The Last Will and Testament of Nic "Moral" Way

Yeah, I debated putting my full name in the post title, but you know what?  It really doesn't matter at this point.  I'm sitting in a very sparse, windowless, concrete-walled room with a single, spastic fluorescent light above my head and a laptop on top of a cardboard box while a Proxy wearing a hand-made papier-mache plague mask watches from the doorway.  Clearly, I'm no longer in Kansas anymore.

Honestly, I agree with Nathan Umbra:  I am a fucking moron.  How did I not see this little 'plot twist' coming?  I mean, I'm a writer, for fuck's sake!  The whole 'cry-for-help-is-really-the-killer' technique is like making the victim's jealous girlfriend the killer; rookie stuff at best.  I really fell for the whole 'no sweat bro, I just got half-hollowed'.  I do need a Darwin Award.

I guess I was just too eager to help, you know?  I felt kind of helpless, like I wasn't doing anyone any good.  Shit was happening all around me (people dying, people being abducted, people getting mindfucked six ways to Sunday), and what was I doing?  I was sitting in my house, worried about what color tablecloths I should have for my graduation party.  So when Whitecrow contacted me and said he was in trouble, I really didn't think much about it.  I jumped right into action, which I guess is exactly what he wanted.

His blog isn't hidden from me anymore.  I can see everything on it.  Honestly, some of it pisses me off.  Hell, most of it pisses me off.  This bastard - no, this fuckwhistle (if I can borrow some creative swears) - had the audacity to blog about his plans.  Blatantly.  He knew that the friends who did car wouldn't be able to interfere.  I hate resourceful antagonists.  That being said, I still get a little chuckle out of the more recent posts, like the one where I kicked his ass.  Good times.

But what really confuses me is the big guy.  The head honcho.  Slendy.  Why the hell would he go to all that trouble to save my ass from a fucking truck if he was only going to send bird-brain after me in the end?  Was that his plan all along, or did something change?  I can't believe I would ever pose a threat to an Eldritch Abomination as powerful as he is.  But if that was his plan all along, why wait to spring Whitecrow on me until now?  None of it makes any sense.

I guess it doesn't matter either way, really.  Trying to figure out Big 'n Tall's motivations won't help me right now.  What will help is some element of surprise.  I'm not going down without a fight, after all.  Yeah, I don't have my weapons on me anymore (even the ones I hid in...um...creative places as a contingency plan), but if I can wrestle his knife away from him, or grab it when he least expects it...

That's not important.  What is important is what happens if I don't make it.  I'm almost out of time here, so I need to get my last words out there.  So...here goes, I guess.

Lucia, thanks for everything.  Seriously.  You helped me in my early days of exposure to this little 'twilight zone,' and I don't know that I would've been able to stay sane without our conversations.  I suspect I don't have to tell you this, but don't listen to Whitecrow; you did all you could to warn me, and it was my fault I didn't pick up on any hints you were giving me.  If you happen to run into the birdfucker...well, you know what to do.

North, thanks for at least being willing to give a rescue a try.  No need to apologize.  My own stupidity put me here.

Nathan Umbra, I'd love to compare my choice words with yours; something tells me they'd line up pretty damn well.

If anyone wants to use my blog as a prime example of what not to do when the Slender Man comes a-knockin', please do.  I'd like to think my legacy of poor decisions will save some sorry bastard some day.  ...hell.  I just realized the irony of this situation.  In trying to learn from my mistakes, I made perhaps the worst mistake of my life.  I would be laughing my ass off if I weren't past the point of hysteria now.

So, that's it.  I'm out of time.  Here he comes.  I'm going to fight.  Maybe win, maybe not.  If I do, I'll get another post up as soon as possible.  If not, well, I guess that's that.

Goodbye, andqpwoi4u;l kj.nsav


In about ten minutes, I'll be meeting Whitecrow down at the park.  I've got my knives, my machete (concealed, of course), and a few other tricks hidden away up my sleeves (literally, in some cases), so I should be prepared for damn near anything that tries to grab me while I'm down there.

I promise I'll post an update tomorrow, since I know some of you are a little worried. about this meet-up.


I know my last post was only three days ago, but for some reason it feels longer than that.  Come to think of it, that may because today has been one hell of a long day.  All because of that damn picture...

Whitecrow e-mailed me last night.  It was a warning message containing a picture of me (from behind) at the library where I work.  He said a Proxy who's been harassing him for a few weeks now sent him the picture with a warning for me:  I'm dead in one week.  In other words, Kniferapist is starting to bring in a third party.  This does not sit well with me.

What really shocked the both of us, however, was that Whitecrow recognized the library.  He knows where I live, and apparently has family here that he'll be visiting for this weekend.  With both of us in one small town, I'm going to assume that Kniferapist is going to have a field day, so we've already started coordinating preparations.  Since Whitecrow won't be here until incredibly late tomorrow, we won't be able to meet, but we've arranged a rendezvous at the park where I took the pictures for my other blog.  Not in the trees, of course; we're not suicidal.  We'll be meeting at the baseball diamond, on the opposite end of the park.

Before we started this, though, I had to ask about a few of his comments that he's left on a few different blogs, talking about 'Father' like a Proxy.  Well, as it turns out, he got a little too close to the big guy on one occasion, and got himself partly hallowed/hollowed.  Now he gets a little reverent of the Anorexic Abomination from time to time, which has cost him quite a few friends.  He's assured me it never gets violent, though.  Still, I'll be cautious.

Yeah, gathering might be exactly what Kniferapist wants us to do.  But I'll be ready for him.  And so will Whitecrow.  We're not helpless.  Whitecrow has actual experience in fighting (or so he says), and I already know that I can handle this Proxy bum.  We'll kick Knifey's ass and send him back to the faceless fuck with his tail between his legs.


So I graduated today.  Was kind of cool.  Ended up getting glitter-bombed by my entire class (that shit gets everywhere), but it was otherwise a pretty relaxed day.

Oh, and I got into a bit of a scrap with Kniferapist.  No big deal.

...oh, that is a big deal?  Well then, let me brag tell you all about it.

The ceremony was alright.  People talked, people sang, people got money, people played instruments, a guy with a face I can't remember stood in the doorway the entire time and watched me; it was a pretty standard affair, really.  I got a severe headache just before I started walking up to grab my diploma, so I'm under the assumption that Mr. Slim was there as well.  Charming.

Anyways, afterwards, everyone congregated outside the gymnasium doors in the blistering sunlight while the graduates and I were wearing heavy black robes.  Yeah.  Not the brightest idea our class anyone has ever had, but I lived, so I guess it doesn't matter now.  I'm nice and comfortable in the AC.

My parents took pictures.  Many pictures.  Too many pictures.  I'm still seeing little blue rectangles in front of my eyes (although the really big one from my uncle's giant, old-style flash bulb finally disappeared).  I'm not sure I want to look at any of them now, because nine chances out of ten, Kniferapist or his tall buddy (or both) are in a few.  Or they just screwed with the camera.

