I had just stepped out of Vorpal's apartment, and I was burdened by a large grocery bag of trash. At the bottom of the stairs was an attractive redheaded woman my age. She was dressed in a stylish leather jacket through which she was hunting for her keys. I realized that I should check for my keys as well before getting too far from Vorpal's place. I had to use my right hand to get them from my left pocket, so it was neither slick nor fast. When I finally fished them out the woman was looking up at me. She said hello and I answered as politely as possible, and walked down the stairs. She was walking around them towards home, so as I passed above her and to the side she looked toward me. I thought she looked a bit uncomfortable but before I could realize that she did not, I had already uttered the dumbest line imaginable to make her feel at ease. If scientists studied in conjuction with poets and philosophers for many decades, there is the slim possibility that they could develop a worse line to use to continue the conversation. I now give you, my line:
"I promise I won't bite"
Yeah. I know. She responded "Oh, I didn't think you would" followed by "Have a good evening" then she entered her apartment. I responded properly to the good evening statment, but the foul echo of my biffed line still hung in the air. I spent a good couple of minutes (after disposing of the trash) mentally kicking my own ass. And here is my entry about it.
I am such a dumb ass. Perhaps I will have another shot at her. Perhaps I will not use a string of sounds that is likely the incantation of some demonic spirit that thirsts for human eyes. Surely, somewhere in the ozone layer the residual soundwaves of my line are eating a hole in the protective layer of our planet.
|3:12 PM|
Wheels large enough to make him move have been built. The axle still needs a bit of work. But it's a great little mechanical bastard. He has forks and spoons sticking out of him, as they are part of the engine mount system. His wheels are the paper picker rolls from a Color 45, but with pennies jammed under the rubber to make them larger. I love him, he is my friend.
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|2:24 PM|
VIC-TOLY! The Golem is now functional. The chassis has been built, the wiring completed, and all that remains are wheels large enough to make it move. The current set of wheels does not quite reach the floor that it must drag itself along. I need a name. Email me if you have a name for a printer golem.
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|12:56 PM|
I was forced to squeeze the macaroons today. I had a desperate yen for ginger snaps, and as I flew for the door I was ordered to aquire the proper style of macaroon. I was educated on how to determine the proper macaroon, which is to squeeze them. HEB employees swarmed around me, performing some kind of inventory, so I secretly squeezed the macaroons as I checked the price tag. Zusty is in town, but I am stuck at work and I am bored. Dreadfully so. Earlier my flesh was a trillion ants, all desperate to accomplish something but ordered to stay put.
I've started building a printer Golem. It's a little robot built from old broken printer parts. All he does right now is groan, and turn his wheels. His eyes do light up though. It's a fun little project and lethal voltage has only come close to passing through me once. I did fix the vacuum cleaner yesterday. I actually used a multimeter in order to do so.
We also sacraficed an AC cable to get the thing working. Unfortunately that means my co-worker has a wire that plugs into wall outlets with 3 bare wires sticking out the other end. I keep having to stop him from doing something dreadful with it. Anything that closes that circuit will fuse to it, and it will knock out at least one breaker in the building. I've seen this happen when we were building a lethal booby trap.
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Very little is operating correctly I think it's the food. Maybe the sunlight. I can't put forwards in front of backwards. I think that the abstract compliment generator we had at work was speaking too much truth. With a little modification to what it produces you can get stuff like "The truth in your eyes dances to music for the Gods"...well that was originally "The truth that dances in your eyelashes tempts my libido something something Roman Catholicism." Wait, maybe that's modified as well. I don't know. I think I was being a jerk to Vorpal again, and I apologize. He quit smoking and I hope it helps him in the long run.
Paycheck is missing.
Yep. That about does it.
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I really should have left for my tech job. But I can't move. So very tired.
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Wednesday, October 24, 2001
|11:00 PM|
Well, the archive page died, utterly. Damned hunk of junk! I'll try to get it up and running as soon as possible, but it's not like anyone desperately needs to see my past ravings.
I got another freelance tech job in Austin. I'm going to take care of it on the way home from work today. Zusty is showing up so I'll have to work fast. Great, now I'm putting proffesional contacts in front of personal ones. This is the first step on the long trek to hell. But thanks to certain parties, I now associate going on tech calls with this song. This link is an experiment as that file is hosted at home. If it doesn't work for you, drop me a line. It really ought to, though.
