My past time is Warhammer 40k
Collected 12 separate army ranging from 10,000 point to couple hundred.
My personal faction is craft world Eldar,
Since they are space elves of the dying race,
Prideful, arrogant, know it all, psyker gifted, prudes of 41 millienium.
Play with twelve Wraith Knights,
And earning me as "That Guy,"
As known as cheesy player,
Or just a solid Gould cheese.

I am inspired by Marcus Aurelius
Known as the philosophical emperor,
Also known as the last true good emperor of Rome,
Loved by many by the empire,
My favorite quote by him
"Accept the things fate binds you,
And love the people whom fate brings you together,
But do so with all your heart!"

I am a Capricorn,
Driven by amethyst gem stones,
Or a pure ruby so they say!
I have not had the same gravitational pull like Joan Of Arc,
Nor have I become a champion like Mohammad Ali,
Or fought for civil liberty like Martin Luther King,
Or earned the legacy likes of Humphrey Bogart,
But I would do my best to carry even ounce of their torch of greatness.

Bored of these games
Screwball scrabble your monopoly
I'll take the risk not pass go or bow to authority

I wanna Poke your face with a hot poker
Just to see your poker face  
I might just be a pawn but the queen's I have to chase

And who would of thunk
I lost all my marbles
When I went and played kerplunk
My battle ship sunk
And it's now not the rope swing
I want hang from that tree trunk

So check mate this was my only first draughts
The mouse has been trapped warhammer's looking for a blood bath on the warpath

So don't go and pin the tail on the donkey
Coz' you might get a buckaroo though
But look for the clue'do
And you might find more
But only if your a hungry hippo and can find the hidden meanings in theese words and connect all four

she was enticing, i must add, but not the point where
i might find myself buying her jewels...
   and other symbols of the archaic statement of
reciprocated show of affection...
     she chose her own engagement ring...
                                 it wasn't much, by my standards
of wealth, but what mattered was the essential promise
of proposal...
                rarely does a man get "*****" into being
proposed...         so little planning goes into the affair
on man's behalf, that he simply regresses into a state
    of a procelain doll...
                      or, for that matter: becomes a st. thomas'
babushka doll: full of surprises...
        here's to it! an ode to oakheart!
                 a bacardi brew at 35% (imagine the arithmetic
that went into buying this liquor...
          how much less do i get from the standard 40%
dosage of *****? five beers? six? seven?) -
they don't even cite the spices used... or what sort of
wood the liquor was stored in... the *******...
          bold yet smooth & mellow taste?
  seriously?
    see... this girl really believed in the herr mannelig
story... myth... a knight becomes enticed by a female troll...
   she had this mirror she called to,
   and it wasn't the sort of story that you could
recount with the word: mirror mirror, on the wall,
   who's the fairest of them all?
         oh no... this image-projection was thick as the darkest
of all possible nights... she was a real trollfrau...
  a female troll... a gamer... a girl who was into
painting warhammer figurines...
               i had no complaint about that... after all...
she was playing video games, but encouraged that i read
bulgakov's: the master and margarita...
    which i did...
                 but as a 19 year old... her obsession with
the herr mannelig fable reached a pinnacle...
   and my once dear trollfrau became so so lost in her black
widow web of lies, that she was never resurrected.
        well i couldn't complain about her prettiness...
      i wasn't the one to judge what she noted
about her slightly large proportion of nose...
   but since she lied that she used to roller-blade
and hit the tarmac face-down, and this enlarged her nose
to slightly fatter proprotion?
         lies have short legs... lies are like dwarfs...
        it's not exactly zeno's achilles and the tortoise:
     in non-paradoxical language... one will catch up with the other;
obviously there is a time delay... but one can't remain
in the abstract from the other.
         she also wore glasses...
            and yes, even though i don't have to wear glasses,
i checked out the effect that glasses have on perception...
she thought she had short legs...
       wear myopia glasses for long enough... and you too will
imagine yourself several inches shorter than you actually are.
once i found variations of the folk song that she
really stressed to be her favourite,
      i found a woman's voice singing herr mannelig
as being the complete opposite to her first suggestion:
namely in extremo's version of it... a male voice singing
for trollfrau's narration? it couldn't happen...
   there's germarna's version,
and there's tibetréa's version...
                 which coincides with what i do on a very
rare occassion... like... watch the "eurovision" song contest...
australia? really? so why not include canada and america
in this farcical of all possible contests?
     the belgian song from the current year, 2017...
      i actually... i actually ******* liked it... blanche - city lights;
if this song doesn't win... i'm going to swallow
                        half a kilogram of chewing-gum;
there's only about 1 10th of decency in just contests....
the rest is eurotrash...
                             what's the real comedy... because feel
more embarrassed about their musical tastes,
  than about their ****** preferences... they'll speak about
their ****** this-that-and-the-other... than what music
they like, since they prefer being degraded by ****** acts...
than being degraded by talk of "embarrassing" music tastes...
   let's just say: it's not akin to sadistic ***,
   and talk of a taste in music, that's the sound of a hammer,
     pounding at nails.

