You can always tell when there’s a crisis around here. I was talking to one of the Enterprise guys (he plays WoW) for a bit, then walked through the server rooms and came back to my desk. Complete atmosphere change out here; I overheard an “I thought I had..” excuse as I walked by. Apparantly they messed up again out there. I’d recommend less time sleeping and more time paying attention in the future, but that’s just me. Anyway, I haven’t been writing much lately, been in a funk. I did come up with some random stuff last Friday I’ll post at the end here. The first movie I’m watching here on the new monitors is Office Space; so amazingly appropriate. Also in the same vein is an awesome book, Company, by Max Barry. Anyone that’s ever worked in any sort of corporate environment can relate, and it’s got a few good twists in the story to boot.
I came up with this gem after having an issue with one of our clients, Schwab. Sha-waaab. Yeah.
Yarr Shwabbby
Cotton balls squeal in antiseptic delight, awaiting the fruition of their existence. Bloodily absorbing fresh wounds, they retreat to multiply in the dark, humid confines of the garbage. Bursting from the plastic confine, they messily crush the hapless sanitation worker into the pavement and roll down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of viscera. Brave firemen wielding flamethrowers stand nervously at attention in their path, a desperate bid to save the rest of the city. Flames embrace the errant balls, charring their surfaces black. The men raise their weapons in the air, celebrating victory over the cottony balls of death, until a shredding sound interrupts them mid-cheer; clawing from the oozing centers rise three nougat caramel chews, wreathed in the flames of hell. They boil the gasoline in the firemen’s own canisters, which violently explode in turn. Gurgling liquid chocolate, the hell candies torch the rest of the city, eventually collapsing in a pool of melted caramel as their own fires squelch them into oblivion.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
price is right song
Augh, lost my original post. Ah, well, there wasn't much content here anyway. I finished off yesterday's post. It's an abrupt ending, and I could probably flesh out the rest of it, but this is mostly just a daily brain dump anyway. I also observed that this blog is severely lacking in pictures--no one reads the actual text in these things, right? So here you go: 
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
John started awake, his head snapping forward as he shook off the feeling of vertigo. It wasn't like him to fall asleep at his desk, and now he had a crick in his neck. He massaged the back of his neck with one hand and peered up over his cubicle wall, hoping no one had caught him asleep. No one was around, fortunately. He sunk back down and stared at his computer screen, bleary eyed. He jumped again, startled as his phone rang. He put the receiver to his ear and rambled off his standard Monday morning greeting, the one that sounded like one long word. "'GmorningprocessinJohnspeakingcanIhelpyou".
The line was dead. He opened his mouth to inquire hello and winced, as a burst of static exploded in his ear. He pulled the receiver away and glared at it, then slammed it down, annoyed. He paused for a second--it was deathly silent in the cube farm. No typing, no quiet drumbeats tapping from headphones somewhere. The watercooler was usually the center of traffic at this point in the day. He shivered involuntarily. Listening to his own breathing for several seconds, he strained to pick out the sound of rustling paper or background phone conversations--nothing. His phone shattered the stillness, the ring causing him to jump again. He picked up the phone, waited a full breath-- "Hello?" Static again, scratchy and harsh. Slamming the phone down he jumped to his feet, peering around. Nothing.
He took several tenative steps into the cube farm, looking at his neighbors desk. Outlook was up on the screen, coffee was steaming in the #1 Dad mug on the desk, but Bill wasn't there. He looked around again and opened his mouth to call out when Bill's phone began to shrill, high-pitched and insistent. John lifted the receiver off the cradle, "Bill's desk, John speak-" The crash of static assaulted his ear. His head swam. He slammed the phone down, started down the aisle somewhat panicked now, calling out: "Hello! Anyone there? Hello!" At each desk in turn, as he passed, the phone began to ring. He dropped into a dead run as each phone lit up behind him, a cacophony of simultaneous rings, the decible level increasing as every phone in the room lit up. It became almost unbearable as he reached the hallway. As he was about to cross the threshold, the phones cut out. Dead silence reigned again. Mid-stride he paused, turning to look over his shoulder.
Every single monitor in the room simultaneously dropped into a static pattern. He almost anticipated what happened next: Grating static from every single speaker. He covered his ears with both hands and bolted.
He was halfway through the building before he realized he was screaming with the voices that began to emerge in the static patterns--wailing painful cries. He heard "No, please--don't come any closer!" from Sales, sickeninig thuds and pops from Marketing. He reached the foyer in a desperate bid to flee the building and the escalating sounds of horror.
