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There was a girl that I spent 3 years trying to murder in every way imaginable across the internet from ages 7-10.

//gaming[askreddit] mediaboy reminisces about his long-time rivalry and friendship There was a girl that I spent 3 years trying to murder in every way imaginable across the internet from ages 7-10. After having spent 3 years fighting virtual wars across space and time, manipulating our various meta-groups into trying to kill each other and generally having the greatest time of our lives trying to one-up


Naive and innocent, I believed her words of friendship, her insidious lies creeping into my world.

Small fucking world. We had our ‘10th anniversary’ of gaming ‘together’ in September. We have probably said less than a thousand words to each other irl since, but are still a pretty good fucking team. Her weak-

each other, it turns out that I sat next to her at school.

nesses are countered by my strengths, my weaknesses are countered by her strengths, and we communicate so easily that it’s ridiculous. One day we will get around to actually going out for the beer that she promised me last year on my 18th birthday.


[–]mediaboy

119 points 1 day ago

It all started when mediaboy was first created. I can’t remember the game, but it was some RTS strategy. Spawning next to me, a mere thirty seconds later, was another player, named EvilPrincess. Reaching out to her, I offered a tenacious truce, believing that we could work together, as two new players, to dominate our local area. Naive and innocent, I believed her words of friendship, her insidious lies creeping into my world. Smiling, I ignored her growth, the rapid deployment of her military, the expansions and technologies that she built, all focused towards total military domination. I started an alliance, and casually befriended a few other people, and within a few months, was well established. Then she struck. Overnight, my empire was left in ruins, my home destroyed, my people killed. I was eradicated from the game. Angrily, I sent a message round to my alliance, demanding that they brought the hammer of vengeance down upon her head. Happily, they complied. I played a few more rounds of this game it reset every few months - and for a while, it was peaceful. I made friends, I made allies, but always, within a few squares of where I started, this insidious Princess lay in wait. It didn’t matter which game I would join, but there she would be. In some, she was more advanced than me, in others she joined later, but we enjoyed

a tenacious peace. I plotted my revenge, against her treachery, and one night, a few months after she broke her word, I returned the favour. She returned to her games, across maybe three or four games, maybe half a dozen servers. She was ruined on all of them. Fuming, she used her contacts to get my skype I think it was skype. This is over a decade ago now and raged at me for an hour about what a bastard I was. From there on out, no holds were barred. We would seek each other out. I found out that she was playing a game called Islands of Dukes and Dragons (or something like that) and joined the game with a vengeance. It took me two months, but I worked my way up into the upper echelons of an alliance powerful enough to challenge hers - which was mightier than mine - and pulling in every favour I was owed by all of them, pointed the gauntlet of war at her alliance. Armies clashed and collided, knights rode into battle, my brave alliance fighting against an empire and it’s allies from all sides. On my front, the Eastern side, we rapidly lost ground, vastly outnumbered, outskilled, outplayed. But we just had to hold, just a few weeks longer, long enough for the Western front to stabilise and the bulk of my alliances force’s to return. It was at this point that she called in all the favours she owed. On a different game, a simultaneous assault on my alliance caused me to start splitting my time between the games, no longer


After a couple of years of us splitting our attention between that many games, things quietened off. Our allies were wiped out, our forces were spent, and other people had taken over. The might that we had wielded was wasted, burnt trying to overwhelm someone who was, for all intents and purposes, perfectly matched. We had been communicating via text chat for several months, offering ‘friendly’ warnings of what was about to happen to them, and ‘accidentally’ letting slip other games that we were playing, with the sole intent of letting them get started, just enough to build up hope, and then crush them utterly. What finally ended our feud was the

Overnight, my empire was left in ruins, my home destroyed, my people killed.

able to effectively micromanage either of them. Frowning, I called in more favours, and bit by bit, the entirety of our virtual space fell into petty feuds. Travian, 1000ad, runescape, half a dozen sci-fi ones. When I say that this was a personal vendetta that caused cataclysmic changes across the gaming space, I am not lying.