But eventually, the crowd died down and people started heading for home.  This is where I made horror movie mistake number one:  I split off from the crowd to walk on by myself.  My parents headed for their car, my grandparents for theirs, and my friends towards their own vehicles.  I, however, decided I wanted to get some exercise for once by walking the six short blocks from the high school to my house.

I was so damn close to home:  the parking lot of the Presbyterian church in town.  Literally two blocks away from my front door.  Also blocked from the main street by the church itself, bordered on the other three sides by backyards and houses with people who absolutely love to have their curtains drawn.  In other words, the perfect place to stage a battle royale with a knife-happy Proxy.

He was waiting for me smack-dab in the middle of the parking lot.  Again, stared right into his face and can't for the life of me remember what he looked like.  I really hate Perception Filters.

But I hate pointy objects pointed at me more.  So when he rushed me with a big-ass knife out (seriously, it looked about eight inches long), I may or may not have screamed like a little girl let out a very manly holler of pants-pissing terror very understandable shock.  Then I remembered I, too, was armed, took a slight step back to conceal my hand as I pulled out and opened my folding knife, and waited until he was about the right distance away.

I'm not going to lie, that was an incredibly stupid idea.

I now have a shallow but long cut running down my chin.  He almost got my neck, but I started to duck underneath his swing and immediately pulled away when I felt his knife start to slice the back of my jaw.  It probably won't leave a scar (at least I hope it won't), but I wasn't really worried about that at the moment.  I was kind of drunk on the realization that he had as little clue what he was doing as I did.  How exactly do I know that, you may be wondering?

Well, his swing left an opening the size of Texas, and I exploited it immediately.  He may have given me a cut on the chin, but I got him one better.  To this very moment (note:  'to this very moment' doesn't have the same impact as 'to this very day'; keep in mind for noveling efforts), I still have no idea why I held my knife in a backhand grip, but I did, and it paid off.  I lined up a punch for his face, and the blade just so happened to slice all the way up his arm, right through his hoodie (way too cliche by this point) and the shirt underneath.  I actually drew blood.

And I didn't let up, either.  I got in a good kick to his midsection, and would've had a good finishing stab to his chest, but he got his arm in the way just in time.  So I got a good chunk out of his wrist (sadly non-vital), and a slice up his arm.

Then he vanished.  Spun me around with a pretty good punch to the cut on my jaw, and when I recovered (fully expecting about seven-hundred stabs to the chest), he was gone.

So the score is currently Lucia 1, Moral 1, Kniferapist 0.

Yeah, I've given up adding the brackets to my name every time I type it.  Not worth the effort.


First things first:  I'm sorry if I worried anyone.  Lucia, you warned me about going crazy after letting things bottle up, and...well, you get a point.  Lucia 1, Moral 0.

...right.  Second.  I think oh, fuck it.  I know I'm being followed.

On my way home from work (I'm thinking of quitting, seeing as how shit always seems to go down as I'm leaving the library), I came to the same intersection where the Blank killed and puppeteered a guy into a car crash oh so many moons ago.  Tonight, of course, it was bright.  No stars, no streetlights.  Actual sunlight.  Hooray for summer.

As I'm crossing, taking care not to step in any day-old horseshit (parade; don't ask), I came down with a minor headache.  Oh, and paralysis.  Nothing says 'fucked' like a headache and paralysis.  I swear, if I don't get my ass killed before I'm out of my house, I will buy as much aspirin as I can on my meager budget, just in case things get all 'Slendery' at college (which they probably will).

So I was standing still, in the middle of the intersection, waiting for a car to come down the street at thirty miles an hour and hit me, when I heard footsteps coming up behind me.  Heavy, crunching footsteps.  By the sound of him, he was twelve feet tall, six hundred pounds, and wearing Army boots.  Either that, or his footsteps were amplified.  I find that unlikely, as they would've had to been louder than a jet engine for me to hear them over the sound of my own heartbeat and the overwhelming cacophony of 'ohshitohshitohshitohshit' tearing through my mind.

That's about when I feel the razor-thin edge of a blade tickling my throat, right at that little dip in the collarbone (probably a technical name for it, but I don't care; I'm not a friggin' doctor) and a gloved hand at the back of my head.  Slowly, this guy circles around me, tracing my neck with the blade in a way that felt just plain wrong.  He certainly seemed to be getting his jollies off of it.  He gets in front of me, and cups my cheek with his hand.  And he was fucking grinning.

"Peek-a-boo, Little Lion."

And then he was gone.  Just like that.  Creepy-ass paralysis, creepy-ass knife-rape, creepy-ass grin, and creepy-ass whisper, all in one creepy-ass Proxy package.  Now you're thinking "Moral, he could've been any creepy-ass, knife-crazy spook out to get you.  That doesn't make him a Proxy!"

...I can't remember his face.  I looked straight at him, right into his eyes, and I can't remember a second of it.  The grin stuck with me because it was so...hollow.  Like he was wearing a mask, but I know he wasn't.  I don't know how I know; I just know, y'know?

Sorry, couldn't resist.  Tend to resort to stupid 'humor' when confronted with a creepy-ass kniferaper Proxy.  ...I think I just found his name.  Kniferaper.  Let me know if that name pops up on any Proxy circuits, alright?

The best evidence is what he said.  'Little Lion' is what the Proxy 'asmodeus' (yeah, without the capital 'a'; lord, I was a dork) called 'Nobody' in my fake blog, the one I'm pretty sure got me into this whole mess.  Numerous people must've read that blog, but for one of them to not only have found me and go through the trouble to put up a Perception Filter around his face?

Ladies and gents, it would seem I have my own personal Proxy.



...something was outside.  Moved in the shadows outside the range of the kitchen light from the windows.  Couldn't see it clearly.  Too big to be a dog.  Too short to be Him no, can't capitalize.  Don't capitalize.  Shows submission to power.  Not submitting.  Not now.  Not ever.

Sleep...need to sleep.  Not healthy to stay awake so long.  But the nightmares...god have mercy, the nightmares...  Crows tearing, Lions ripping, and the spiders Spiders spiders all skittering about fangs glistening legs twitching eyes burning bodies bursting blood spurting people hurting demons laughing spirits passing women crying people dying children screaming NO MORE DREAMING

But he won't win no he won't win can't let him win have to fight


i have a headache


You'd think with only one-and-a-half days left of school, I'd be psyched and full of energy.

I'm dead tired.

I really don't know what's come over me.  For the last few nights, I've been waking up for no apparent reason.  Last night it was 4:15.  The night before, it was 3:33. 

I know that's a symptom of contact with the Operator, but why now?  I suffered no ill-effects from being close to him before.  Hell, he bitch-slapped me across the street, and I think I slept even longer than usual that night.  When I had 'Slendersickness,' I still wasn't getting up in the middle of the night.  Granted, it took a little longer to actually fall asleep, but that shouldn't rule out some sort of 'Slendersomnia,' should it?

What I'm more worried about is last night's dream. 