Bursting through the heavy glass doors of the building's main entrance, he had only a moment to register the truck before it smashed into him, sending him through the air to crash into the pavement. The employees emerging from the new conference room were shocked to discover that John had ran out into traffic rather than the conference room, where his surprise birthday party had been set up.
The line was dead. He opened his mouth to inquire hello and winced, as a burst of static exploded in his ear. He pulled the receiver away and glared at it, then slammed it down, annoyed. He paused for a second--it was deathly silent in the cube farm. No typing, no quiet drumbeats tapping from headphones somewhere. The watercooler was usually the center of traffic at this point in the day. He shivered involuntarily. Listening to his own breathing for several seconds, he strained to pick out the sound of rustling paper or background phone conversations--nothing. His phone shattered the stillness, the ring causing him to jump again. He picked up the phone, waited a full breath-- "Hello?" Static again, scratchy and harsh. Slamming the phone down he jumped to his feet, peering around. Nothing.
He took several tenative steps into the cube farm, looking at his neighbors desk. Outlook was up on the screen, coffee was steaming in the #1 Dad mug on the desk, but Bill wasn't there. He looked around again and opened his mouth to call out when Bill's phone began to shrill, high-pitched and insistent. John lifted the receiver off the cradle, "Bill's desk, John speak-" The crash of static assaulted his ear. His head swam. He slammed the phone down, started down the aisle somewhat panicked now, calling out: "Hello! Anyone there? Hello!" At each desk in turn, as he passed, the phone began to ring. He dropped into a dead run as each phone lit up behind him, a cacophony of simultaneous rings, the decible level increasing as every phone in the room lit up. It became almost unbearable as he reached the hallway. As he was about to cross the threshold, the phones cut out. Dead silence reigned again. Mid-stride he paused, turning to look over his shoulder.
Every single monitor in the room simultaneously dropped into a static pattern. He almost anticipated what happened next: Grating static from every single speaker. He covered his ears with both hands and bolted.
He was halfway through the building before he realized he was screaming with the voices that began to emerge in the static patterns--wailing painful cries. He heard "No, please--don't come any closer!" from Sales, sickeninig thuds and pops from Marketing. He reached the foyer in a desperate bid to flee the building and the escalating sounds of horror.
Bursting through the heavy glass doors of the building's main entrance, he had only a moment to register the truck before it smashed into him, sending him through the air to crash into the pavement. The employees emerging from the new conference room were shocked to discover that John had ran out into traffic rather than the conference room, where his surprise birthday party had been set up.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Ethanoloholic.
I read an article on CNN this morning that said the frequency of negative posts made by bloggers regarding gas prices is up. Well, dur. A full tank of gas has more than doubled in an extremely short time, of course there's going to be a lot of negativity about it. The article then proceeds to break down by demograph who is upset about said gas prices. It's impacted everyone, fresh out of college grad and Fifty-something alike; obviously the younger crowd is hit harder, as we have to cut costs in critical places to eat the higher prices. I find it amusing that the government proposed 100 dollar rebate vouchers for gas. Big deal, I blow through that in a week and a half in my Accord, which gets very good gas mileage. Decide whether the vastly inflated price is justified under free market, or regulate it--either way, Americans will cope without a useless government rebate. The optimist in me wonders if a mass boycott of gas for several days would have any affect at all on prices. I bet it would.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
tumbleweed
WC games
So I've caught a couple World Cup games this past week-- US and Italy, and Brazil and Australia. Pretty cool. I'm actually looking forward to zipping out of here at 9 to catch the games at 10. As we speak, beer is chilling in the fridge in preparation. I wish soccer had more of a following here in the states, or at least more television airtime. It's a nice change of pace from the typical Baseball/Football fare, and I don't agree with the 'long uneventful periods' sentiment. It can get a bit slow when things are being played defensively, i.e lots of midfield passing, but what sport doesn't have its slow periods or downtimes? Baseball has plenty of pitchings-around the batter, posturings and constant pick-off attempts to first; Football can degrade into a back-and-forth punting competition in the middle of the field.
Hopefully the US does well today and Italy kicks butt--maybe all we need is a little hype and exposure to generate more of an interest in professional soccer in this country
I was looking at 1up.com today. They have a bunch of user blogs there, one of which caught my eye. The writer had been fired from his job for showing up to work an hour late. That's pretty harsh--I wonder what line of work he was in? It makes me even more grateful for the relaxed atmosphere here at my job.