discovery of a vile imposter. An American girl named ‘mediaboi’ who was stealing my online identity, stealing my contacts. I had been taking a break from gaming for a while - a mighty decision for an 8 or 9 year old - and I returned to discover hundreds of confused messages from the titans of my past, asking what the fuck was going on. Confused, I turned to EvilPrincess. Surely this was some scheme of hers. She begged to differ, and offered her complete assistance in hunting down and tracking this person who dared to use my reputation as their own. The battle was on. It was the first time we worked togeth-


er, and we did it perfectly. Perfectly matched in combat, yet completely different in approach, but still able to work together. We were a pair of matched blades, lunging forwards in unison, defending the other from attack. It took us six months and a large amount of favors to conquer her, but eventually she found us onwhat was probably, by now, almost definitely Skype. Adding me, she confessed that she had just gone with the flow when people recognised her on various games, and said that she was changing her webhandle from thereon out. We never spoke again, and I never had the problem. My temporary truce with the dark princess of doom was over however, and my child self started plotting. Unfortunately, so did she. What started out as a few petty arguments ended up with us going head to head in various games again, trying to one-up each other at every possible opportunity. At the time, we were both under a lot of demand from internet friends to help them on various games, or to dual on MMOs, and every time we went, we found each other, and we would pit ourselves against each other with a vengeance, at times completely by accident. It was shortly after one particularly memorable game where I had risen to the top 10 rankings after a violent and aggressive playstyle supported by several friends, that I let slip in the last class of the year that I had recently hit the ‘top 10 slot on some game’. The girl who had sat next to me, getting on with her work, never copying a thing, casually enquired what game.

I told her, she froze. The cog wheels started turning. Hesitantly, she asked, “You’re… mediaboy…?” The gloves were off. She told me who she was, and we stared at each other, silently, in shock. Waiting for the other to make a move. We didn’t say another word to each other. I had heard her ranting before about a bastard who hunted her down over the internet, and I am sure that she had heard my grumblings about a girl who had it in for me, who sought me out across my webspace with the sole intent of trying to crush me. It was awkward, to say the least. We didn’t speak another word to each other for nearly seven years - she moved on to a different school, her being a year older than me, and we haven’t really met in real life since. Gaming commenced as usual over the long summer break, but it is somewhat harder to hate when you have got along - albeit silently - with the person for several years. It was that September when we finally suggested working together on a game, and by god it was fucking good. It worked, and we didn’t stab each other in the back. After a long and tiring session of working together against the people that now hated us for managing to single-handedly ruin their games over the last few years by trying to kill each other, we were able to sit back and say:

“that was fun. We should do that again.”


We’ve gamed together on and off since then. I’ve been there for her as she developed her (now nyphomanical) sexuality. We’ve never fucked, but I know more about her sex life than she does, and it freaks the fuck out of her boyfriends when a random user on the internet know more about her than he does. When she started ‘accidentally’ leaking sexy photos of herself (complete with impressive clevage) in games to get an advantage over me when we were running too close to each other for comfort, I was able to laugh, still having copies of the class photo with the socially awkward boy and the geeky complete-with-braces girl next to each other. I even ‘accidentally’ leaked the photo of her once, to a small group of people. Everyone but her found it hilarious, and from that point on, she countered any threat to release her photo with similar related threats about photos of me. There are downsides to gaming with people that have known you literally since you were a small child. As I said, it took nearly 7 years before we spoke another word to each other out loud, and that was over Skype. It became easier to co-ordinate like that, and late-night skype video calls were the easiest way. We’ve both seen the other naked (completely by accident. If you’re entirely comfortable with someone and with your body, you forget to take precautions), and I’ve heard her having sex more times than any socially inept virgin should have to suffer. We are planning on having a drink sometime. She owes me at least one, and I probably owe her one for putting

up with me for over half of both our respective lifetimes. We still game together to this day, albeit on different games - Tera was one we played together, and she is silver on League and urging me to get good enough at it that she can drag me into her comp team without me completely embarrassing her in front of her gaming friends. The one game she refused to play was EVE. Something about ‘wanting to have a life.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about. Disclaimer: parts of this have been dramatised for effect. Chronological and factual sense have been distorted by ten years of bitching, fighting, chatting and joking around, and it is hard to separate what we remember from what actually happened. Hopefully you enjoy the story though.