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|2:06 PM|
Criminy, I've got 4 empty coke cans on my desk, speed and caffiene should be drilling through my brain, and likely are. Despite this, I am moving at the speed of mammal evolution. Someone mentioned dayquil.[edit: That someone was Lampshade. Damned defective head meat] I'm not sick, but Dayquil, that stuff is magical. I caught some nasty cold when I went to E3, and I picked up some of those golden wonders at the same time we picked up the Rum. I felt like a pile of hurt that wore pants. 20 minutes after stuffing down one of those horse choking bastards I felt human again. Of course, that allowed me to abuse myself to the point that I lost my voice and was forced to communicate by notepad.
By the way, if you have to communicate strictly through gestures, grunts, and bits of notebook paper you can be a lot more humorous and entertaining.
As long as I'm editing this, I should say....Oh heck I dunno. I wonder what my name is worth in scrabble. No word on the contract, big suprise. We spent the day at work searching Google and Google's image search for people we knew in High School. I found a lot of people I knew, and even sometimes pictures. I did manage to confirm for myself a rumor about a friend of mine breaking into a proffessor's office in order to change his grades. Poor bastard. He was a great guy, and I haven't heard from him in a long time. I wonder what he is doing now.
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|11:29 AM|
In the same vein as my last update, the Dark Wizard beyond Space and Time JP should also be in town at some point.
My doc said that the new drugs would make me feel fatigued. Today was another scheduled increase in dosage and I can barely move. I've been guzzling coke all day and all it's done is make me feel unusual. Perhaps I should go back to my original idea of injecting cocaine into my eyeball.
Shoot, gotta go back to work.
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And yes, this totally deserves it's own update.
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|9:25 PM|
I'd been a bit pissy as of late because I lost that subtle belief in an afterlife. I realized that I had no idea what an afterlife could possibly be, so therefore how I could believe in its existence? I won't go into a long list of realizations and deep thoughts that got me back to "super-cool", but the gist of it all is: The existence of some other form of personality storage than the human brain is very possible, though obviously some of the sense of self is obviously physical. (The effects of medication, head injuries, etc) The liklihood of an after death sense of me being entirely changed is also very possible and what I think is likely the case. Peope change over time, sometimes drastically, I can handle that. And most important (for the time being) an afterlife is one thing that you can put off dealing with and not be guilty. It's not like I've got a choice, I've already lowered the restraining bar. I don't have to give a damn about what happens because there is no sense in worrying about something I have no control over.
Dang, it feels good to know that.
Hmm. I had a bunch of stuff written down at work, but I left my notepad in my haste to beat rush hour draffic. Drag. Oh! I am writing. My creativity on that front has re-awakened. What I'm writing is an experiment, a story with no deliberate symbolism. When it's past the dreadful crap stage I might just post a link. A formatted one, I promise.
I bet Vorpal $25 that he couldn't go 2 weeks without a cigarette. Since the divine hand of something or other dropped a $20 in Vorpal's path the last time we made a bet like this, I have upped the ante by a sufficient amount to rule out mere chance. I collected Vorpal's ash trays, lighters, cigarette case, more lighters and a book of matches from his apartment. I'm going to mail them to Tahiti, or possibly Australia.
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Monday, October 22, 2001
|5:05 PM|
I saved the day. My boss wanted me to call the big bad boss lady, and I struck with hummingbird accuracy and armadillo ferocity. It consisted of a 3 minute phone conversation which absolved all the sins of the printer department and made another department look like a bunch of children. Perhaps playpens will be installed. All that takes is a grill cover side on their cubicles.
|11:31 AM|
Sheesh. What a mood I was in last night. Good to know I can still feel a bit down.
Tonight I'm seeing about clearing space in my apartment. Hooray for getting things accomplished. We don't have an eternity to do what we want, and I've found that the days are growing more slippery. I hope I continue to appreciate what I have been given, and what I have earned.
Drat. My machine at home has crashed. I meant to reboot it before I went to work, but I had to get to work very early and I neglected it. When I tried to reboot from here, it froze up, and now it still pings but no other functions are available. This means I can't read the sites of my most of the people I give a damn about, and I can't check on the status of the websites I update. In fact, I really shouldn't be messing around on Blogger.
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|12:54 AM|
I find myself stagnant. I need, I need, I say these things and what I am really say is "I need to but I bet I won't".