I was a lion.  An honest-to-goodness lion.  Mane, claws, tail tuft; the whole works.  I was wandering around a wasteland (kinda looked like...um...that other place that wasn't the Pridelands in Lion King II) with no obvious destination in mind.  As far as I could tell, I was alone until I came across the kitten.  There was some sort of twisted, blackened tribal arrow thrust through its heart, but it was still alive.  It just sat there, staring at the ground.  I wanted to get closer and help, but an overwhelming sense of despair and pain began to settle on me with every step I took.  I realized this kitten was fighting its own battle, and as much as I wanted to help, I could do nothing.  This was the job destined for...well, someone else.  So I continued on, under the impression that the wasteland was now a shit-ton darker and more foreboding.

At some point, I realized there was a bird on my back, pretty much just enjoying the ride.  I got the feeling it was an albino crow.  Yeah.  No obvious reference to my waking world there.  So the White Crow and I were chilling, enjoying our little wasteland journey, when every hair on my body stood on end.  Red flags were waving in my head like there was no tomorrow and, judging by the feeling I was getting, there wouldn't be a tomorrow, at least not for me.  I felt Whitecrow's claws digging into my back, heard a horrible screech and...and...

I woke up.  No cold sweat, no scream, no racing pulse.  Just a very calm, slow opening of my eyes to greet the darkness and the light of my phone telling me I was up three hours early.

So...blah.  It's late.  I need sleep.

Whitecrow, watch your back.  I've got a bad feeling that something's headed your way.


I have got to be the stupidest person alive.

My last post, I was pretty worked up.  I never really talked to Ryan much, being a little wary due to his being a Proxy and my being a Runner, but he was still someone I'd probably consider a friend, if only because of his bond to Lucia, who I have been talking to quite often.  So to hear that he'd been killed?  Rage fuel.

Granted, my 'rage' is pretty damn pathetic, but it is apparently enough to make me take a run at the fucking Operator.

...maybe I should back up a bit.

Saturday morning, when I found out, I made this post.  I was pissed.  None of what happened was even remotely close to fair.  I figured I could go do something about that.

Thankfully, I had some sense slapped (commented?) into me by Ben and Whitecrow.  Going to Pittsburgh would really only put one more person in harm's way:  me.  And since I never got my degree from Necromancer University and my Tardis doesn't work anymore, I can't do anything to 'fix' what's happened.  I'm no fighter.  I'm no healer.  I'm no Chronomancer.  I'm really just low-level cannon fodder, to put it bluntly.  I didn't want anyone to feel responsible if anything happened to me because I was too stupid to realize my limits.

But even though I knew what I planned was foolish, I was still angry.  Some of that anger was just directed at myself, for being weak.  Too.  Damn.  Weak.  Worst of all, I know that the time I'm spending screwing around in Skyrim or Saint's Row III could be spent fixing that problem.  I could be learning some martial art, or at least working out.  Godforbid I lift a few weights once in a while.

So when he showed up on my way to church on Sunday, acting all Slendery?  Well, it wasn't pretty.  Imagine the sequence in EverymanHYBRID where Evan charges the Slender Man with a baseball bat.  Now take away the baseball bat and imagine a girlishly long-haired, thin, scrawny, pale kid instead of...well, Evan.  Imagine said long-haired, thin, scrawny, pale kid in a vest and tie crumpling to the ground no fewer than ten feet away from the Operator.  All because of the fucking headache.  Finally, imagine the nearly-horizontal long-haired, thin, scrawny, pale kid actually trying to crawl toward the Operator, not away.  For shits and giggles, add in a few ponies fighting Godzilla in the background.

Yes, it was a fail of epic proportions.  And for some reason, the Blank didn't decide I was too stupid to live and simply stared at me, head cocked until I passed out.  I woke up at about noon, on my own front lawn, still wearing my vest and tie, with a little trickle of blood running out the corner of my mouth.  Upon further inspection once I got inside, I found my ears had bled, too.

So now I've calmed down considerably, and I've unpacked.  I really can't afford to make another stupid mistake like that.  The fact that I couldn't even get close to the lanky bastard is doing nothing for my self-image.  Again, though, I'm simply glad I'm no longer getting nauseous when in close proximity to the Slender Man.  The headaches are a lot more manageable, in my opinion.


I hate double-posting, but you know what?  Fuck it.

Shit went down last night.  Not here, not even remotely close distance-wise, but very close emotionally.  A friend of mine lost someone close.  You know where I was?  Just drifting off to sleep, judging by the timestamp on the post.  While I was safe and sound, dreaming of electric sheep, people were fighting, and an entire world shattered.

I'm done.  I'm done being the guy who hides out in his house while other people are fighting for their lives and dying to protect the people they love.  I'm done being content with where I am all while people I know are worrying for their own safety.  I'm leaving here.  Soon.

I'd planned to stick around a few weeks after graduating, but that just doesn't cut it anymore.  I'm out of here in less than two weeks.  Everything I think I'll need is packed and ready to go, underneath my bed.  Yeah, cliched place to stick it, but I don't care.  No one goes looking under there, anyways.  Too much crap crammed in such a small space.

I know exactly where I'm going first.



So it's been more than a week since my last post.  No, I'm not done with all the work I'm supposed to finish before I go off and graduate.  In fact, I'm stalling for time on a set of 'thought-provoking questions' I'm supposed to write for my Psychology class right now.  Started it up and completely forgot where I was going on the last of four paragraphs.  Such is my luck.

I almost popped back on yesterday two days ago (Thursday) because...well, he's back.

I went to a local art show with my Art class (go figure) for an 'end of the year' field trip, and also as a 'get out of the last few periods of school' field trip.  The building was nice, and the acoustics were phenomenal.  I know I was there for art, but all I could actually think of was getting a choir in there because it would've sounded amazing.

Anyways, I saw a quaint little painting of a forest, and guess where my mind went first?  Yup.  Johnny the Faceless Weeping Willow.  So I did the whole paranoid 'window sweep,' got a few strange looks for it, and when I was sure he wasn't lurking around outside, I went back to admiring the various photographs, sculptures, paintings, and works of art using pretty much every medium available.  Sounds pretty mundane and safe, right?


The moment I stepped outside to get back on the bus, it felt like someone had pulled the pin on a grenade and stuck it right between the two halves of my brain.  'Splitting headache' doesn't begin to describe it.  The pain actually forced me to my knees.  I managed to look up, and I really shouldn't have to tell you who was standing on the boulevard a few yards away, 'staring' at me with his big, faceless head cocked slightly to the side.

I ended up ringed by my classmates, who were trying to figure out what was wrong.  They broke my line of sight on him long enough that he was able to disappear.  The headache lasted until I was 'safely' at home, some thirty minutes later.  I told everyone I'd lost my balance on the stairs, and that satisfied them.  Like I said, not the brightest school in the world.

So, in conclusion, my little respite from the big guy is over, my nausea alarm has shifted into a 'grenade-in-the-brain' headache (which is actually an improvement, in my opinion), and I'm almost completely surrounded by idiots.

Life is good.[/sarcasm]


I really should be working on my Prezi right now for class...  Bah.  I have until midnight to finish it anyways.  I'll be fine.

