So why the crap am *I* a node? I’m boring.

I don’t know about anyone else… but I’ve been online since I was a preteen (early 90s), and while from moment to moment there are definitely things I keep private (direct message worthy, if you will), it seems strange that the entire world wouldn’t or shouldn’t know exactly what I’m doing from moment to moment. None of it is anything I’d want to hide, in any case (whether or not I’d feel the need to share it unasked — I’m generally too lazy, otherwise). It wouldn’t really bother me if the majority of my private life was publicized. I’ve learned from an early age to own all of my bits and bytes. They are essentially ME. I’m a database of information just as much as I’m a collection of atoms. I’m gonna have to keep rights to the atoms, but the data is all public domain!

Saying all of that, I’m also not sure why anyone is interested. If so much information is available to absolutely everyone, who the hell cares about little ‘ol me? There is so much more information available about everyone, but we’ve still got only 24 hours in a day. I think this is why people continue to latch onto “celebrities”. If we were to divide our attention there could never be any overlap, and no collective experience. And when it comes down to things, humans are social animals. If our experiences don’t match up to some degree, the only possible result is chaos. So we form clusters. Something something bees bees bees blah blah I forget what I was writing. Wine drinking continues. Why the fuck are you clustering around a drunk… even if there are only a few of you. Is it the sweet sweet smell of fermented grapes?

Somebody explain to me…

How in the hell is Second Life fun? Shitty lagtastic chat room, if you ask me. I am completely incapable of understanding this phenomenon. I’ve downloaded it like… three times in my life, so far. I had beta, once upon a time. It was retarded then, and it’s probably even more retarded now… Am I just stupid, or is everyone else stupid? (This is not a serious question. The answer is obvious.)


Ten annoyances for today:

  1. honk
  2. honk
  3. honk
  4. honk
  5. honk
  6. honk
  7. honk
  8. honk
  9. honk
  10. honk

See, I live off of a pretty busy road. Highway, even. My apartment (and therefore everything in between) vibrates quite a bit when trucks barrel through the neighbourhood. The idiot with the ricemobile that parks in the lot out my window has a car alarm… And I’m sure you can figure the rest out. Every ten goddamned minutes… Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! ARGHGHHGHGHHHHH! Most of the time, I don’t give a shit. But at the moment, I’m trying to rewrite my various cover letters…

Well. I was, anyway. I’m giving up now. Just getting too irritable. It’s pajama and vodka time!

Also irritating: the Google spellchecker that’s part of their toolbar does not recognize my perfectly cromulent spelling of the word neighbourhood. Nor does it recognize croumlent. Nor spellchecker. And awayyyyy it goes! Every second word I type is underlined.

You know, I think I’m more interesting when I don’t make sense around here. I’ll try harder to confuse you next time.

Post or Die!

I’m joing dis NaBloPoMo thing, you see. Which means that during the month of November, I must post every day, or commit seppuku. And I suppose lazy-ass links don’t even count, eh. Well, this here is the post for November 1st. In which I give you a list of ten things that have already annoyed me today:

  1. glasses are bent, can’t bend them back
  2. that “Barbie Girl” commercial has played 17 times in the last hour
  3. feet are cold, and yet sweaty
  4. cat won’t shut up
  5. no, Windows, I don’t want to restart now
  6. no, Windows, I don’t want to restart now
  7. can’t use vacuum properly (requires new belt), must bend over, use attachment, now back hurts
  8. apartment too cold
  9. apartment too hot
  10. out of lemon Altoids

So that’s that. Don’t even have anything good to complain about, today. That, or I’m getting tired of complaining! Yes, maybe I am, if hell is freezing over. Candice watches Lost now, bye bye.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned

I don’t think that the comment box is the place for conversations. Conversations belong in e-mail, on e-mail lists, or on forums. Maybe that’s just me. But the format just doesn’t really… work… properly. Bleh. I hardly ever check back to old posts to see if anyone has replied. How good do you think my memory is? My intention probably wasn’t to be responded to, anyway. I have coComment installed, but I don’t make use of it. I hate weblogs. If you’ve got one that gets more than a couple of comments per entry, you need to integrate it with a forum, kthx.

I’ve been a nerd for a very long time

Seeing so many (er, well… okay — just two) interweb anniversaries this week makes me wish I knew when the hell I first started doing all of this nonsense. I didn’t sign up for Blogger until February 2000, but I was posting weblog entries by hand sometime in the fall of 1999. I wish those were still archived on the web somewhere. Okay, not really. I was 17. Nobody needs to read anything I wrote when I was 17, myself included. But I wish I had them on a disk that I could ignore for the rest of my life. Just to have them. has some stuff that I don’t, but just a couple of pages from Coca-Coma (why the hell did I name my weblog that, anyway). I’ll get around to collecting it… one day. Anyway, I suppose that I’ve been doing this for sixish years by nowish. Happyish anniversaryish to me. Apathy set in oh… four years ago or so, and I’ve been flogging a dead horse since then. Let’s see how long I can keep it up. Maybe I should just finally kill this site, and do something else altogether. Or maybe I’ll get up the motivation to occasionally post something useful around here, and maybe that will encourage more than two people to visit. Or maybe I’ll just kill myself and put myself out of my misery. I hates the internet. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Grumble grumble grumble.

Angst + Shirking Responsibility = Art

Wow! Doing taxes is so much fun! Mhm. And I’m so glad that Sean keeps such impeccable records for Cyanotic. I think I give up for this weekend. Gotta save some of this for later, because I just love it so so much! On the bright side, I only have to file taxes in one country this year. I think. (You know, I’d better check on that.) I do get to do two sets of state taxes. Whee.