Without my psycotic passion on tap, even for the short periods once offered by my imbalance, I find it difficult to do anything that this is not absolutely mandated. I still need guilt.
In fact, consider this an open call for volunteers. You would be of massive service to me if you can...GUILT THE CECIL.
The way it works is, I give you a reasonable job list that must be completed by the end of the week. If I do not complete it, and can not offer EXCELLENT excuses why particular items were not completed, then something terrible happens. Like...shoot. I dunno. Embarrassing pictures of myself on your webspace might work.
Too bad I can't ask for something in return, like compromising photos of They-Who-Gives-Cecil-Guilt. It's not like you get anything out of the deal. "Oh goody! Cecil got his car repaired! I must spontaneously orgasm!" . Howabout this, if I finish all my tasks, that will mean greater success in life and more freedom. Meaning I can travel to your location and fufill whatever sick fetish you want. Damn balloon bangers.
Now that I think about it, mere guilt is not going to work. I must find what I need from, cheezily enough, inside myself. Bah. Well, the offer still stands if anyone wants to be my guilt-emitter.
|8:19 PM|
What the heck should I be doing with the new me? I need cash. I need freedom. Tommorow, I am told, I will know the status of the contract. If we get the contract I will be showered with money and...oh not really. I'll get a raise and medical benefits. That'll almost be like a crapload of money as my drugs cost about as much as a guerilla war in South America.
I watched Run Lola Run yesteday, and Proof of Life today. I'm giving both a good review, though I think Proof of Life is the "better" film.
I'm finally trying to make sense of the mess that is my house. WIthout shelves or room it's pretty futile, but I again feel the need to do something useful with my sunday.
I will turn off the monitors and get to work.
Gee whiz. The knee thing is bugging me, and now my left leg, where the femur makes the ball socket joint connection to the rest of my body, is now showing signs of a similar movement limiting affliction. Could this be some kind of foul trick by my computer? Is it attempting to enslave me like the poor victim in a Harlan Ellison short story?
I promise to quit bitching about my medical issues unless they get funny or interesting. Like twin fountains of blood from my eye sockets. That'd be worth a cam update. Oh! I updated the "About me" section of the website. It now contains just about everything you need to know about me. This claim is supported by at least two, possibly three people from the internet.
|11:51 AM|
I was talking to Lampshade at some point in the past and she reminded me about a story I wrote a while back. It is the account of my efforts to save a bird in my apartment complex, a bird that had been afflicted by "Fowl Pox". The Story was never actually completed. The account of my drive out to the dove saving woman's house, or the terrible storm that made me decide to postpone my trip out there until the day after I caught the little bugger, were never added. Instead of me ruining this story with all the gory details, let's say everyone lived happily ever after, okay? Oh, and if you are reading this Lampshade, why don't you skip out on reading this story. It still has some of the gory details.
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|10:11 AM|
I finished "The Time Ships" which is a damned good science fiction novel, by Stephen Baxter. It was the book I had in my laptop bag, to be read when work was slow. Therefore it has taken me several weeks to read as oppossed to the couple days that most books take me. I just wanted to comment that while I am reading a book, the sight of the book is important. It has not been lost, I can pick it up an continue reading, or I should put it away and do something more useful. Now that I am finished, the sight of the book has none of the same signifigance. I enjoyed it, but now the story is over.
I feel a bit of fondness for a good book, and so the completion of a story has some component of a let down, a post holiday depression of sorts. I am able to examine this sort of feeling with a greater clarity nowadays.
Christ, my knee still hurts. I'm going to go get a haircut, wooopee.
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|6:31 AM|
I was up all night, despite my best efforts to sleep. I even cancelled going out on the town with Vorpal. I just needed some rest, quite a week and all that. But I was tortured by my right knee. For some reason, when it is bent, it emits an audible pop and then hurts like a bitch for several minutes. I was suprised at how often I bent my knee in my sleep. I seem to be able to walk on it, but bending it beyond what is needed for the standard walking step offers a reward of very discomforting pain.
There are definitely different types of pain, a paper cut has a distinctly different feel to it then the pain of having a tooth pulled, and I'm not just speaking of the intensity. I don't know where I'm going with this, I just got sick of trying to sleep and I'm probably in no shape to be writing. Toodle-ooooo!
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