"Don't macro so much - make more units instead"
-DarkHawke
|
| A Story about Imbalance | | | Author: | | | IP: | spider-wXXXX | | Date: | 09/11/00 06:09 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 4, Max: 9, Min: 3
Lifetime Rating for Thomas: 5.7500 |     | The idea came to me a couple days ago. I remember exactly what I was doing and where I was, much like my parents remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that JFK had been shot.
Sitting at my dining room table, I was quickly viewing over my Prima Strategy Guide for StarCraft. Looking at the strategies, I wolfed down my spaghetti, ignorant of my mother’s demands to put the book down off of the table. As I reached for a meatball, it struck me.
Imbalance: What does it really mean? I heard many people online use the term, and I had a faint idea of what it was, but do we all really know? Troubled, I went to my room and pondered the idea further into the night, thinking of what imbalance meant, what it stood for, what it had caused. Finally, I decided to turn off the bedroom lights, and ask my teachers and fellow students the next day about this troubling problem.
“Everyone, stand for the pledge of allegiance,” Mrs. Falker croaked to us. She was an aging woman, who was unfit to teach English. However, she had to be knowledgeable to obtain a teaching degree, so she was the first I approached after the class sat down from the patriotic anthem.
“Miss Falker,” I stuttered, in my best speaking voice possible, “I have a question I would like to ask you.”
Staring up with her beady eyes, she squinted and yelled, “Thomas, get back to your seat!”
“But,” I argued, “can I ask you a question? It’s just a slight one, and it’ll only take a minute!”
“Bah, my time is too valuable for questions!”
“Please, I beg of you!”
“Fine, tell me your question, and make haste!”
I felt like I was in a Shakespeare play. Mrs. Falker does that to you.
“I was just wondering, what is imbalance?”
“Bah, terrible English you possess! It’s unbalanced, or unbalancing, not ‘imbalance.’ Never have I heard such a butcher of the English language!”
Her response left me no further than where I had begun. Enraged, but holding it deep within me, I marched back to my seat, eagerly awaiting the infernal bell to release us from this hellhole. Mrs. Falker stood up and started to speak about verbs, but then yelled at the quiet classroom to “stop talking” and assigned us four exercises for homework as punishment. Rolling my eyes, I raced out of the room, along with other frustrated students.
“Hi, Tommy! What’s up?”
I looked up, and there was Cindy Rosenheart. She was also in the 8th grade with me, and although she was but the age of twelve, she was a terrific bombshell. I stopped noticing when I had picked up StarCraft, but with my mind cleared from the gameplay of it for awhile, I began to notice her. Such a sweet, innocent face she had. But, I couldn’t admire her beauty, I had important people to talk to! Unless…
“Say, Cindy, do you know what imbalance is?”
“What?”
“Well, I was wondering what it was and all, and it’s a hard concept for me to understand, and…”
“Hey, listen, did you get the Math homework?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s right here in my notebook. Anyway, about imbalance,”
“Hey, do you mind getting it out? I really need it! Please, Tommy…”
She started to swirl her hair around her finger, and stared at me with puppy eyes. StarCraft has hardened my emotions, but no matter how hard they are, I can’t beat those eyes.
Weakening, I got out my notebook, flipped to my Math Section, and handed it to her.
“Yeah, OK, but, about imbalance,”
“Thank you so much, Tommy! You are the best! Bye now!”
Cindy ran off, giving me a conciliation prize of watching her in the place of her opinion about imbalance. I guess that works too. Trudging along to my 2nd period, I entered the doorway, and there stood Mr. Hosen, a forty-year-old German man teaching History. Often, he reflected upon the battles of the World War Two, and although disturbing, made a fascinating curriculum. He kept you worked up in your seat, and although some students were had become psychically sick from his descriptions, he kept it as open-minded as possible. It was a wonder why he hadn’t been fired yet, but that was a positive thing, for my intended purpose.
“Hello, Mr. Hosen, fine day today, isn’t it?”
“Ah, as fine as the day of July 14th, 1948 of the Battle of Hemmings. What brings you here so early, Thomas?”