I'd also like to plug the 1upshow. I've been watching it regularly every week, its got good content and is entertaining.
I don't think I'll be writing anything creatively this week. There's no spark today.
So I've caught a couple World Cup games this past week-- US and Italy, and Brazil and Australia. Pretty cool. I'm actually looking forward to zipping out of here at 9 to catch the games at 10. As we speak, beer is chilling in the fridge in preparation. I wish soccer had more of a following here in the states, or at least more television airtime. It's a nice change of pace from the typical Baseball/Football fare, and I don't agree with the 'long uneventful periods' sentiment. It can get a bit slow when things are being played defensively, i.e lots of midfield passing, but what sport doesn't have its slow periods or downtimes? Baseball has plenty of pitchings-around the batter, posturings and constant pick-off attempts to first; Football can degrade into a back-and-forth punting competition in the middle of the field.
Hopefully the US does well today and Italy kicks butt--maybe all we need is a little hype and exposure to generate more of an interest in professional soccer in this country
I was looking at 1up.com today. They have a bunch of user blogs there, one of which caught my eye. The writer had been fired from his job for showing up to work an hour late. That's pretty harsh--I wonder what line of work he was in? It makes me even more grateful for the relaxed atmosphere here at my job.
I'd also like to plug the 1upshow. I've been watching it regularly every week, its got good content and is entertaining.
I don't think I'll be writing anything creatively this week. There's no spark today.
Friday, June 09, 2006
stream of consciousness day (i've been slacking)
characteristics of the w/land
unkempt unrenowned
push daisies beyond the aether
approximate estimations incinerate
fabricated facsimiles
perpetrated by pernicious philanthropists
surreptitiously soliciting
voraciously insatiable aspirations
unkempt unrenowned
push daisies beyond the aether
approximate estimations incinerate
fabricated facsimiles
perpetrated by pernicious philanthropists
surreptitiously soliciting
voraciously insatiable aspirations
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Antisocial.
Bleugh. I wonder what's with not wanting to talk lately. I'm content lately to just hide in the corner and not be bothered.
Sharp, stabbing pain in his side. Every day for the past two weeks now, he'd been elbowed, shoved, stepped on by the asshole of the lunch table, Barry. It wasn't enough he only knew one person in the whole room of two hundered kids, and sat there trying to look inconspicuous and fit in. Now the big tough guy of the table had to start picking on him every single day. Tom pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and frowed at his tuna fish. There was a note from Mom--probably a 'I love you have a good day' deal she embarassed him with on a monthly basis. He quickly covered it with the baggie of Oreo's in his lunch and hoped no one had noticed.
Barry started talking loudly at the far end of the table, taking great care to ensure the adjoing lunchers heard how he had banged Stacey Watson this past weekend, how she had moaned how much bigger his cock was than her football-captain boyfriend. Tom winced again and tried to focus on his sandwich. At the edge of peripheral vision he noticed Barry stretch and start to get up, announcing he had to choke the one eyed snake. Tom braced for the blow he knew was coming in the form of a feigned stumble or trip, a calculated fist or elbow just accidentally happing to jab him in the kidneys. This time was gonna be different, Tom was ready for it this time. The blow came, sudden and low, Barrys balled fist about to strike in the predicted spot--until Tom shifted in his seat, deflecting the fist down and away with his elbow. Tom stood up sharply and struck underneath Barrys chin with an open palm, snapping his neck back and sending him toppling over backwards, crashing into the table behind sending some poor kids mashed potatoes everywhere.
>.< argh, gotta go.. maybe finished later.
Sharp, stabbing pain in his side. Every day for the past two weeks now, he'd been elbowed, shoved, stepped on by the asshole of the lunch table, Barry. It wasn't enough he only knew one person in the whole room of two hundered kids, and sat there trying to look inconspicuous and fit in. Now the big tough guy of the table had to start picking on him every single day. Tom pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and frowed at his tuna fish. There was a note from Mom--probably a 'I love you have a good day' deal she embarassed him with on a monthly basis. He quickly covered it with the baggie of Oreo's in his lunch and hoped no one had noticed.
