intelligence superiority? Nawww...) What is bear marching, you say? It's when you walk, but you swing your arms with the same foot that you step with. Instead of alternating your step with your arm (e.g. stepping in with left foot, swinging right arm), you step with the same arm (e.g. stepping with left foot, swinging with left foot). Try it. It's unnatural. Walking is one of the fundamentals of mobility, and yet there are cadets who do drill every week, but cannot walk properly. I've sometimes attributed it to the stress of "doing it right", but these kids concentrate too hard. It's walking. Not a level four math question.

And then there are the kids that turn the wrong way when told to turn. Again, I often attribute this to stress (I once did it... BUT ONLY ONCE). But then the same kids keep doing the same thing, which is what gets me every time. You tell them "turn right when I tell you to do a right turn", and they do so for the first couple times. The moment you trick them (e.g. "left TURN! By the left quick MARCH! HALT! advance right TURN") they fall over.

Note: those two examples were probably not based on intelligence; rather coordination between the senses. Here's one that's unexplainable: the inability to write a letter with the correct punctuation, spelling, and grammar. I'm not talking Pulitzer-level letterwriting; rather more informal letters, like those to your grandparents. It's quite common for me to see at least one of those three errors on a random level one's (Actually, forget level one. Let's go with ALL cadet levels) piece of writing. These aren't complex errors either. It's not something excusable like "recieve" or "color"... Well maybe not color, but still. No, these errors are along the lines of "exporiance"or something that I'd expect from an 8 year old.

Alright, rant's over. Partially because I'm playing WOT again. Goodbye.

Just another day

I've decided to dramatize one of my old camp stories to kickstart my imagination. On another note, I just finished writing up Act 1!! So excited :D

"Dude, get the hell up. We're leaving in about 5 mikes."

Those were the first words uttered bat the start of Operation Midnight Laundry. After hours of tedious planning, our operation had no room for failure. It was either Oscar Mike, or stand down. Wiser operators would have stood down, and waited for daylight before moving out. Unfortunately, we were not those kind of people. See, our graduation parade was in less than ten hours from H-Hour, and we needed all our shit before then. Why ten hours before then? That information's classified. I cannot tell you.

There was a strong distrust between the Frenchies and the Anglos on base. Each joint exercise always turned into a mini Plains of Abraham. Though neither side won more often, we still perceived our own side as superior to the other. This rivalry extended beyond just exercises. Washing machines, washrooms, bivouac sites, food, supplies; everything was a competition. The Anglos shared with the Anglos. The Frenchies shared with the Frenchies. Tensions reached a climax when our biathlon team beat their top team by over ten minutes. And in a way, I just explained why we needed our shit before daybreak.

We started planning for the operation two days before, as a contingency plan. Sierra had come up to me and asked "what the fuck do we do if one of them French gypsies jack our shit?" Knowing full well that no one gets near my impeccable dress shirt and pants, I immediately contacted Tango to initiate the procedures that led up to that fateful night. By the end of the day, we had come up with the plan. We kept it dark from higher up for obvious reasons, and we needed to "skillfully obtain" some pieces of equipment to help us facilitate this kind of mission. Obviously, we thought we weren't ever going to need to follow this plan, but the next day showed the kind of OpFor we were up against.

The next day (Tuesday, I believe), we were given close to no time to prepare our uniforms. We had spent the whole day marching up and down the base, and performing the necessary drill over and over again to minimize screwups during the graduation parade. Rehearsals were held after every chow we had. The Herc, a giant warehouse that served as a sort of "common room" and as a canteen, was closed "for logistic purposes"-but they still sold you shoe polish and cloths if you asked. Basically, command was trying to tell us to quit stalling and get the hell to work.

This message was heeded by everyone. Remember when I wrote about the rivalry for the washing machines? It hit its peak that day, when everyone wanted to get hold of one. This created long-ass lines of Frenchies and Anglos fighting for a spot to wash their clothes. I'm pretty sure every wash was way over the load limit. This coupled with the intense drilling resulted in us being sweat stained uniforms the day before the final parade unable to wash our uniforms for the whole day. My fireteam (Sierra and Tango) managed to secure a washing machine for our own usage some time around twenty fourty five hours. Note: that was just the washing machine. Not the dryer. The washing. Machine.