is America still trying to
be relevant, culturally
within the confines of Europe
by exporting their last resort,
no longer poem song or painting
resorting to staging
its dumbest sport outcast
that's füßball at Wembley
when, sure as **** I'd rather
watch baseball like any ***
over the complexity of
grr... cricket...
      call me a ****- and don
me in a toga and I'll sing
you, a ******* canary song...
to ensure: one touch,
fifteen minutes of advertising...
and they said that fans of metal
music were a butcher's sweetbits
worth of cranium jelly...
con con, con cuss 'ushion...
bet doll on the ramming buck...
origins of baseball,
palant... schlagbalz...
even ******* regenmensch
collected the world series cards...
not in the land famed for
rug, grub and by the by of rugged
botox injected into *******...
    pucker lips weeding out
the prince charming ******
to a hideous wart oozing lips...
            desperation comes
at Wembley... in the form
of cultural exhaustion...
        came the song, then came the sports...
NHL on Loch Ness...
baseball toyed with at the Oval...
but... is this an actual sport
or one of those boardgames 3D
where you paint the figurines,
warhammer, over complicating
throwing dice?
    gambling and striptease...
            and the most beautiful words
she said to me was:
   i have STD check regurarly...
i don't mind wearing the rubber...
late in his life socrates wondered
why be ****** to a married life
with an ever-demanding wife...
to cite Plato: what man visited
a *******, we will look at him
with an ackward gaze...
                 likewise...
   i'm surprised he managed to
listen to the nagging of xanthippe...
     aquam sordidam anima mea mundus.