I feel that, after my post concerning Water Theory, I should make sure no one expects some kind of theory about the Blank's powers every time I post.  I'm no genius.  I'm not even really that smart.  Seriously.  I don't think I'm even in the top half of my class.  ...okay, that's a little harsh.  I'm in the top half; top fourth, though, is doubtful.  And we're not a very high-achieving school to begin with, academically.  Our wrestling team kicks ass, though.

Anyways, Water Theory is something I worked on for more than a few hours on a Sunday afternoon.  I've been considering the basis of Water Theory since I started the other blog at the beginning of the school year, and even now I haven't got all the kinks worked out.  Granted, I haven't labored over it every day since September, but the point still stands:  nine months have passed since I started to work on that theory, and it's not concrete at all.  Evidence could easily pop up that discredits it completely.  Hell, for all I know, I'll be the one who proves it wrong by getting killed on a boat in the middle of the ocean.

I'm still not completely satisfied with it.  I feel like there's something I'm missing, some big piece of evidence that could either make or break it.  But I have no idea what that missing piece could be.  I'm equally clueless on how I'd go about testing this theory.  I just have to watch and wait and see if any other Runners go out onto a boat, believing wholeheartedly that the ocean is safe, and end up having a close encounter with everyone's favorite Operator.

And that's exactly what worries me the most.  Someone who's already been Marked will run across this blog, read my theory, take it to heart, set out to sea, and end up Slenderchow.  I don't think I can take anymore blood on my hands.

On a completely different note, I don't know how much I'll be able to post in the next few weeks; time is getting short for course-work, and I'm officially out of here (school) on the 30th.  That means a lot of my free time will be spent doing the homework I've been neglecting in favor of Skyrim, Mass Effect 2, and blogging.  I also have a deadline coming up for a manuscript I've nearly finished, so I have to get my ass in gear on that, too.

...how do I keep getting myself into these situations?

Bah.  Onwards to Prezi.


Water Theory

I actually titled a post?  What's come over me!?  Well, it's pretty damn straightforward and relevant, so I didn't see the harm.  It's also a little better showing up in the Archive as a nice little text link instead of a few sentences that end up cut off.  Much better for my minor OCD about that sort of thing.

With the hellish storms we've been getting where I'm at for the past week or so, I've been wondering about something.  Water.  Some claims rain attracts the Operator, others say the Blank is afraid of the stuff.

To go back once more to my perspective as a writer (pre-Moral, so to speak), I looked at this as indecision amongst the bloggers.  Some people wanted to introduce a weakness for the Slender Man, perhaps a way to finally end the story once and for all.  The people who were adamant about water having no effect were just performing damage control.  They didn't want their faceless monster stopped by something so simple.

Personally, I was of the former camp:  water as a weakness.  I believed the connection fitting.  The Slender Man had been referred to as the Angel of Death by a well-known Mystic, and water is a symbol of life.  One destroys, the other sustains.  Sure, water isn't technically an entity, so I wouldn't call it one of the Opposing Forces I mentioned earlier (here), but that doesn't mean you can't put your faith in it.

Now, I'm still in the same boat.  I still believe that water can be used as a defense.  I still believe the Slender Man isn't that fond of water.  I still believe I'm an idiot for it, but I believe nonetheless.

So why do I still believe, despite a blogger I respect conducting experiments with less-than-stellar results in support of this theory?  I have other evidence.  And I actually took a day or so to compose my thoughts before sitting down to type this out, so I won't just ramble on without much of a point.


Okay, I probably will, but I'll try not to.

First and foremost, I don't think water has any mystical property that the Slender Man has an aversion to.  I may be mistaken, but I believe the true 'power' lies in the state of matter:  liquid.  While the Blank does tend to break the rules of physics more often than I'd like to admit, he's still bound to a few rules.  For example, to the best of my knowledge he can't walk through a wall.  A wall is still a solid object, and though his Path can take him around it (possibly through an entirely different dimension), he still can't physically walk through it.  He also seems unable to 'fly,' or stand on thin air.  These two examples form the basis of my Water Theory:  the Slender Man's 'Path' is bound to solid ground or inter-dimensional travel.

I know that 'inter-dimensional' bit probably has many of you thinking "Big whoop.  He can't walk on water.  How the hell does that save us?"

Bear with me a moment, and I'll tell you.  First, I have a few things for you to read, courtesy of two other bloggers I respect:  this post by M and this post by AmalgamationSage.

Done reading?  Good.  I'll get on with it then.

First off, M's post mentions that James went out to sea, and to the best of my knowledge he's still safe, as M's final post on The Tutorial concerned more postcards and stuff from James.  So ocean=safe.  Second, AmalgamationSage's post begins by explaining that the astral plane corresponds with our own, which I took to mean "Ocean here, ocean (of sorts) there."

You're probably already getting where I'm going with this:  if the ocean is safe in our plane, it will probably be safe in the astral plane.  If it's safe and generally off-limits to the big guy's Path in our plane, it might be the same, there.  Therefore, the Slender Man can't use his Path to reach a boat full of Runners in our plane, and is likewise unable to do so in the astral plane, right?

Well, wrong.  Kind of.  I don't understand exactly how he moves about in the astral plane, so for all I know, he can fly there, and could pop across the ocean to a location corresponding to said boat of Runners, pop into our plane, and have a little snack.  In fact, I don't understand the astral plane at all, so I'll leave all of that up to the Sage who does, and simply deal with Water Theory in our plane of existence.

As I stated above, the Slender Man's 'Path' is bound to solid ground.  While he can't walk on top of water, that isn't to say he can't walk through it.  What matters here is quantity, or depth.  This would explain why this experiment and the prior experiment with a hose gave the results they did (Okay, I lied, Gargoyle.  Now I'm done referencing your blog.  ...I think).  The logic here was, I think, "If water can be applied as a defense, it should be able to be applied as an offense."  Honestly, I thought the same thing for a while, too, until I really started to think about it.

The Slender Man can't 'walk' across the ocean, but he can 'walk' through it:  his Path would carry him along the solid ground along the ocean floor.  This is possible because his first 'Layer,' a malleable body, would be impervious to the water pressure at any depth.  Where a human would be crushed like an insect, he would be perfectly fine, if the pressure would even be a factor at all (again, not sure how his Path works).

This is where the most important rule (get up high (or get down low, as the case may be)) comes into play:  if he's all the way at the bottom of the ocean and you're sitting on your boat in the sun, sipping a beer, you are about as high above him as you can get in most cases without scaling a building or other elevated structure (consequently, Water Theory also explains why you won't be safe on a mountain:  even the peak is still 'ground level' to him, as it's covered by his Path).

So, being the all-powerful monster he is, why doesn't he just alter his height (as he appears to be able to do) so he can 'stand' on the bottom of the ocean and at the same time have enough of his body above the surface to be able to climb onto a boat?  Or go 'Kraken' on us and pull the boat apart with his 'arms'?