Barry started talking loudly at the far end of the table, taking great care to ensure the adjoing lunchers heard how he had banged Stacey Watson this past weekend, how she had moaned how much bigger his cock was than her football-captain boyfriend. Tom winced again and tried to focus on his sandwich. At the edge of peripheral vision he noticed Barry stretch and start to get up, announcing he had to choke the one eyed snake. Tom braced for the blow he knew was coming in the form of a feigned stumble or trip, a calculated fist or elbow just accidentally happing to jab him in the kidneys. This time was gonna be different, Tom was ready for it this time. The blow came, sudden and low, Barrys balled fist about to strike in the predicted spot--until Tom shifted in his seat, deflecting the fist down and away with his elbow. Tom stood up sharply and struck underneath Barrys chin with an open palm, snapping his neck back and sending him toppling over backwards, crashing into the table behind sending some poor kids mashed potatoes everywhere.
>.< argh, gotta go.. maybe finished later.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Alone.
It's another tough day to squeeze a post in. Sitting at the open desk where you're in full view requires some artful window re-sizing. Anyway, I've run out of steam (har har) as far as yesterday's post goes. Ideas for continuing haven't been forthcoming, so I've been sitting here attempting to come up with something new.
Some type of prompt would be marvelous.
The brittle, hacking cough reverberated between the two tall brick buildings. Shuffling through the trash strewn alley, the ragged homeless man paused briefly again, coughing to the point of convulsions; he retched up the evening's liquid breakfast, spattering another layer of filth onto a grimy dumpster. Clutching his stomach, he staggered out into the pre-dawn murk, lurching in fits and starts to the closest city bus stop. He claimed the single bench as his own, stretching out with a shuddering moan. The clock rolled over to the daily commute hour, summoning the city's denizens to work. As they surged around him he stretched out a single hand, palm up in mute petition, seeking help that would never arrive. The milling flow of human traffic ignored his plight, their eyes sliding over his supine form, noses raised or pinched in distaste, gaits sped up to bypass the wasted form.
He expired there on the scuffed plastic bench. Frozen in silent plea, arm raised--the day wore on. Municpial workers eventually arrived and gathered up his rigid form once the smell became too great. No footnote in the obituaries was logged that evening or the next, no blurb on the six o clock news--just a splattered crust of vomit on a dumpster marked his passing.
Some type of prompt would be marvelous.
The brittle, hacking cough reverberated between the two tall brick buildings. Shuffling through the trash strewn alley, the ragged homeless man paused briefly again, coughing to the point of convulsions; he retched up the evening's liquid breakfast, spattering another layer of filth onto a grimy dumpster. Clutching his stomach, he staggered out into the pre-dawn murk, lurching in fits and starts to the closest city bus stop. He claimed the single bench as his own, stretching out with a shuddering moan. The clock rolled over to the daily commute hour, summoning the city's denizens to work. As they surged around him he stretched out a single hand, palm up in mute petition, seeking help that would never arrive. The milling flow of human traffic ignored his plight, their eyes sliding over his supine form, noses raised or pinched in distaste, gaits sped up to bypass the wasted form.
He expired there on the scuffed plastic bench. Frozen in silent plea, arm raised--the day wore on. Municpial workers eventually arrived and gathered up his rigid form once the smell became too great. No footnote in the obituaries was logged that evening or the next, no blurb on the six o clock news--just a splattered crust of vomit on a dumpster marked his passing.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Hoo-ah..
So, here it is Monday (er..tuesday) morning, and I'm ready to quit posting. I think I have a three day expiration. Insert one day to slack or a weekend, and I'll never look back.
Speaking of the weekend, all I did was play WoW. I was initially going to call the 'rents and spend Sunday there, but after I woke up on Sunday I felt blah. Its funny--it wasn't all that long ago that having to stay at home all weekend with my parents was the worst thing in the world. Now its something to look forward to. It doesn't help that all my old friends are either a)Pretending they're still sixteen and are, therefore, total assholes or b) have fled the state.
Anyway, I need some sort of writing excercise.
Also I need to link this vid site, it's got some funny stuff on there. Tomorrow most likely, I'm not on the correct computer.
It's pretty tough to write in here today. Lots of traffic. Hoo, lotta traffic. Arr.
I suppose I can look busy just typing. Typing away, typing away. Laa dee daa. Hmm, steampunk. I love steampunk.
Boiling to the point of violence, the water in the metal bladder erupted in gout of shrieking steam, which billowed into the catch as the freshly oiled gears began turning. Gideon wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his arm, unknowingly leaving a smear of black grease. He dropped the heavy iron wrench and it clanged loudly as it bounced once off the metal grating. Rocking back on his heels, he cast an expert’s eye over the intricate construction--levers primed and operating, steam valves exhaling pressure, various gauges showing optimal operating temperatures and calibrations.