//TheBananaKing teaches you how to whistle. With text. [reddit.com]

hkhhkhkhkhhh”, “hhhhshshshhhshh” and “hhhththththhh”. And of course, your vocal cords make no sound. Ready now? Just whisper “hhhhkkkkkkkhhhhyyyyyeeeeeuuuuoooowwww” - and somewhere in there, you should get a lick of a tone.

See, everyone gets it badly wrong So you want to aim a stream of air straight when explaining how. There’s one huge downwards at your lower incisors, blowsecret that nobody ever mentions: ing across the opening that your lips make. You don’t blow Just like a coke bottle, only from the inside. From there, a little experimenting is all you should need to find the sweet air through your lips. To get started, form your lips up to make spot. a handy hole - just like you’re going to No, really. You don’t. say “ooooo”. Not ‘wwww’ for now; don’t The pitch of the whistle is set by pucker up like you’re kissing your aunt. the position of your tongue-tip; the Oh, sure, it comes out there - but if Just a nice, relaxed, under-your-breath further forward you hold it, the more you set out to do that, you will fail. Air ‘oooo’. Don’t make the sound, just position full the ‘bottle’, and thus the higher going through a hole doesn’t make a your mouth for it. the tone. Conversely, moving it back whistling sound. in your mouth opens up a bigger Now with your lips in that position, you space, and a correspondingly lower No, what makes a whistling sound is want to hump your tongue up to the roof of note. air going across a hole, like blowing your mouth so you can bounce the air off across the top of a coke bottle. And your hard palate and send a stream of air that’s what you need to do with your over and down. In other words, hiss like a lips, if you want to whistle. cat or lizard, somewhere inbetween “hh-


We need to find a bathroom. Right now.

//self[askreddit] I crapped my pants and realized I have the perfect wife. We are on our honeymoon, somewhere in the tropics. It’s hot, humid, and I’m feeling fine. My wife and I have just finished a non-terrible dinner at a restaurant, and have called for a cab to pick us up some ten blocks away.

HoneymoonThrowaway, 28 years of age and possessor of an until now flawlessly secure set of anal sphincters, have crapped my pants.

8 blocks to pickup: My stomach starts making odd noises. I ignore the warning signs. 5 blocks to pickup: Sudden cramp. OH SHIT 3 blocks to pickup: Realization that my life is about to end strikes me. I’ll lose my job, my parents will disown me, everyone will fart in my general direction, and my wife will leave me. 2 blocks to pickup: My wife is looking over my shoulder as I write this, so I will not describe what exactly happened. Suffice it to say that I,

She knows exactly what has happened. A hard, flinty glint appears in her beautiful eyes -- she is in crisis management mode. She points to a loud, very crowded restaurant, and says: “I’ll get a drink at the bar so you can use the restroom.”

“We need to find a bathroom. Right now.”

Even in these dire circumstances, my wife is thinking shit through. I rush through to the back of the restaurants through