bad idea...
   she was sitting with a group of fwends
in a univerity accommodation,
two girls by the stove
butchering a method of making
pancakes...
the pancake dough kept sticking
to the pan, not allowing the flip...
does a man always have to intervene
in these sort of scenarios?
ladies, ladies,
you need to grease the dough up!
yes... that implies pouring
some oil into the dough,
which subsequent implies
    oiling up the pan a little...
the first pancake always behaves
like a little frankenstein,
but all the others?
  snow white, sleeping beauty...
you name, you'll get it...
pancakes...
   what have we become,
when a man has to tell a woman
about the ins and outs
of making pancakes...
               huh?
       so she saw me,
looking like a complete train-wreck...
once donning dreadlocks,
russian...
pale as any victorian cenobite
princess...
        she snatched my iPod
  (when i owned one), started rambling
about my iron maiden oeuvre
and my liking of tool...
she munched on the pancakes
with the usual yum-yummy-yum
out burst...
   attrative? not really...
she just kept pushing and pushing
and pushing her agenda...
until i cracked,
she liked the bedroom centered around
the use of candles...
a quasi take on the crow movie...
ever see love at first sight?
i've seen in, implosive and explosive
variant...
implosive?
      the sister of my ex girlfriend,
taboo topic...
                i was: hazy-eyed...
         disorientated: what?!
            in reverse? when a woman
shows signs of love at first sight?
literally: an iron maiden clench
of focus...
                    you're not getting out
of this one alive,
or... enough to suggest that,
after she breaks up with you,
then you've found work,
she's 900 miles away
and says she's pregnant...
half a year after she broke up
with you when she...
ahem... proposed...
     **** me, she even chose
the engagement ring...
   i get dumped... so what's new?
but then... i'm the one...
who has to...
pick up the pieces,
raise some *******?
      god i'd love to own a dog right now!
o hades, send me rottweiler,
a dobermann and an alsatian shepherd
all in one go!
    of course i never said
anything of this...
           russian nerd girl,
big into warhammer 40,000
figurines...
    and a newly archived
   sample of music taste...
   (hed) p.e.
           i'm still traumatized by
her memory...
       like: i really don't want to go there,
no, seriously: i really don't want
to go there...
         seeing love at first sight
in reverse...
   and then seeing the ****,
that i saw?
                 n'ah... strap me to the brothel,
i'm out... OUT!
        the next time i trust someone
it's either going to be a rabid dog,
a rabid cat,
    or that horse in a field at night,
that almost knocked me out
when it started chewing on my hand
thinking i had an apple in it...
i'll deal with *******:
on my grounds,
   not someone else's, savvy?
all this current pop self-help
psychological ******* is getting on
my nerves,
notably when in england...
thanks for the drugs...
that weight-lifting of a litre of whiskey
really helps me to counter
the once established gym
menu of weights, some treadmill,
rowing machine,
                 but plenty of squash.
love at first sight...
       once you start making
the pancakes... you're dead.
       she serves you a ******* oven
baked chicken and
     some variation
of upper-class with a slice of
lemon in a cognac glass
and you're, supposedly: "made for life"...
  why the hell was it a russian
to begin with?
   ***-wise... sure compatible...
i asked her how many multiple *******
she had in that one last night
in st. petersburg in 2007...
she said 7...
            that was fun,
i have to admit...
       for half a month while she
wason her period i implored her:
it will alleviate the pains
and cramps...
    of course she finally conceded
the remark,
****** on, bath water running...
  "improvisation" later...
   - but it's memory?
   how can i alzheimer this sort of *******?
how can i, "erase" memory
to let someone new in?
oh, ******* brainchild of genghis khan,
no one new is coming in...
soliloquy moment:
   i'm not even close to erasing
this ****, memory, memory is already
fickle in its nature,
   unless...
settled with a scholastic rubric
of the pedagogy foundations...
26 letters... they are never in order
when magnified to encompass words...
so... why this whole a b c d e f g *******?!
eh?!
           like some sort of counter
history timeline i'm supposed
to erode my brain with?!
this **** stays,
   for however many months,
and it was only months...
      something, mattered...
       the ideal, the ideal,
the ideal of me finally being able to fall,
and be, in love...
        i never found it again,
and i never will,
but i cling to the person who fell in love,
in the way as he did,
and kept it,
   until being rejected,
and then cast into a pit of lies...
   from which: i, the narrator, spawned...
and it will repeat itself, repeat,
repeat, repeat, constantly...
           not because i haven't learned
to forget: but because i haven't learned
to lie...
to craft castles from clouds in the sky...
to create the motiff of artifice...
you never visit a butcher for
a pre-cooked ready-meal...
    you go... hopefully...
   for the olaff, and the raw cuts of meat...
i abhor idealistic lovers,
these... chauffeurs of idealistic "freedoms"...
a priest wasn't going to cut it,
a psychiatrist wasn't going to cut it,
i needed just enough heart numbing
*** with prostitutes
to feel inclined to preserve the womb
of birth in my body,
as the warmth of my heart,
and then...
             enough justification to stand
akin to tombstone,
plus i paid an extra 10 quid on
top of the 10 quid entrance fee to the brothel
and the 110 quid for an hour's
worth with a bulgar woman...
           so... i could speak from
******* on a ***** of a thousand
***** a thousand tongues.
       lucky me... "apparently" the kid wasn't
mine... "apparently" she was dating
her old boyfriend when she split
up with me...
        she married, divorced...
       married again...
****** here and there...
              would there have been any
point in fathering a *******
compared to this compensation
of written words?
          i don't think so...
          but at least now i know...
i can trust a *******...
          she'll at least tell me...
that she has s.t.d. checks regularly...
and to think,
in what some people would call
the filth and murk,
              i found gold...
                           an honest tongue,
and for what's that worth: a pure heart;
pay an extra to perform oral
*** on a ******* is one thing...
kiss one... well... quiet another; savvy?
all the words secrets become
blatantly apparent,
           no more than that,
of the "original" sin...
    when cain (the vegeterian)
              couldn't plagiarize abel
   (the meat eater)...
                    but cain...
           he's not guilty of "original" sin...
he's guilty of ******...
         if he copied abel,
    and...
                    didn't become a vegetarian...
he'd still be guilty...
   of "original" sin...
                 but hey...
                           there's some devilish
logic of conclusion in all of this...
         i just happen to have come
across my the fickle faculty of memory,
and it is, a really fickle ***** of a faculty.