Vickiepedia

If you’re not a gamer, you’d probably still have heard of Silent Hill the movie, and have probably seen the Cybil Bennett police officer character in it. Yeah, the one who spoiler spoiler spoiler spoiler. Cybil in the game is quite different.

Now I can’t tell you what her exact purpose in the game is (there are tons of theories out there if you felt like breaking your brain), but this is what I believe Cybil is not: male protagonist’s love/sex interest, cleavage, blonde bombshell, damsel in distress. She is just a female police officer who happened to be blonde, beautiful and very well-proportioned, like the rest of the young women in the whole of the game universe.

I was quite thrilled when I first read about Konami’s “reimagining” of the original Silent Hill game. Okay, so remakes have never been all that exciting, but this is Silent Hill. Silent Hill is Silent Hill, is Silent Hill, is Silent Hill. Or so I was chanting half in disbelief when I was looking at the screenshots of the now wearing glasses and looking 100 times more distraught Harry Mason (the protagonist).

It really wasn’t until I saw this one screenshot with Cybil… Let’s put the two Cybils side by side. On the left is the Cybil from the 1999 PlayStation days; on the right, Cybil in the upcoming Silent Hill: Shattered Memories.

She may still not be a damsel in distress, but poor, poor Cybil, who did you piss off at BPD, SHPD and/or Konami to deserve this?

I can actually already see why they named the reimagining “Shattered Memories” now.

Stuck with Australia’s wonderful metred bandwidth, about to bust this month’s cap, forced self to surf during offpeak i.e. midnight, brain too tired to function, doing research on porn for upcoming blog entry, downloaded porn from non-usual sources, saw a .exe, heard Brain say, “You no give me rest, I no make you judgement.” Whatever that meant. Ran .exe, watched anti-virus try to block and remove virus in vain, adrenaline rush, jaw dropped to floor.

Vickie: What the fuck, Brain?
Brain: What the fuck, Vickie?

Regained composure, googled for fix, downloaded fix, rebooted computer in safe mode, blurry, blurry, blurry, blurry, fell asleep on chair, drooled.

Woke up to a computer free of virus, unused drivers removed, registry cleaned up, beautifully defragged. Blinked.

Vickie: … What the fuck, Brain?!
Brain: What the fuck, Vickie.

Up next some day: the entry on porn that I downloaded a virus for.

Semester over but still feeling very bleh and single as hell, I knew there’s only one thing that could spice up the day: self + trusties + endorphin + dopamine + oxytocin + prolactin + etc. (that’s my euphemism for masturbation to orgasm, guys).

And so, whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (that’s the noise of my vibrator, guys).

And then… instead of sexy thoughts and the Big O, I suddenly remembered this.

I suppose laughing also works…

Dear Americans!

American English:
“Carefree” means “free from care or anxiety.”
The full stop / period does not belong to the phrase. ILLOGICAL!

British English:
“Carefree” means “free from care or anxiety”.
The full stop / period belongs to the sentence. LOGICAL!

Case in point! … Point… in case?

English makes no sense.

Roughly a year and three months ago, Vickie secretly worked at a two-Australian-dollar shop. It’s seriously amazing what vast age range of people would use what vast range of techniques and tricks to steal what vast range of things while you’re at the cash register serving another customer. Hmm, I did mention I worked at a $2 shop, right? But this entry has nothing to do with shoplifting, so moving on.

During one of those narcissistic mirror-staring because there was nothing else to entertain me days, one of those mothers walked into the shop pushing one of those strollers with one of those little boys in it. Now I’m completely immune to cuteness and babies or toddlers, so when that little boy with short, curly blonde hair tried to climb out of the stroller while the mother looked away, I thought I’d make myself helpful and said, “He is falling!” (How that has anything to do with being immune to cuteness and babies or toddlers, the world may never know.)

The mother turned to look at the boy, then looked at me, then looked back at the boy.

“Bad girl, bad GIRL!” screamed the mother while she fixed the boy GIRL. I panicked a little, stood there and tried to think up an excuse or apology (hrmm, she looks like a boy? Me no speak Engrish?); but before I could mutter another sound, they had left the shop and were never seen again.

Now that I think about it, maybe she was really screaming at me, not at GIRL.

GIRL, you’re one year and three months older now, probably no longer pushed around in the stroller that you so desperately wanted to climb out of. But GIRL, if you mummy won’t let you wear trousers, sit with your legs comfortably apart, have short hair, not wear make-up, climb a tree, leave the kitchen, play video games or write a program…

I’m sorry. It was probably me…