Panic and News You Can Use

Day 1,958, 10:04 • Published in USA USA • by Dogpyle

*please note - the below links do not necessarily reflect my views or opinions in the game. They are well written, coherent articles that have caught my eye or, at the very least, are articles that contain well written information about the goings on in eRepublik.*

Agree, disagree, agree to disagree or disagree to agree, this is some good writing.
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/waiting-for-the-revolution-2236524/1/20#comments

Writing contest for newsbies!
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/-doe-ebabies-battle-of-wits--2236493/1/20
Please, please. PLEASE, if you are a newbie and are not writing a paper, consider using this opportunity to give it a shot.

Very well written article by the Prinz of Charming
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/wake-up-and-smell-my-dream--2235968/1/20

Mr. Dinero voices an opinion.
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/the-palace-will-burn-without-the-ldquo-peasants-rdquo--2237586/1/20
It hasn't gotten heated... yet

This is a must read RL biography. Thank you Mr. Star
http://www.erepublik.com/en/article/-running-with-the-big-boys-in-iraq-a-female-soldier-paves-the-way-2237432/1/20#comments
What are you still doing here? Go read it. Now.


Yup...

Funny thing about trying to write an article at least every week; you quickly run out of ideas. You think to yourself, "Self, this is cake. I'm interesting, sexy, and chock full of ideas!" Then you respond, "Damn straight Self! Especially about the sexy part!" When reality sinks back in (this usually takes at least a few hours for me, but your mileage may vary), you realize that as sexy as you may be, you are not, in fact, chock full of ideas.



That's when the panic sets in. "What in the hell was I thinking?" you ask yourself. "I'm no writer. My vocabulary consists of thirty four curse words and eight adjectives. Any day now, my twenty five subscribers are going to see right through me." You huddle in the corner, sucking your thumb, maybe wetting yourself a little (I said MAYBE. And it was only, like, a couple of drops or so), you start to shiver (from fear, not the small accident), your eyes begin to glaze (or maybe you start to cry, it all gets hazy at this point), and you know, deep down in your black, crushed soul that you, Mr. Sexy Pants, are a fraud.



Then something interesting happens. You start to doubt your doubt. Defiance rears it's stubborn head. You remember that you're no quitter. You're the baddest Mo Fo this side of The Pecos. "It's not over yet!" you declare to no one in particular, except for maybe a couple of spiders and dust bunnies. "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell No!" You pick yourself up off the floor (making a mental note to clean up that SMALL puddle), sit back down in front of your old and dilapidated 'puter with purpose and determination and start to write... You begin typing... Well, you contemplate... Ideas begin to...



This starts the cycle all over again. I don't want to bore you with details, but let's just say guns and a brief stay in a mental ward played a large role.



When you get back home (heavily medicated), against your doctor's and law enforcement's orders, you start to think about that unwritten article. You think about how if you just added a cool signature, maybe neatened things up a bit, or had a cool little catch phrase like Ron Burgandy, the greatest anchor to ever grace the evening news, you too, could be classy. Classy AND sexy. But no. You mustn't. Your fragile sanity lies upon the precarious ledge of these dangerous thoughts. Think of the children and the lives that could be lost. Best to put these pipe dreams and delusions behind you. Maybe have a Pop Tart.



But it's like a festering wound that just won't heal, this article. "What if..." you begin asking yourself. "What if I wrote the greatest article that eRepublik has ever seen?" You begin to imagine the fame, the fortune, the hot chicks in front of their 'puters at home, singing the praises of Dogpyle. The men, bowing at your feet, offering up savory wenches like they were fried chicken at a Colonel Sanders cookout competition. Oh, the accolades you would receive. Phone calls from Presidents and Prime Ministers, interviews on CNN and in Playboy Magazine (done at the mansion, of course). The world would be your oyster, and you, you sexy man beast, the shiniest and smoothest of pearls.



You know, though, that this all just a dream in the furthest and darkest reaches of the night. A pleasant, possibly wet, and thoroughly medicated dream, yes. But a dream none the less. You morosely eat your tasty Pop Tart, sigh, and turn off your 'puter. Those kinds of dreams are best left to the young men and women of this eWorld. The ones with the stamina and courage to take on the doubters and the grammar police. The ones with the vocabulary and wherewithal to write interesting or even scintillating articles that appeal to the masses. You, you sad little puppy dog, will just go lie in a corner and try not to make anymore messes.





TL😉R Have a Pop Tart!