“Well, I had some questions, if I may.”
“Oh ho, fire away like a Class U238 German Artillery Cannon, Thomas!”
“Yes, well, you see, I kind of have a problem… it’s about imbalance…”
“What did you say,” Mr. Hosen’s eyes glared a furious red.
“I said it has to do about imbalance. What is imbalance, Mr. Hosen?”
“I’ll tell you what imbalance is, you little misinformed youngster! Imbalance is when you have a war with countries, and you only intend to conquer a small section of the globe, when some big country decides to nuke your allies, captures your generals, and forces your commander to commit suicide! That is imbalance, Tommy!”
His temples were raging, and I decided then that I needed to take a quick trip to the bathroom.
So, History was a total letdown. My teacher was a maniac. I should talk to the Counselor, but I’m afraid she’s already sold her soul to the Vice-Principal. Ah, well, my next subject is Math. This should get my problems solved, for something like “P > T” should inspire a math teacher.
“Hello, Mrs. Shim!”
Mrs. Shim was a College Graduate drop out. She took a one year quick course for her teacher degree, and although her credentials aren’t the highest, the position allows her to do what she wants to do the most on this earth.
Tell us kids about the alien invasion before it’s too late.
“Hello, Thomas. You are Thomas, right? Let me see your eyes.”
After she examined my eyes, I shook free from her and asked her my question.
“Mrs. Shim, what is imbalance?”
“Imbalance? What? Give me an example.”
“Well, it’s commonly known that P > T, and T > Z, and furthermore, P > Z, especially on islands, so…”
Mrs. Shim gasped for a brief second.
“Islands, Thomas? Have they transported you to the Hawaiian Islands? Damn, when will those blasted creatures realize we aren’t just animalistic subjects to be poked at! We’re humans, damn it, humans!”
“Uh, yeah. Anyway, I was wondering if you knew what imbalance is.”
“Yes, Thomas. Imbalance is the US government giving us an unfair disadvantage to prepare for the impending invasion! When they come, our lead bullets will do nothing! What we need is Electronic Magnetic Pulses! That’ll clog up their equipment they have up in their noggin’s and that’ll screw the bitches!”
Mrs. Shim found this hysterical, and cackled her head with glee. Suddenly, the class bell rang, and she told me to get back to my seat and put on my safety goggles. The aliens would come with hypnotizing rays, and unless we were prepared, we would be hypnotized. She vowed as long as we were in her classroom, we would be safe for one hour of the day.
The bell finally rang, and we poured out to lunch. I ate alone in the huge cafeteria, slowly dividing the burger patty into pickle, buns, and patty sections, with lettuce crunching in my mouth. A shadow fell over my food, and I looked up to see from where it came from.
“Hey, Tommy. Mind if I take a seat?”
It was Brian Gabbels, one of the obnoxious kids from the other tables. His friends were looking at him, whispering and giggling with each other. Mumbling something unintelligible, he took a seat, and started to fold his pizza and took it into his mouth.
“So, Tommy, how’s StarCraft? Those MTV’s getting to you yet?”
“That’s SCV, Brian, and I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. StarCraft,” his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Hey, guys, it’s SCV, not MTV,” he hollered to his friends. They found this overly amusing, and their giggle burst into a laugh.
“What’s that stand for, Tommy, Sucking on Cock Vacation?”
Ignoring the comment, I continued to slice my pickles, and took a bun and put it into my mouth, soaking the sesame seeds.
“Answer me, dick wad,” he sneered. I knew any clever comment would be met with some sort of retaliation, so I ignored him further.
After a couple failed attempts at getting me to speak, he picked up the ketchup packet that I had brought along, and shoved it behind my back. I knew what was coming next.
“See you next time, good ol’ buddy!” He gave me a powerful swing on the back, and I felt ketchup rolling down my shirt, soaking my under garments. Frustrated, I walked out, and approached my next subject, Physical Education.
Mr. Shapiro was a Jewish man, proud of his ancestry. He also firmly believed in the “make your students cry in pain” torah, and followed it like its own religious sect. Believe it or not, sitting in front of a computer all day does not do much for my athletic abilities. I knew asking him was in vain, so I skipped the process altogether.