...I don't know.  He's either screwing with us, or there is a constraint on his powers in our plane, a limit to how much he can extend himself or his 'arms'.  So, while I'd say you're relatively safe on a boat in the middle of the ocean, I wouldn't shout insults at him from an inflatable raft floating in the deep end of the pool.  And I wouldn't count on trapping him somehow on a small raft in the middle of the ocean.  Even if you didn't die trying to maneuver him onto the craft in the first place, he could still 'jump ship' and 'sink' to the bottom of the ocean, then walk back to dry land.  So really, if he wants to get you bad enough, he just has to board a vessel with his followers, dock next to yours, slaughter the lot of you, take a dive, and walk home.  You also have to account for how long you can stay on the water; you'll eventually have to come back to land for something.

As always, feel free to disregard any of the above, as there are probably holes in the logic that I haven't seen yet.  I'm just hoping out loud, I guess.  Trying to make myself look smart, when in the end I'll probably be killed by some incredibly stupid mistake I made, an oversight in a plan or theory I thought was foolproof.

But, I digress.  This entry has been long enough.  Feel free to tear the theory to pieces if you see an obvious flaw.  Or even if you don't.  I'll be trying to figure out a way to dig a really, really deep moat around my house.



So it's May Day today.  I don't know how many people out there are still familiar with the good old 'May Basket' tradition, but I want it on the record that I am.  I would also like to note that if I find a basket on my doorstep with an Operator symbol tied to the handle and human organs inside, I will not be chasing Slendy and/or the Proxy responsible around my lawn for a kiss.

...am I the only one who realizes what a weird species we are?  I'm not sure of the history of the baskets, but why would anyone drop a basket of stuff on the doorstep of someone they like, ring the bell, and then run away?  It's stupid.  It's like saying "Oh, I like you!  I think you're keen!" immediately followed by "RAPE!  RAPE!"  I've never received a basket myself, and I'm fine with that; the only holidays I really observe are (in order of importance) Halloween, Christmas, and Easter, so May Day doesn't really show up on my radar.  I don't even know why I brought it up, honestly; I think computer class is starting to bore me beyond what I once thought possible.

At any rate, things have been quiet lately.  I haven't seen the Blank since the truck incident, which is alright by me.  No Fears came after me about the last post, either, so they either don't exist (as I hoped), or they really don't care about one tiny blogger's posts (as is most likely).  My cold is also clearing up nicely, so I may finally have a weekend where I'm not hacking my lungs out or using up a full box of tissue in record time.  Of course, now that I've said that, I'll have a terrible relapse...  I need to buy more Kleenex.

On an entirely different note, with less than a month left of school to go, I'm beginning to get restless.  This summer is going to be packed with travel, work, music, and hopefully no Proxies or tall, faceless Eldritch Abominations.  That's a little much to ask for, I know, but for crying out loud, it's the summer after my Senior year of High School!  I deserve a break!


Yeah, that will happen. -_-;

Before I sign out, can anyone recommend an easy to learn, effective martial art?  I used to do a little Tae-Kwon-Do and karate, but I didn't stick with either for more than four weeks, so I know just enough of both to get myself killed trying to fight off an attacker.  I have to prepare for the inevitable 'Masky' coming my way.


Some creepy-ass guy is smelling a chick's hand.  ...and now they're kissing.  This is the last time I jump into an episode of Criminal Minds partway through.  Oh, look at that!  They're in a van.  Surprise!  Agent ambush!  Cue the 'gun to the chick's head' stand-off.

...sorry.  I'm easily distracted, as you may have already notic-whoa.  Assassin's Creed-style takedown, minus the hidden blade.  I gotta watch this show more often.  But not while I'm trying to make a blog post.  Especially one that I've been spending so much time thinking about.

The Fears.  So-called 'gods' that embody a specific kind of fear.  The Slender Man.  The Plague Doctor.  The Wooden Girl.  The Rake.  There are more, of course, but you get the picture:  We're fucked.  With a garden tool.  Sideways.  But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, even before coming into contact with the Blank himself.  Bear with me as I continue to think out loud (though, not really out loud, as this is a text-based medium).

When I started the first (fake) blog, I had already decided that the Slender Man was going to get involved and fuck things up for the main character, Nobody.  As I continued to familiarize myself with the other blogs, however, in order to avoid some of the more notorious 'cliches' (keep in mind, I was thinking as a writer among other writers at the time, not as a [hopeful] survivor among other survivor) that reared their ugly heads at least once per blog, I became aware of the other Fears.  This post was my first knowing (wasn't aware the Rake was a Fear; just thought it was a creepypasta the Hybrids 'threw in' for the hell of it) exposure to something other than the Slender Man that seemed to run in his 'pantheon' (and sorry for referencing you again, Gargoyle; I'll stop after this, I swear).  Shortly thereafter, this post pointed me towards another Fear:  The Convocation (unless I was horribly misreading).

Now, from the perspective of a writer, I was pissed off.  'We' (again, thinking we were all just a big group of fiction writers (and, as an aside, being as pompous as to assume I was part of the group just by starting a blog)) already had one big Eldritch Abomination that was raping our lives.  Why the hell did we need more of them?  From a storytelling perspective, it just didn't make sense.

One apocalyptic monster is essentially perfect:  you know you're going to get your ass handed to you, but there's always that lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, someone will come along and shove the Big Bad's head straight up his ass and save the day.  That hope is what makes the story so much more tragic:  every time that hope is stomped down, it's like pouring rubbing alcohol in an open wound.  Makes for a very successful story.

A whole damn pantheon of them, however?  There is no hope.  That little space of mind reserved for hope in situation A is now occupied by your worry of how you'll kill yourself with some measure of peace and dignity before they kill you.  Face it:  you're better off dead (even if that just sticks you in the Archangel anyways) than you are trying to scrape out a meaningful life while there's a sick, twisted family of 'deities' fucking the hell out of the world for shits and giggles.

Before you get after me for saying this, that's not how I actually feel.  I don't intend to jump off a chair with a cord around my neck (more spare cords and cables around here than rope, and I have no idea what the hell half of them are for), and I don't want anyone else to do the same.  The above is from my perspective as a writer.  I'm probably showing my lack of experience or creativity here, but there's really nowhere to go with the above situation.  You basically have to give your protagonist (or protagonists) the ability to kill 'gods.'  It's been done, yes, but the way some people talk about these Fears, they're above 'god-level'.  They're not just 'over nine-thousaaaaaaaaaaaand,' they eat 'over nine-thousaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand' for breakfast.

Now, being a little bit wiser, I realize that these things just might be real.  I know exactly how foolish this makes me, but in this matter, when we're talking about uber-powerful beings of unknown origin, I'll believe in what I've encountered.  So far, that's limited to the Slender Man.  Never met the Choir, never seen the Convocation tearing shit up, never heard the Plague Doctor tapping his cane on the sidewalk.

And honestly, we could all just be bat-shit insane.  Just about everyone who begins to have Slender Man related breakdowns and sanity slippage was introduced to it by someone else.  On top of that, not everyone exposed to the Slender Man blogs or vlogs is targeted.  I know for a fact that there are at least ten people in my school who have read some blogs and watched the entire MarbleHornets (and continue to watch each new Entry), and I'm the only one who has become a target.  These guys aren't the most secretive people; if they were being hunted by him, I would know (I'm quite observant).