the crowd of diners, ignoring the fine rendition of Tom Petty’s “Freefalling” being belted out by the band, hoping to God that my pants are not leaking. I get to the back of the restaurant to find the enemy of every man, woman and child who has ever crapped his/her pants: stairs. You see, walking on level ground is possible with an – ahem – full load. You swing your legs and it doesn’t upset the balance, preserving an unpleasant but stable equilibrium. Stairs fuck with this equilibrium. You simply have to move your legs too much. Like all other challenges this evening, this one was met and summarily dispensed with. I made it to the restroom, and barricaded myself in a stall. I am an engineer by trade, so checklists come to me easily. It was time to take inventory. • 1 pair soiled pants. • 4 rolls of toilet paper. Score. • 1 wallet containing credit cards, $52 cash, and other sundries. • 1 cellular telephone, with data plan and unlimited texting. • 1 toothpick. WTF? If I were Richard Dean Anderson, I could probably get out of this alone. Sadly, my improvisational skills are substandard, and I know it. It’s time to call in backup via text. Me: I need you to go to any store and pick up a pair of shorts. Wife: Ok. Hang on. Paying for drink then will find shorts. How will I get them to you? (Note: terse acknowledgement of message, with simultaneous request for clarification on course of action. My wife is a fucking champ; I’m in good hands.) Me: Just come up to the men’s

room. am already wearing. Did I menWife (7 minutes later): Here. tion that she has flawless fashion Me: Walk in, there is no one sense? here. First stall. Just sling it over. I walk out of the bathroom, and The pants landed in my lap, meet my wife in the hallway. We along with a receipt for $16. head outside, hail a cab and get My wife has just informed me back to the hotel, where I jump that the pants were 50% off. into the shower and proceed to Damn – excellent crisis response scrub myself from head to toe. abilities AND resource manage- All the while my wife is saying ment. it’s okay and handing me more shower gel. She gets what you I have already cleaned myself need to get over trauma like this. with the aforementioned toilet paper. I dispose of the old shorts When I get out of the shower, in the plastic bag the new shorts there are two Pepto tablets waitcame in, and slip into the new ing for me on the bedside table shorts, which somehow cooralong with -- most importantly -- a dinate perfectly with the shirt I complete absence of snark.


“

If you always do what interests you, at least one person is pleased. — Katharine Hepburn


tl;dr Don’t shoot IV drugs into your taint.

//self[askreddit] bonzaipanda recalls her most disgusting medical experience “Perirectal abscess.” For the uninitiated, this means that somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the asshole, there was a pocket of I was taking call one night, and pus that needed draining. Needwoke up at two in the morning for a “general surgery” call. Pret- less to say our entire crew was less than thrilled. ty vague, but at the time, I lived in a town that had large populations of young military guys and I went down to the Emergency Room to transport the patient, avid meth users, so late-night and the only thing the ER nurse emergencies were common. said as she handed me the chart was “Have fun with this one.” Got to the hospital, where a few more details awaited me — Amongst healthcare professionOR Nurse here. This is kind of a long one…

als, vague statements like that are a bad sign. My patient was a 314lb Native American woman who barely fit on the stretcher I was transporting her on. She was rolling frantically side to side and moaning in pain, pulling at her clothes and muttering Hail Mary’s. I could barely get her name out of her after a few minutes of questioning, so after I confirmed her identity and


She continued her theatrics the entire ten-minute ride to the O.R., nearly falling off the surgical table as we were trying to put her under anesthetic. We see patients like this a lot, though, chronic drug abusers who don’t handle pain well and who have used so many drugs that even increased levels of pain medication don’t touch simply because of high tolerance levels. It should be noted, tonight’s surgical team was not exactly wet behind the ears. I’d been working in healthcare for several years already, mostly psych and medical settings. I’ve watched an 88-year-old man tear a 3”-diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming “You’ll never make me talk!”. I’ve been attacked by an HIV-positive neo-Nazi. I’ve seen some shit. The other nurse had been in the OR as a trauma specialist for over ten years; the anesthesiologist had done residency at a Level 1 trauma center, or as we call them, “Knife and Gun Clubs”. The surgeon was ex-Army, and averaged about eight words and two facial expressions a week. None of us expected what was about to happen next.

what we were working on, I figured it was best just to get her to the anesthesiologist so we could knock her out and get this circus started.

I’ve watched an 88-year-old man tear a 3” diameter catheter balloon out of his penis while screaming “You’ll never make me talk!”