Brian also shared this period with me, and so did his gang. They were still laughing at the fine joke that Brian pulled, and was spurred on even further, seeing that my white uniform showed a red stain in the buttocks area.
Frowning, Mr. Shapiro walked towards me.
“Now, what’s this, Thomas? A stained uniform?”
“Uh, well, you see sir,”
I was about to answer the man, when I met my eyes with Brian’s. He gave me the coldest stare, and I kept my mouth shut. I knew that if I spoke, it would be some of my very last words that I would have without a full set of teeth.
“I just stumbled and cut my self…”
“On your… there?”
“It was a nasty fall.”
“Whatever, I just don’t want a repeat of the matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
You quickly fell into place in Mr. Shapiro’s class. He was a man who respected brawn over brains, but respect for class rules and respect towards him was a far greater than brawn. And Brian was one of the most athletic boys in the class.
“Today, class, we’ll be running the mile. You are expected to get a time of seven minutes. I want six. I know you all can do it, so try your best.”
The mile? At least I would have time to think about imbalance. That is, if Brian left me alone. We all jogged as a group to the track, and I inhaled a floating cloud of dust, causing me to choke and gag. Brian’s gang found this hilarious.
“Ready, set… GO!”
Everyone starts the mile relatively the same. It’s he who pulls out ahead and stays there that matters. And Brian streaked ahead of the class. I soon caught up to my position of dead last. I’m not much of a kinesthetic learner, but I do my best with long periods of free time, and concentrated on Protoss tactics against Zerg on Dire Straits.
My thoughts were interrupted by Brian’s foot. I never saw it coming, it just slithered under my tired feet, and I managed to make a spectacular fall. I felt my nose hit the ground, and then my cheeks and the blood poured. I don’t know where it came from, but it came freely.
I ran off the field. I was sick of the day. Nobody would tell me what imbalance was. Nobody! I tried to talk to people, reasonably, but nobody answered my calls for help! It was just all in terrible vain, one that left me with a bloody nose.
I kept running, past Mr. Shapiro flirting with the Volleyball Instructor. Past Mrs. Shim’s class of bored students, past Mr. Hosen’s room with him announcing that it was Battle Sharing Time. I ran all the way past to the school grounds, and let out a sigh. Tears joined my blood, and I say it making a stain on my white uniform.
“Hey, kid, where are you going?”
I turned around, and there was a man dressed in blue, clutching a broom. He spoke rapidly into a walkie-talkie as I picked up my pace and ran. He was following my, running to catch up to me, to take me down.
Taking me down like 2 templars take down 30 marines. Taking me down like a turbo-newbie on a Zerg. Taking me down like speedy zealots on a Terran Heavy Metal.
I ran, flat out. I don’t know where I was going, but anywhere but here. From these incompetent fools who didn’t know that imbalance was here, who were ignorant of its imposing danger, I ran.
“Today, in local news, a student made a fatal error in trying to skip school. Young Thomas Jacklyn was chased by local authorities all the way to the 110 Freeway entrance. At the junction, a drunk driver, that authorities have refused to disclose a name, tragically killed the student. His parents are in shock and anguish over the loss of their son.”
“Yes, Josh, what a tragic event. That driver was going at over 80 MPH and had double the legal amount of alcohol in his blood to be able to drive.”
“Life can be imbalanced at sometimes, Henry.”
“Yes, life can be imbalanced. Now we’ll take a look at what’s going on with political debates around the nation.”
I’ve only got only one life to live. And if that life means something, anything, to anybody, I’ve done something on this earth. It might not be great, it might not be wonderful. But if I made someone’s day feel better, that’s all I’m hoping for. And, I think, after my little escapade to find what imbalance is, I’ve found it.
Imbalance is when you can’t appreciate something. You have to gripe about it to all ends, and you’re oblivious to all else, all reason, it seems. Sadly, in this imbalance, only losers come out.
And that’s imbalance.
Life > Losers.
-Thomas
|
|
|
|
Home
Forum
Starcraft Tournaments