In order to avoid all of these mind-taxing taxes, I’m planning to redesign this site. I am a bad, bad blogger. Or, you know. I guess I’m not, if you know what the word weblog really means and all (durrr… it means a log of things found on the web — not a journal — maybe I’m just a blog snob). But yeah. I didn’t intend for this thing to be primarily linkage. So I am going to do one of two things: a) move the links to a sidebar and post some actual content more frequently, or b) give in and blog away, but with expanded commentary (and not using A page full of links with two word comments is pretty lame, because you could get that right here. I’m not enjoying the redundancy.

I am telling you this in hopes that I will feel stupid if I don’t get around to actually doing anything. I’m kind of known for laziness and procrastination. It probably won’t work, because how stupid can I feel when it seems that very few people visit this site. But it’s something. The only way I ever seem to be able to get anything done is when I am trying to avoid doing something more important (e.g. those damn taxes). It’s been hard lately, since I’m not taking any classes. I guess that’s my entire creativity drain problem right there… I’ve got nothing to put off doing lately. It would also explain why I was completely unable to be sufficiently artsy-fartsy while in art school, despite pumping out pretension all through high school. It’s what I was supposed to be doing. I hate doing what I’m supposed to. Yesterday I resorted to doing $20 worth of laundry and spending eight hours cleaning in order to avoid those nasty taxes. Predictions for future receipt-sorting avoidance measures include alphabetizing my underwear, Scotchguarding the ceiling, updating my personal information with government agencies, responding to e-mail…

Fair Warning

Or it would be, if only Sean paid any attention to anything I post online. Next chance I get, the Beetlejuice ringtone on our phone is so being replaced by “Yakety Sax”. No one knows the joy that it brings to me. Maybe I’m just slightly tipsy. Imma gonna get offa the Internets, now. Imagine that. Y’know what’s even more emo than having a LiveJournal? Yeh — having a real journal. S’okay, though. I stopped writing terrible poetry in there when I was 13. Remind me to repost my pathetic depressed-13-year-old website sometime, though. Manohman, what a stereotype I was. Hay, that shit fast-tracked me into art school. If I’m gonna be a stereotype, best be believing I’m gonna be a superior stereotype. Coulda been doing that shit as a living by now. Jebus, what a joke. Tampon in a teacup. So very paradigm shifting. Ramble end.

Yay! I love utility companies!

Peoples Energy, I shake my fist at you. $16.24 activation charge? For what? To change the information on the already existing, already working account? Don’t you think that if you are going to charge $16.24 for this service that you should make some effort to at least get that information right?

Who is Dean Payne? I know that my handwriting can be a little bit messy sometimes (although I’m pretty careful about it in cases where I would like people to copy something down accurately). But if anything, half of my letters are scribbles that look like esses (at least gee, wi, dee, bee, pee, jay, and duh… ess…) I’m reasonably sure that I couldn’t possibly have made the name Sean look like Dean. And it’s a curious fact that the letter dee is right next to ess on the keyboard…

You bastards didn’t even bother to change the address on the account. You have the street number wrong. You have the apartment number wrong. It’s probably a fluke that the bill wound up in the right state. It took three weeks to convince you that my apartment existed, and even then, your customer service representatives could not figure out how to enter it into the computer. The only apartment at this address on record is “basement”. There is no basement here…

I confuses me why the account is in my husband’s name (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) in the first place, since apparently you were unable to open an account using his SSN when we called you and tried. You told us that Sean was already in your system, and that he owed you several hundreds of dollars. I wonder whose number is now incorrectly associated with us.

I look forward to paying you unnecessarily large sums of my money every month for what I hope will continue to be sub-par service.

P.S. – Metric system, plz. WTF is a “therm”. People that aren’t stupid measure in joules.

Speaking of idiotic organizations, my green card arrived today, miraculously. The address on the envelope doesn’t exist… The USPS, in a freakish episode of competenceness managed to get it to its destination. And the mailman, in a freakish episode of paying attention to what the hell he was doing managed to put it into the mailbox instead of onto the floor beneath it as usual. Thanks, mailman! That was nice of you!

How to youse basic alchemy.

It warms my heart to see so many people finding my website by searching for “Kevin Trudeau is an idiot” and “Kevin Trudeau is a dick” and “Kevin Trudeau the crackpot”. You fuckwits looking for information on getting nautical star tattoos, though. You can fuck right off. Here is some information: tu es stultior quam asinus. Some people got here looking for Paul Dirac. And I didn’t even know who that was. Do I get really smart and ramble about quantum physics when I’m drunk? Because I don’t know shit about physics when I’m sober… Meh. Those of you looking for information about Lee Groban — I haven’t personally seen “The Cure for Insomnia”, but if the title isn’t meant to be ironic, I don’t know what is.

I do know the secret to yousing basic alchemy, but I’m not going to tell you until you learn how to youse a search engine.

Here’s another secret, though. Boys are icky, and they have cooties. And they’re dumb, too. Because they don’t understand that I am always right. So I am absolutely correct in telling them to leave me alone with their chromosomally-deficient gobbledygook, and in then huffily going to bed early because I have a grumpiness-induced headache, right? Or was I just being a bitch? I think the answer to that one is pretty obvious (clearly not), but I’m not very smart.

No one has stolen my car yet, despite my frequent invitations for them to do so. Internets, please explain yourselves. No one is going to buy it, considering that it doesn’t work and that the only parts that don’t need to be replaced are the ones that I just replaced. So I have no alternative but to ask you again, kindly. You know you want it.

My cat’s breath smells like cat food.