We all wear waterproof gowns, face masks, gloves, hats, the works — all of which were as helpful was rainboots against a firehose. The bed was in the middle of the room, an easy seven feet from the nearest wall, but by the time we were done, I was still finding bits of rotten flesh pasted against the back wall. As the surgeon continued to advance his blade, the torrent just continued. The patient kept seizing against the ventilator (not uncommon in surgery), and with every muscle contraction, she shot more of this brackish gray-brown fluid out onto the floor until, within minutes, it was seeping into the other nurse’s shoes.

I was nearly twelve feet away, jaw dropped open within my surgical mask, watching the second nurse We got the lady off to sleep, put her into the stir- dry-heaving and the surgeon standing on tip-toes to keep this stuff from soaking his socks any further. rups, and I began washing off the rectal area. The smell hit them first. “Oh god, I just threw up It was red and inflamed, a little bit of pus was in my mask!” The other nurse was out, she tore off seeping through, but it was all pretty standard. Her chart had noted that she’d been injecting IV her mask and sprinted out of the room, shoulders still heaving. Then it hit me, mouth still wide open, drugs through her perineum, so this was obvinot able to believe the volume of fluid this woman’s ously an infection from dirty needles or bad body contained. It was like getting a great big bite drugs, but overall, it didn’t seem to warrant her of the despair and apathy that permeated this womrepeated cries of “Oh Jesus, kill me now.” an’s life. I couldn’t fucking breath, my lungs simply The surgeon steps up with a scalpel, sinks just the tip in, and at the exact same moment, the pa- refused to pull anymore of that stuff in. The anesthetient had a muscle twitch in her diaphragm, and siologist went down next, an ex-NCAA D1 tailback, his six-foot-two frame shaking as he threw open the just like that, all hell broke loose. door to the OR suite in an attempt to get more air in, letting me glimpse the second nurse still throwUnbeknownst to us, the infection had actually ing up in the sinks outside the door. Another geyser tunneled nearly a foot into her abdomen, creating a vast cavern full of pus, rotten tissue, and fe- of pus splashed across the front of the surgeon. The cal matter that had seeped outside of her colon. YouTube clip of “David at the dentist” keeps playing in my head — “Is this real life?” This godforsaken mixture came rocketing out of that little incision like we were recreating the In all operating rooms, everywhere in the world, funeral scene from Jane Austen’s “Mafia!”. regardless of socialized or privatized, secular or


religious, big or small, there is one thing the same: Somewhere, there is a bottle of peppermint concentrate. Everyone in the department knows where it is, everyone knows what it is for, and everyone prays to their gods they never have to use it. In times like this, we rub it on the inside of our masks to keep the outside smells at bay long enough to finish the procedure and shower off. I sprinted to the our central supply, ripping open the drawer where this vial of ambrosia was kept, and was greeted by — an empty fucking box. The bottle had been emptied and not replaced. Somewhere out there was a godless bastard who had used the last of the peppermint oil, and not replaced a single fucking drop of it. To this day, if I figure out who it was, I’ll kill them with my bare hands, but not before cramming their head up the colon of every last meth user I can find, just so we’re even. I darted back into the room with the next best thing I can find — a vial of Mastisol, which is an adhesive rub we use sometimes for bandaging. It’s not as good as peppermint, but considering that over one-third of the floor was now thoroughly coated in what could easily be mistaken for a combination of bovine after-birth and maple syrup, we were out of options. I started rubbing as much of the Mastisol as I could get on the inside of my mask, just glad to be smelling anything except whatever slimy demon spawn we’d just cut out of this woman. The anesthesiologist grabbed the vial next, dowsing the front of his mask in it so he could stand next to his machines long enough to make sure this woman didn’t die on the table. It wasn’t until later that we realized that Mastisol can give you a mild high from huffing it like this, but in retrospect, that’s probably what got us through. By this time, the smell had permeated out of our OR suite, and down the forty-foot hallway to the front desk, where the other nurse still sat, eyes bloodshot and watery, clenching her stomach desperately. Our suite looked like the underground river of ooze from Ghostbusters II, except dirty. Oh so dirty.