More later..
Rubbing his hands in anticipation, he adjusted an oscillator here, a tension regulator (condensor) there. Like a father doting over a newborn, his ministrations were gentle and caring, careful not to harm the construct yet performing the necessary minutiae and adjustments to ensure its functionality. Again the exhaust port of the hulking iron and copper behemoth rattled, then erupted in a gout of steam, the catch absorbing the majority of the moisture and returning it to the boiler. Oscillators spun faster and faster and the giant coiled springs on the constructs arms tightened and pulled back. Twin lamps in the sockets winked on and the huge tesla coils emerging from its shoulders began to crackle and spark, arcs of electrical energy leaping across and charging the air.
The hairs on Gideon’s arms stood on end as the mechanical man came to life, servos and actuators propelling it to its feet. It stood there, a thing of burnished metal beauty, alive and functioning--breathing even, the bellows in its chest pumping its steam lifeblood throughout the inner workings of its frame.
A week ago the prospect of this creature standing on its own was unfathomable. Constantly feeding it coal to keep the fires burning was a logistical nightmare in itself, never mind positioning it to keep the water in the boiler hot enough to produce steam. Musings and documentation of the inventor Tesla had come in via the Post, and it wasn't long before Gideon had a working copy of his coils and condenser storage apparatus.
Gideon had programmed a series of punch cards that delivered certain generic instructions to the mechanical man. These were simple follow, defend, lift and carry commands for menial tasks. However, this would be invaluable—the construct would not get tired, for it possessed great strength and fortitude. He possessed amazing potential to serve the greater good, this mechanical man of his.
Heh, mechanical man. He would have to come up with a suitable name for the hulking behemoth. He scratched the unshaven stubble at his jaw, musing on a name. It would have to be something dignified of course—his construct was of course the quintessential gentleman, stove pipe hat, monocle, and waistcoat. Perhaps Thaddeus? Thaddeus Moebius Boilerplate.
“Splendid, Mr. Thaddeus. You are looking rather splendid this morning. Let’s take a short stroll around the villa, give our legs a bit of a stretch.”
He inserted the rolodex of punch cards into the constructs frame, delivering the basic instructions and command set to ‘follow’.
Gideon stepped out of the barn his workshop was contained in, into the bright morning sunlight. He turned and squinted into the murky shadows of the barn; eyes already adjusted to the light, and raised his goggles up onto his forehead.
With a whirr and a hiss, Thaddeus ambled into the daylight, his cheerful grin permanently affixed to his metal face. He seemed almost alive, this creation of his; but then the sun struck his burnished black and copper frame and all illusions caused by shadows dissipated.
They strolled down the road, early summer in evidence. Butterflies and honeybees flitted amongst the tall grasses and wildflowers along the road, a warm breeze stirring the leaves of a single tree. He wished he could follow the construct to observe it—as it was he kept casting glances over his shoulder in unbelief.
They came to the end of his drive, and turned onto the street proper. How would people react?
Hmm, not bad. Only 700 or so words, but not bad for warmups I suppose. I have only a vague idea where to go with it.
Speaking of the weekend, all I did was play WoW. I was initially going to call the 'rents and spend Sunday there, but after I woke up on Sunday I felt blah. Its funny--it wasn't all that long ago that having to stay at home all weekend with my parents was the worst thing in the world. Now its something to look forward to. It doesn't help that all my old friends are either a)Pretending they're still sixteen and are, therefore, total assholes or b) have fled the state.
Anyway, I need some sort of writing excercise.
Also I need to link this vid site, it's got some funny stuff on there. Tomorrow most likely, I'm not on the correct computer.
It's pretty tough to write in here today. Lots of traffic. Hoo, lotta traffic. Arr.
I suppose I can look busy just typing. Typing away, typing away. Laa dee daa. Hmm, steampunk. I love steampunk.
Boiling to the point of violence, the water in the metal bladder erupted in gout of shrieking steam, which billowed into the catch as the freshly oiled gears began turning. Gideon wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his arm, unknowingly leaving a smear of black grease. He dropped the heavy iron wrench and it clanged loudly as it bounced once off the metal grating. Rocking back on his heels, he cast an expert’s eye over the intricate construction--levers primed and operating, steam valves exhaling pressure, various gauges showing optimal operating temperatures and calibrations.
