I’m a digital packrat. I have email saved one 5ΒΌ-inch floppies, archives of FidoNet groups I posted to, and every stupid thought I mashed out of my keyboard while under the influence of alcohol, drugs, stupidity, depression or looniness. I never delete anything. But I just deleted every unfinished draft that was hanging around in WordPress. They were holding me back. I was still planning to “get around to posting” plenty of it, but the thing is… if I wasn’t interested enough to finish at the time, there’s no way I’ll ever bother now, especially when the idea isn’t fresh in my mind.

The rest of them were cryptic things like “Why are they eating their lunch in a library?” that were meant to be starting points to longer blog entries I never got to (and eventually forgot even what they were meant to be about), several rants about Comcast that I decided no one needed to be subjected to, and once-topical posts that would make absolutely no sense now that it’s years later.

So, goodbye to that crap. I don’t feel obligated to finish any of it any more. I do feel obligated to post here more often, though. Clearing the detritus out of my head, onto the Internet, where it could be free, used to be therapeutic. Yes, this blog is my mind’s garbage disposal. Or, to use another metaphor (I hate metaphors), my words are puppies that I’m setting free in the woods because I can’t be arsed to take care of them anymore. They’ll be better off on their own. It’s the right thing to do. Those words never did like being cooped up inside, anyway.

If somebody else has any purpose for what I write, that’s their own problem. Personally, I rarely look back at anything I’ve posted. I don’t bother proofreading, either. By the time I’m at the end of whatever I’m babbling, I usually can’t even remember what I’d started writing about in the first place. This junk is just one wrung above stream-of-consciousness. I just want my ideas gone, so they’re no longer my responsibility. Ideas are troublesome little bastards to have bouncing around in your brain. You deal with them!

Oh, yeah. I also want to start not being a dumbshit who never updates her blog, again, because I’ve completely fallen out of the habit of writing. Usually when I’m not posting here, I’m still scribbling away in 87 notebooks, but I haven’t written anything for a while other than notes for things I want to write but probably never will (because I’ll forget what the notes mean and/or be unable to read my own craptastic handwriting by the time I get around to it).

Encourage me and comment, or something.

When I was very little

I used to think that picking your nose would stretch it out, and that’s why some people had big noses. Those people were the gold diggers. Well, that was my hypothesis, anyway. I knew that I didn’t have any supporting evidence, and I didn’t really have the means to carry out controlled experiments. So it remained a totally unconfirmed theory.

I was a weird little kid.

But it kept me from picking my nose…


I’ve been posting a lot about errands lately, haven’t I. Am I really that domesticated? Oh well, no time to think about that. I’ve got to go watch my stories and then maybe go get my hair done. And do some vacuuming. And plan dinner. And do my nails. Woop woop woop.

I feel so confined

I bought a journal with lined pages instead of blank pages today, which is something new. I wonder if this will lead to the writing of actual sentences instead of just the scribbling of complete crap. We shall see.

Last night at the grocery store

Sean and I were about to check out when I remembered a couple of things I’d forgotten. He went ahead and got in line anyway, and when I came back there were two girls (together) in line behind him. He had already gotten close enough to the register to put the couple of items he was holding on the belt, so when he saw me, he motioned for me to cut in line and put the rest of our things on there (I had a full wagon to add). The girls gave us the evil eye and switched lines, because they were only holding a few things. I figured I’d rather deal with the nasty stares than with making Sean move his things to let them ahead, and then fighting with him for the rest of the night about why I made him do it, so I did cut ahead, but I informed Sean that he was an asshole. I mean, I was an asshole, too, but he hadn’t even noticed what happened, so obviously he’s the bigger asshole here. Anyway, according to him, he’s not an asshole, he “just [doesn’t] care about some stupid yuppies that [he] probably [doesn’t] have anything in common with anyway”. I told him that he’s an asshole because he doesn’t care. And I’m right, right? Or does being nice decent to people only apply when you approve of their lifestyle these days? What a jerk.

Dear asshats on Yahoo IM:

I use Trillian. The message you get when you send me a message… the one that says “I am currently away from my computer”… it is automated. I do not type it by hand. And it means… get this… that I am currently away from my computer. Sending me messages in all caps, bold fonts, or by the dozen will not make me reply to you. And Trillian doesn’t do shit when you try to “ding” me. Thank Jebus.

P.S. I’m not likely to reply to you, anyway. You’re all idiots.

What’s wrong with me?

I had a lengthy dream last night about buying haircare products. I sit at home all day watching talk shows including Tyra, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m doing it ironically anymore. I make tuna casseroles. I am becoming concerned about the best way to get my whites their whitest, and my brights their brightest. This must stop. Need job now!

Oh my!

I have already failed miserably at posting every day in November. Good thing I’m not trying to write a novel. I have written 87x more in my personal (paper) journal, though. Because you see, whenever I’m supposed to be doing something, even if it’s regularly my favourite thing to do, even if I’m the authority figure, and the only one telling me I ought to be doing that something is me… my automatic response is to avoid it at all costs. The only time I’ve really posted here on a completely regular basis was when I was in school at Ryerson and had homework to avoid. Don’t worry, though. I finally got me a job interview… so maybe in the near future I will be posting from work when I’m supposed to be making spreadsheets, or something. You know, unless they Google my name and realize that I’m a slacker. Eh, blah. That’s a lie. I’m totally a self-starter. Totally. It’s just that I get all of my work done so much ahead of time that I run out of things to do! Yep. Well, maybe not, but somehow I still got great grades in school, so at least it’s obvious that I’m a highly effective and motivated slacker slash procrastinator, who thrives in fast paced environments, enjoys a challenge, and is cool-headed even in the face of strict deadlines and potentially stressful situations… Even if the fast pacededness etc. etc. etc. (etc.) is usually entirely my own fault.

I lied

I’ve got stupider things to do than post here.

I’m going to go crimp my hair! Hurray!

Evidence shall be available later.

I will not be satisfied until I have a mane.

I forget how I used to do this.

It is strange to examine the evidence of my past, and to discover happiness trying its damndest to sneak up behind me and bite me on the ass. Well, happiness, you’re not very sneaky, are ya. ‘Cause I caught you every time, and sent you packing. I have a curious feeling that nothing has changed. Maybe I can somehow get a message back to myself in the past. Or maybe I’m just not on enough medication.

I used to whine in my damn journal about how nobody wanted to understand me, and I had no real friends. Gay teenager shit. Guess what, teenagers. This is your own fault. I can tell now that I had all sorts of people trying pretty damned hard. Well. Rutabaga! I should post some of my teenage gayitude. Geez, it’s pretty hilarious stuff. Then again, I should probably just burn it.

Anyway, I cried three times today, and I what I can’t figure out is whether this is all just hormones, or if I have a better excuse. It’s usually hard to tell these things without waiting a few days. So, I’ll do that, and then either laugh about it, or shoot myself in the face, accordingly. Meanwhile, I apologize to anyone I’ve emoed out at in the last few days. I’m just insane, is all. Okay? I’ll up my dosage.