Is it really that dumb to suggest that maybe the Fears (the Slender Man included) could be nothing more than mass hallucinations?  Delusions and ghosts created in the minds of viewers and readers who are already somehow susceptible to that kind of thing?  Maybe there's just something about the Slender Man story, perhaps the fact that he thrives on our fear and paranoia of him, that sets off some mental trigger that causes us to believe we're truly being chased by a paranormal near-deity?

...bah.  Feel free to disregard all of the above.  I'm taking a psychology class, but I still have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to the mind.  Most of that up there was probably nonsensical bullshit, and I'm sure there are holes in that logic large enough to fit a Reaper through.  Go ahead and point them all out; I can hardly get defend my words when they make no sense, can I?  I'm not saying those of you who have had encounters with the Fears are liars.  I'm saying that I'm not ready to believe that things get worse than Slendy.  Again, foolish, but I'm content being a fool.  Ignorance is bliss, you know.

One final point for consideration before I [finally] go to bed:  our universe is built on duality.  For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.  There are heroes to fight every villain, and monsters to challenge every paragon of virtue.  So where are the Fear's counterparts, their 'opposing force'?  I don't care what anyone else thinks:  I believe they exist...somewhere.  I don't think the God I pray to every evening is one of them.  That would be stating that the Fears are gods, and I do not believe they are.  I believe they are powerful beyond human comprehension, but that doesn't make them gods.

That makes them really fucking scary.


Okay, topic.  Topic, topic, topic...  Curse my poor short-term memory...

Ah.  I remember now.  All going back to a conversation I've been carrying on with another blogger involved in this sort of situation.

I don't know how to lead into this, so I'll just go with 'blunt' and 'too the point':  I have a girlfriend.

What does this have to do with anything?  Well, as I've seen in numerous places, Runners don't typically keep people around that could be used to hurt them.  As I've been warned, too many times has a cocky, headstrong Runner been reduced to a blubbering mess because his/her significant other was killed, mutilated, maimed, turned, or caused to disappear while they could do nothing to stop it.  Zeke Strahm lost Lizzie,  Zero lost Nessa, and so on (not very genre-savvy as to the last blog, so I'm not sure if that's at all accurate to say).

A lot of the more intelligent Runners would say that the best thing to do would be break it off and actually start running before something very, very bad happens.  Well, I won't.  Why?  As stupid as it sounds, I had to go through hell and back again to finally establish (actually, re-establish) a relationship with this girl, and on top of that, I'm not planning on running anytime soon.

I'll handle the 'girlfriend' part first.  Basically, we've been romantically linked three times, this being the third.  Yes, that means I've broken it off twice.  And this is part where you start to hate me:  both times was over another girl.  The same girl, actually.  Before you ask, yes, I do consider myself a monster for this.  I'm no stranger to self-loathing, and I doubt I'll ever get over what an ass I've been.  I told you here:  I'm no White Knight.  This is why.  I'm more akin to a Dark Knight, though one who's more content to flee than fight.  Some day, I might be able to climb Mt. Ordeals and become a Paladin, but for now, I'm stuck in my role.  Last note:  the other girl will no longer be a problem, and I've pulled my head out of my ass enough to know how I feel and who I feel it about.  Probably not the first time a guy my age has said that, but I'm running on 90% certainty, here, as opposed to the 80% certainty with which I've handled mostly everything else in my life.

Now for the 'not running soon' part.  This is probably more idiotic than re-establishing a relationship with someone you've already hurt twice, but it's how I'm doing things:  I'm sticking around to graduate high school.  Then I'm attending college.  Both very stationary activities which will leave me pretty vulnerable to Proxies and the big guy himself, but I'm making a change and actually planning ahead for something more than five days away.  If (and it's a very big 'if') we one day get rid of this Eldritch Abomination, and the world is saved, well, I'll still have to get a job, preferably one I like.  To do so, I'll need a college degree.  Even as a writer (my hopeful future, provided I survive), I'll need as much experience and education on the writing front as I can get.

Hell, who knows.  Maybe, when it's all over, I can bring together all the struggles against the Slender Man, and his demise, into a big collective biography.  Imagine bouncing your kid on your knee, pointing to an old alias of yours (in my case, [Moral]) in a large volume, and saying "That was me, -insertnamehere-.  I lived this.  I fought him.  I helped save the world."

...or the book will backfire, summon Slendy back from his grave, and fuck us all over again.


On second thought, I'll stick to writing trashy zombie romances.  But hey, it was a thought.

So there you have it.  Throwing my biggest weakness out there for the rest of the world to see.  Incredibly stupid move, no?  Unless of course I have some sort of contingency plan.  Some sort of fool-proof

-delay as I rush home from school to continue writing this on my laptop-

plot that will keep her safe, even though I'm trumpeting to Blogger, a very public medium, that I have this weakness just waiting to be exploited.  An idiot I may be, but to quote a Dilbert strip:  "There's nothing more dangerous than a resourceful idiot."  I like to think I'm fairly resourceful.  Not insane, sadly, as that seems to help make every plan work without a hitch, but resourceful and stupid enough to make a stupid plan work, or a stupid defense soli-

Nausea.  He's nearby.  I have to go.


Just wanted to address the issue of the new blogger layout:  I've actually been using it since this blog was created.  I signed up with a Google+ account (mostly to see what it was), and it automatically gave me the new layout.  By now I'm used to it, and I didn't figure out until yesterday that I could change it back to the old layout (though doing so comes with a warning that the 'new interface' will become official and the old interface discontinued 'within the month').

But, I digress.  I don't have time for a long post right now, which is unfortunate, as I just found something to write about (courtesy of an e-mail convo I've been carrying on with A. Lucia for a while now).  So, expect another post tomorrow.

Well, goodnight; here's hoping we all wake up in the morning.


Okay, so I'm walking home from work.  It's dark out.  Long shadows in the streets between the safe havens of the street lights.  Creaky gates at the lumber yard no more than fifty feet away from my house making noise that I can hear at least two blocks away.  Nobody else is out, to my knowledge, but I've got my knife sitting snugly in that little coin pocket located on the right side of my jeans.  You know, the pocket you don't actually put coins in because you know you'll never get them all out again.

I'm feeling relatively safe as I stroll down the sidewalk, earbuds in each ear and the soothing sounds of Voltaire's "Riding a Black Unicorn" filling my head (Yes, I like Voltaire.  Don't judge me.).  Then I come to the intersection.  A vast expanse of asphault, a veritable ocean of tar lying between me and my destination.  Some nights, when the streets are dead and there's no one driving, I like to stand in the middle of the intersection for a while and look up at the sky, or if it's winter, watch the snowflakes drifting lazily down under the yellow glow of the streetlamps.  Quite magical indeed.

Tonight, though, I'm cutting right across.  It's raining, and I don't have my umbrella.  It's not a torrential downpour, granted, but it's not a light sprinkle, either.  It's that stage between where you can walk around thinking "Hey, this isn't so bad," only to find when you get to where you're going that you're soaked.

