And here's a direct link in case Protonmail changes their website design.
I've met many a person who states it's hard to finish an essay, just as it's hard to end one. The same applies to videos, to poems, to books… and so on and so fort. But I have never heard somebody have the same sense of apathy for the middle of their work. It's only fair then to start writing in the middle in the work, and keep adding onto that middle until the point you may add on no more. And suddenly you have a work.
Basically I'm saying I'm not sure what in the world interesting thing I have to say about this mountain here, for it is what you see. I've read that typography, though there is an art to it, is at its core a practical field. It exists to document things, the same as typography exists to be read. In which case, you can see clearly that this is a mountain. No art involved. Good work there.
I confess I feel some enjoyment for not having to make any artist page, simply linking to the Tomb of the Unknown Artist once again, as creating a profile for them and summarising them takes up a darn good chunk of my time. It is an experience to meet new artists, though it is also labourious. If I had the opportunity, I would spend a little while simply looking at artists. Well, I do, but that's mostly porn.
I also confess that typing out text files away from home and on a scissor–switch laptop keyboard is at least three times as painful as it would be on a mechanical keyboard (you gotta love those brown switches!). If there was a time where I used to type exclusively on these petty things, on what amounts to the McNuggets of the keyboard world (bland, slightly overpriced, and doesn't make you feel good whatsoever), I must have blocked it out from my memory. I regret having done so. I should have prepared for the Hell that is touch–typing on this.
Indeed, the circumstances of this update are unlike what I need. I cannot browse Fur Affinity on public Wi–Fi, unless I want to be known as an equal to the fat bloke in a Nintendo T–shirt roleplaying on Inkbunny, which fans of Froghand would be keenly aware of. Come on, man. Why must you give so little of a care about your stature, have your entire life suffer such little gravitas, that you embarass my culture with your existence? All this does is motivate me to be sound in body and soul as much as I may be.
I picked up this portrait of a plump pile of rock on the Protonmail website, which is a service that is the closest ideal to free, private, and secure e–mail, and I am happy for its continued success and existence. I must have been bloody desperate in the month prior to this when I picked it up, because it's entirely unlike my current art finding routine of whoring around the boorus for a while and then picking up some good shit good shit good shit right there. It was one of my earliest experiments in compression, when I lacked a style and simply used algorithms to smash some bits away. Well, it worked. But I wouldn't feel like an artist unless I did some editing. I'll consider this edit–free picture a free handout.
Well, the same for the blog post, as well. What may I write about here, beyond a barely–fermented and slightly cocky comparison from this mountain photograph and the practicalities of typesetting? Well, I can say that I sure showed those bits the what–for, by giving them eight colours and not even bothering to edit up the spares. I suppose art deserves what it gets. If it's good, I clean it up. If it's great, I might leave it alone. If it's not much art at all, what the hell is it doing here? Oh, right, this was the only thing on my hard drive I could update without being That Furry Dude. I have to avoid the actual degeneracy, I have you know.
Am I sullen? Not really. What I do know is that my laptop battery is dying and my screen is much too dark. I have to use a mouse whose buttons are too stiff and a keyboard that is telling me to succ my mother. My only solace is the rediculously comfortable chair I'm sitting in, and even then I hope my desk should magically grow three centimetres higher. The thrill of being the only person in this complex using Linux is offset by the fact that nobody is looking at me. Well, what is there to look at in a fullscreen text editor? "Oh, I like your styles!" "Thanks, they're the default!" And then we both leave, us cunts.
On the upside, seeing somebody struggle with Microsoft Word freezing up on something as simple as… saving the page. There are so many times in life I'm proud to avoid proprietary software, and this is just one of them. More embarassing though is the size of the laptops they're using. They must weigh two kilograms, but whatever they put inside them don't make them run better than what I could hack together with a Raspberry Pi. All it would take is a "Vista approved!" sticker to make my laugh my ass off. Why pay a thousand buck for a bunch of Windows licenses when you could pay absolutely nothing for a Linux box? A question for idiots…
Oh, I can feel Froghand leaking in again. Well, time to end this charade with a quality example of German humour.
Date: 2017–02–16. Size: 5,177 bytes. Colours: 8.
Upscaled Dimensions: 680×360. Original Dimensions: 340×180.