How was that a bad thing? Well, each load takes about thirty to fourty mikes to go through the entire process, depending on your load. Us being sweaty teenage dudes, we had sackloads of laundry to do. Consistent tumbling of the washing machines resulted in us sitting on top of them. Since sitting around for fourty minutes was a huge waste of time for us, we brought in our boots to polish up (even though it's prohibited... Why? I have no idea).

Some time around twentyone twenty hours, some French flight sergeant walks in and tells us to scram. Feigning ignorance of the French language, we just ignored him. Seeing how he's unable to kick us out, he took one of Sierra's boot and threw it out the door onto the gritty pavement (what a dick). I could see Sierra fuming underneath, since he could not do anything about it without being subjected to a court marshal, demoted, and subsequently unable to graduate. He told us to put our stuff in the dryer immediately, as he went outside with the FSGT to retrieve his boot.

We soon found out that none of the driers were empty. So we changed it. Finding a dryer with a French name tag, we immediately switched out the contents with our now-empty washing machine. Both machines were cranked up to the top, and they started whirring as we walked away, feeling only slightly justified. That French kid's going to wake up and find all his crap soaked in ice cold water. Our mission was now to make sure our machine keeps working, and keep the French dude from finding out.

And now we're back at where we started. We immediately swung into our contingency plan. Everyone knew each others' roles like the bodies of our favourite porn stars. Equipment was distributed throughout the fireteam. Our barrack wished us luck, as we told them our plan. Oh, I had forgotten to mention that the dryer we had decided to use were on the other side of the damn base.

A brief illustration of where the fuck we were. The distance is about a klick, give or take two hundred mikes. Number of buildings is not to scale. There were a fuckload.

We managed to sneak to within a building or two of the washing machine area. There were no lights on, but luckily the moonlight was able to shine through the windows. On the way there, we had seen about two or three guys walking around. I'm not quite sure if they were MPs, or if they were just Frenchies that just drank too much water. Either way, they didn't see us. Things were looking great, when Tango discovered the door was locked. Up until this point, we had never realized this possibility. Fortunately for us, the windows were open. Unfortunately for us, the windows were like New York's rent rates: too damn high. What else could we do but to push Sierra (the smallest of us) through that opening? As we pushed him through, we heard a whole lotta commotion. Apparently he tumbled and almost cracked his head open on one of the dryers. We prayed for sweet Jesus, Buddha, Athe, and any deity out there that nobody heard the racket Sierra made.

As we cleaned house, I heard footsteps approaching our position. Our fireteam quickly dispersed, just as the Sergeant opened up the door. In an attempt to bluff us, he said (in his worst English accent ever) "'eeh, cahdetts. I kno you arr een heer". Taking a short stroll around the area, looking through each crevice and spot on the ground, he failed to find us. I was hiding under the cupboard of the sink, Tango was hiding in the lost and found pile disguised as a pillow, and Sierra was hiding in a dryer. Now to his credit, even I would not have looked in a dryer. The other places? Pretty obvious hiding spots, if I may say so myself. I was slightly surprised he didn't see us.

After the Sergeant left, we still waited a few minutes to make sure he's really gone. We quickly took our stuff and walked as calmly out of the laundry room as possible. As we were walking, we encountered some guys dressed in the uniform of a Basic cadet. Trying to bluff them, we questioned them on why they were out so late. Turns out they were WO2s, on patrol. We were far way enough to book it. The urban environment allowed us to lose them quickly. On returning back to our barrack, Sierra had this brilliant idea of knocking on all the barrack doors within the general area. Shitting bricks, we ran back inside as quickly as we could, to the applause of the entire barrack.

We thought we were as quiet as a mouse in a sound proof room. November was kind enough to tell us that they were able to hear Sierra falling through the window onto the washing machine (which was on the other side of the base). I went straight to my bunk amid the hand shaking, picture taking, and news reporting by the other members of 404 Barracks. I watched as Sierra recounted the tale, and jumped into his bed only to find operator Juliet in his bed.

Shortly afterward, a group of suspiciously-clad Basic cadets entered our barrack. Everyone kept quiet until they left. High fives went around once more.