I'm not sure at what point I noticed the headlights bearing down on me, but when I looked up I could've sworn they were mere inches from my hip.  I am sure that in the next instant, I felt something slap me in the chest hard enough that I went flying, nearly landing with my back on the curb (which I'm sure would've broken a few vertebrae, at least), but safely out of the path of the truck that probably would've made a nice [Moral]-colored stain all over the intersection.

The truck comes to a screeching halt a second later, the midsection resting exactly where I would've been standing.  Way too late, had I not been pushed out of the way.  Or bitch-slapped out of the way, as the case may be.  Actually, while I knew the nausea I was feeling could've been attributed to nearly becoming a hood ornament, which isn't exactly one of my childhood dreams, I had a sinking feeling it had more to do with the tall, well-dressed, faceless man who was peeking over the other side of the truck at me, head cocked quizzically to the side and one little tendril just snaking it's way back out of sight over his shoulder.  At that moment, one thought ran through my head:

Well, shit.

But I couldn't run.  I think Gargoyle explained best here, in 'Layer 3 - Perception Barriers':

"Another instance is an apparent ability to stop an individual dead in their tracks. Causing the body to simply lock up and be either extremely difficult or damn near impossible to move." - Quoted from Beneath Stone Skies "So You Wanna Punch Out the Construct?" (I hope he doesn't sue me).

Basically, he had me in a lock, and he had me good.  I figured I was as good as dead.  I read somewhere that when he's going in for the kill, his tentacles or 'arms' or whatever are all out, ready to rip you apart, so by that logic, I should've been fine.  No more than two arms; I was 'safe.'

Whoever wrote that nugget of information:  Fuck you.  You go stand in front of the Blank himself, your body locked, completely helpless, and tell me that the first thought running through your head isn't to the general tune of "OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCKIAMGOINGTODIEOHFUCK".  Then you can talk about being 'perfectly safe' unless you see more than two 'arms'.

Anyways, I was broken out of my pants-wetting fear by the guy in the truck, who had practically kicked his door open, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me to my feet.  Imagine my surprise when he was the angry one.  Him.  The guy who had nearly run me over.  While he was yelling the longest string of expletives I've ever heard (guy was probably a sailor), I glanced at his hand.  He was holding onto his phone, which was displaying a 'call ended' timer.  The son of a bitch had nearly run me over while talking on his phone, and he was angry?  Fuck that shit.

So we started to argue quite heatedly, and despite the fact that there was a church that I think may have been having a service just on the other side of the street, we were both using language unsuitable for the ears of young children; he was shouting something along the lines of "WATCH THE GODDAMN ROAD, YOU LONG-HAIRED LITTLE FUCK!"  I was only marginally more polite.  Marginally.  I can't remember most of what I said; I was still battling the nausea and headache that everyone's favorite faceless stalker was causing.

Then the bastard hit me.  It may have had something to do with what I was saying about his mother at the time, but there's no way of knowing for certain now.  One minute I'm standing arguing with him, the next minute I'm back on the ground, a pretty good imprint of his fist on my cheek and at least one loose tooth.  I started to get up, but I was paralyzed again.

"What the fu-!?"

That was the last thing the man said before a long, slender black tendril gagged him, wrapping around his neck and cutting off his air.  Two more grabbed his arms and lifted him into the air.  I could feel the anger coming off of the thing, and I wanted nothing more than to run, but he held me firmly in place with that mental lock of his.  Another set of 'arms' wrapped around the poor guy's ankles.

Ever heard of 'drawing and quartering'?  Well, back in the good old days, those accused of high treason would be hung until nearly dead before being disemboweled and cut into four pieces.  A more modern interpretation I've seen shows the criminal having each limb tied to a different horse.  The horses then run in different directions, pulling the victim apart.  The latter is much closer to what I saw.  There was no real resistance; just a loud, wet ripping noise and the splatter of blood and organs onto the ground.

Then he just stood there, 'staring' at me.  Stupid as it sounds, I feel like he was telling me that I had a purpose in whatever sick plot he has.  Like he was showing me that if I hadn't had a purpose, I would end up just like this poor bastard who was...suddenly whole again at his feet.  Dead as a doorknob, yes, but whole.  I could just barely see little lines of black stitching him together; his 'arms' at work again.  But why bother?

I understood when the body stood up, moving like some jerky, stop-motion animation, got into the truck, and proceeded to drive it into the wall of the post office kitty-corner from the church.  I've never been one for loud, sudden noises, so when the airbag went off, I flinched big time.  When I opened my eyes again, surprise!  I was alone.  Just me and a totaled truck driven by a dead man.  So I did what any sane person would do in that sort of situation:  I threw up and passed out.

Long story short, I woke up in my room the next morning.  The accident received surprisingly little attention; they chalked it up to some moron talking on his phone while driving home, even though his wife insists he'd hung up before the accident.  I haven't come forward with any information, obviously.  Who would believe that a faceless Eldritch Abomination killed a man and puppeteered his corpse into an accident?  The police who would believe that are either the ones in the cult that worship this thing or the ones that are in the government organization trying to cover his movements up, keep him out of public eye.

So I've been lying awake, losing sleep over it.  It's not some cliche about 'seeing it every time I close my eyes.'  In fact, I haven't really thought about the dead man much at all.  Yeah, it was a gruesome way to die, and I wouldn't wish it on my enemies (okay, that's a lie), but it's been completely overshadowed by the thought that I was saved by this monster.  Not only does this mean that I owe it something, but it also means it has a reason to keep me alive.  Whether that reason fits into some big master plan or just that he's not done fucking with my life quite yet, I don't know.

It sure as hell keeps me up at night, though.


I know I wasn't going to post two days in a row but...


...he killed someone.  Right in front of me.

All I can think is that it could've been...me.

I...I need time to process this.


If you hadn't guessed by now, I'm trying to stagger my posts as much as I can.  I don't want to do daily updates, because I think that would make for a lot to catch up on if this blog were to suddenly receive a crap-ton of attention and have people reading all the way from front to back (so to speak).  Granted, every other day is going to be a lot, too, but I'm only posting so frequently because, being relatively new to this whole Runner situation (though I can't really be called a Runner if I'm hiding out in my house), I have a lot I want to get out right away.

Since today is Sunday and I just got back from church, I wanted to write a bit about the religious aspect of the Slender Man, especially after watching DarkHarvest00 with the Gorr'Rylaehotep connection.  However, I decided against it.  Why?  Well, religion is always an uncomfortable topic, especially on the internet.  Given the instability of some Runners, the last thing I want to do is piss anyone off by discussing religion.  Maybe some other day I'll tackle that topic, but not right now.

So instead, I'll discuss the moral code I mentioned in my first post, not only as a way of explaining a bit about where my moral compass points, but also as a means of reminding myself what they are in case I ever end up in one of those situations where everything is gray, and there's no black and white to bail me out.  Genre-savvy as I am, I know that will happen sooner or later.  Here's hoping it's later rather than sooner.

My code, in order of importance, looks something like this:

1.)  All life is sacred.
2.)  Dead men are of no help to anyone.
3.)  The Truth can hurt, but lies make enemies.