I stepped back into the OR suite, not wanting to leave the surgeon by himself in case he genuinely needed help. It was like one of those overly-artistic representations of a zombie apocalypse you see on fan-forums. Here’s this one guy, in blue surgical garb, standing nearly ankle deep in lumps of dead tissue, fecal matter, and several liters of syrupy infection. He was performing surgery in the swamps of Dagobah, except the swamps had just come out of this woman’s ass and there was no Yoda. He and I didn’t say a word for the next ten minutes as he scraped the inside of the abscess until all the dead tissue was out, the front of his gown a gruesome mixture of brown and red, his eyes squinted against the stinging vapors originating directly in front of him. I finished my required paperwork as quickly as I could, helped him stuff the recently-vacated opening full of gauze, taped this woman’s buttocks closed to hold the dressing for as long as possible, woke her up, and immediately shipped off to the recovery ward. Until then, I’d only heard of “alcohol showers.” Turns out 70% isopropyl alcohol is about the only thing that can even touch a scent like that once its soaked into your skin. It takes four or five bottles to get really clean, but it’s worth it. It’s probably the only scenario I can honestly endorse drinking a little of it, too. As we left the locker room, the surgeon and I looked at each other, and he said the only negative sentence I heard him utter in two and a half years of working together: “That was bad.” The next morning the entire department (a fairly large floor within the hospital) still smelled. The housekeepers told me later that it took them nearly an hour to suction up all of the fluid and debris left behind. The OR suite itself was closed off and quarantined for two more days just to let the smell finally clear out. I laugh now when I hear new recruits to healthcare talk about the worst thing they’ve seen. You ain’t seen shit, kid. tl;dr: Don’t shoot IV drugs into your taint.


//self[askmen] What can a woman do to make you feel like the man that you are?

[–]dogandcatinlove

3

Woman here…IMO, you can’t make a man (or anyone) feel a certain way, but after having posted a couple threads about being a supportive woman, I have gotten a Don’t expect him to communicate CRAPton of feedback. Here’s what like a woman If you have a problem, he will I’ve learned: probably offer a solution rather than simply listening. Let him know if you just want him to listen. Similarly, don’t talk to him like a female friend; he doesn’t want to hear about how fat you think your ass is or how much Don’t be cutesy callous you peeled off your heel. No baby-talking your man or He may not have an opinion on making little kissy faces like you your lipstick or nail color. He may would to a puppy. Do ask him not have an opinion on many to help with physical tasks, like things. He may not be thinking moving heavy stuff, opening anything. He is not always aware pickle jars, and squashing nasty of exactly what he’s feeling. Stop bugs. trying to get him to bare his soul like you do with your girl friends after 2 glasses of wine and some Sex in the City re-runs (gag).

1

2

Don’t expect him to read your mind If you let him know what you want (as a request, not a demand) and he does it, let him know how awesome he is. Don’t pressure him to open up if he’s stressed. Men go into mancaves to figure shit out. Let him know you’re there for him. Be his cheerleader, not his coach. Or his mother.

4 Do let him decompress Let him have quiet time to play video games, play guitar, work out, fap, take a long dump, whatever. You don’t need a play-byplay of his whole day as soon as he walks through the door.

5 Do treat him Dinner, a massage, BJs, lingerie. Enjoy sex with him, and if you don’t, communicate what you want him to do. NEVER EVER EVER say anything bad about his penis or his body. You wouldn’t want him to do this to you, even as a joke. Your man’s dick is a magical pleasure pole that you crave and adore and he is your stallion. And DON’T fake an orgasm

6 Do realize that a man compartmentalizes. While he’s working on his car, he’s thinking about car stuff. While he’s gaming, he’s thinking about gaming. While he’s showering, he’s pondering the mysteries of the universe and he can’t hear you past the water anyway. If you want to tell him something REALLY important and he NEEDS to remember it, don’t nag him while he’s busy. Make sure you are having an actual conversation with eye contact.


Mesa5