Pretty short, I know, and probably anticlimactic for all the buildup, but I find the simplest things to be the most effective.  To put it in more basic terms:

1.)  Don't kill if you don't have to; always look for an alternative.  If someone's in mortal danger, save them however you can.
2.)  Unless #1 calls for crazy, suicidal heroics, try not to get yourself killed.
3.)  Don't lie.  Nothing good ever comes of lying.

Number 3 is the one I expect to break first.  ...okay, screw it.  I already broke it ages ago, but I'm trying to cut back on the lies.  I've been pretty good about 2 so far; the fact that I'm still sitting here writing this is always a good sig

....just kidding.  Anyways, 1 probably sounds the most amateurish and 'green' of all of them, but I mean it.  I originally had it written down as 'all life is sacred but my own,' but realized once again that sounded too melodramatic and like I was trying too hard.  Honestly, I expect this one to be the first to go when the situation calls for it.  I'm a coward, plain and simple.  I'm not going to be like Zeke, firing off cluster-f-bombs like no tomorrow when I see Slendy, all while loading a pistol and lining up a shot between his eyes.

...yes, yes, I know.   You know what I mean.  My point is that I'm no White Knight.  I'm more like Abra:  I may seem impressive, and may one day even be impressive and powerful, but right now as soon as the battle music starts, I Teleport the fuck out.

And you know what?  I think I'm fine with that.  Better to live to fight another day (see number 2) than die trying to be The Hero.  Even if The Hero does get the girl, the car, and the key to the city.


Right.  New post.  Keep it short.  Succinct.  To the point.

I've been gone the past few days for two reasons:

1.)  I've been doing some serious catching up on blogs and vlogs pertaining to everyone's favorite faceless stalker.  I decided that if I'm want to live longer than a few months, knowledge is probably a good thing.

I caught up on a lot of the vlogs that I'd missed earlier, one of them being DarkHarvest00.  I simply have to ask:  why on God's green Earth would you view a video of some bizarre cult ritual (with rather catchy music, I must say; I need to speak to their basses about joining my school choir) and then go back and try to break in again?  At what point do you throw in the towel and say "Screw this, I'm going home"?  Although I do have to commend Alex (he of the much-cursed name, apparently):  he is probably the only person I know of who hasn't wanted to go chasing Slendy into the trees at night.

I also caught up on CaughtNotSleeping, and am now suitably afraid, mostly because of the most recent video.  Does this mean we can add telekinesis to the ever-growing list of Slendy's powers?  As an aside, this was the second 'badass' to have died on camera (if he's actually dead) after Zeke.  I'm starting to think Slendy has a snuff-film fetish.

2.)  Slendersickness.  Since my last post, I've had a few nasty coughing fits, felt weak, had a constant splitting headache, and been plagued by bouts of nausea.  The upside?  I figured out that the nausea is usually a precursor to an encounter with the lanky bastard himself, so I've been able to use it as a warning signal.  The downside?  I have emetophobia (or at least, I'm relatively certain I do).  Even a bit of nausea sends me into total breakdown mode.  Not fun.  The good news is that it's been clearing up over the past twelve hours or so, and I should be perfectly fine by tomorrow.

...I hope.


Okay, so posting that I'd probably die was maybe a little over-the-top.  I dunno why I said it; I think I was just feeling a little melodramatic last night.  I'll try to keep from posting when I'm feeling like that.  Blogger is already full of people whining about their problems and emotions; I can't expect anyone to wade through entries like that when I can't, can I?  Anyways, this entry is a little easier to post than yesterday's, since I know what I'm going to talk about.

In September of 2011, I decided I was going to start a Slenderblog (Slender Blog?  Slender-Blog?  Slender-blog?  Note:  ask someone about proper terminology).  I'd been watching the big three series on YouTube (MarbleHornets, EMH, TribeTwelve) and reading some of the major blogs (The Tutorial, Seeking Truth/The Mystic), and figured it would be fun to contribute to what I thought was a collection of ARGs based around one terrifying Eldritch Abomination.

I failed.

The story brought nothing new to the mythos, and pretty much consisted of 'Nobody' whining about his mysteriously missing best friend/girlfriend 'Dom'.  Real original, I know.  And then, surprise!  Dom's account is suddenly hacked by someone who speaks in a mildly cryptic fashion!  I even spent a few months writing up Dom's 'journal,' which is now just lying in my backpack with a bunch of random sketches pertaining to the Slender Man and a few curse-laden entries.  That was going to play a major part in the story, but I realized that if I posted images of the journal to prove it was real, then later posted anything I'd written, people would probably recognize my handwriting.

But my blog did accomplish one thing:  it 'infected' me, to use M's terms.  The 'drunk' post was made the day of my first actual encounter.  That day, there was a lot of fog.  I've got a few pictures on my phone that I could probably stand to upload at some point, if it becomes relevant.  Anyways, I was minding my own business walking down to school, when who should appear standing beside a tree than the big guy himself.

I stood there for about ten seconds before I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and laughed when I saw he was gone.  I chalked it up to an overactive imagination and a product of sleep-deprivation and simply carried on with my day.  I've only seen him once more since then:  yesterday afternoon, in my backyard.  No fog, no sleep-deprivation; nothing but cold, hard fact.  That was one hell of an awakening.

Which brings me here, to Moral Runner.  I felt that if I was going to come clean, it couldn't be on the same blog, so I started this one, and will probably only be updating here from now on.  So, I apologize for anyone that was actually concerned about Nobody and Dom, and even Ellie (my own attempt at creating a badass, I guess), but they're not real.  I am.

I also apologize to any of the other Runners who blog.  I wrote off your lives as games, your losses as interesting developments, your pain as good writing, and your stories as...well, just stories.  If it makes you feel any better, I had to change my pants after I saw him yesterday.

...damn that was long. >.<;  I'll try to keep the posts shorter from here on out, unless it's absolutely necessary.


Any writer will tell you that beginnings are hard.  This should be easy for me, especially after the last blog, but...  Well, if what you thought was just a game became horrifyingly real, I imagine you'd have a hard time starting up a blog without a second thought, too.

I guess I'll start out with myself:  [Moral], or just Moral.  Great name, I know, but I chose it for a few good reasons.

First and foremost, my story will end up having a moral to it.  What exactly it will be, I don't know; the lesson is usually most apparent at the end, and I'm in no rush to face the end.  If I had to make a guess, though, I'd assume the moral of my story will be "Don't start a 'Slenderblog' under the assumption everything's fake."  More on that later.

Second, and most obvious, I wanted to remind myself of my own moral code somehow, and choosing this username seemed as good a way as any.  In my situation, your own code is one of the only things you still have, and I don't want to lose any more than I already have.  Again, more on that in a later post.

Finally, it sounded cool to me.  ...which invariably means that it sounds lame to everyone else.  Might as well have chosen the name 'Lloyd' and been done with it.

But, I digress.  To sum up my introduction:  My name is [Moral], and I'll probably die tonight.

Sweet dreams.