More later..
Rubbing his hands in anticipation, he adjusted an oscillator here, a tension regulator (condensor) there. Like a father doting over a newborn, his ministrations were gentle and caring, careful not to harm the construct yet performing the necessary minutiae and adjustments to ensure its functionality. Again the exhaust port of the hulking iron and copper behemoth rattled, then erupted in a gout of steam, the catch absorbing the majority of the moisture and returning it to the boiler. Oscillators spun faster and faster and the giant coiled springs on the constructs arms tightened and pulled back. Twin lamps in the sockets winked on and the huge tesla coils emerging from its shoulders began to crackle and spark, arcs of electrical energy leaping across and charging the air.
The hairs on Gideon’s arms stood on end as the mechanical man came to life, servos and actuators propelling it to its feet. It stood there, a thing of burnished metal beauty, alive and functioning--breathing even, the bellows in its chest pumping its steam lifeblood throughout the inner workings of its frame.
A week ago the prospect of this creature standing on its own was unfathomable. Constantly feeding it coal to keep the fires burning was a logistical nightmare in itself, never mind positioning it to keep the water in the boiler hot enough to produce steam. Musings and documentation of the inventor Tesla had come in via the Post, and it wasn't long before Gideon had a working copy of his coils and condenser storage apparatus.
Gideon had programmed a series of punch cards that delivered certain generic instructions to the mechanical man. These were simple follow, defend, lift and carry commands for menial tasks. However, this would be invaluable—the construct would not get tired, for it possessed great strength and fortitude. He possessed amazing potential to serve the greater good, this mechanical man of his.
Heh, mechanical man. He would have to come up with a suitable name for the hulking behemoth. He scratched the unshaven stubble at his jaw, musing on a name. It would have to be something dignified of course—his construct was of course the quintessential gentleman, stove pipe hat, monocle, and waistcoat. Perhaps Thaddeus? Thaddeus Moebius Boilerplate.
“Splendid, Mr. Thaddeus. You are looking rather splendid this morning. Let’s take a short stroll around the villa, give our legs a bit of a stretch.”
He inserted the rolodex of punch cards into the constructs frame, delivering the basic instructions and command set to ‘follow’.
Gideon stepped out of the barn his workshop was contained in, into the bright morning sunlight. He turned and squinted into the murky shadows of the barn; eyes already adjusted to the light, and raised his goggles up onto his forehead.
With a whirr and a hiss, Thaddeus ambled into the daylight, his cheerful grin permanently affixed to his metal face. He seemed almost alive, this creation of his; but then the sun struck his burnished black and copper frame and all illusions caused by shadows dissipated.
They strolled down the road, early summer in evidence. Butterflies and honeybees flitted amongst the tall grasses and wildflowers along the road, a warm breeze stirring the leaves of a single tree. He wished he could follow the construct to observe it—as it was he kept casting glances over his shoulder in unbelief.
They came to the end of his drive, and turned onto the street proper. How would people react?
Hmm, not bad. Only 700 or so words, but not bad for warmups I suppose. I have only a vague idea where to go with it.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Insert apathetic noise: [Here]
Blugh. I wrote this for the 'Drabbles' thread over at www.evilavatar.com in the writing forum, but I think its a little too personal for posting there. Personal as in autobiographical. Plus, it blows. It's also supposed to be 100 words, but I've hit 106 and don't feel like cutting anything. EDIT: I trimmed it down to 100, and I think it may actually be better for it. Huzzah.
---------------------------------------------------
When I'm out of here, I'm heading straight to the gym. All this sitting around drinking coke and pushing papers is playing havoc on my body--I swear I've gained twenty pounds in the last six weeks.Afterwards, my mechanic’s giving my Honda an enema; it drives like pure, unadulterated shit lately. I tick through my mental chore list: haircut, pile of bills on the coffee table, backed up toilet in the half-bath.
My will falters as I walk through the door and slump in my computer chair.
Tomorrow is going to be different.
-------------------------------------------------------
I guess I'll let it percolate a bit more. If I still don't want to gouge my eyes out after reading it tomorrow, maybe I'll deign to grace their forums with my amazing wit and literary prowess.
Get it? Tomorrow? Hah.
Riiiiight.
---------------------------------------------------
When I'm out of here, I'm heading straight to the gym. All this sitting around drinking coke and pushing papers is playing havoc on my body--I swear I've gained twenty pounds in the last six weeks.Afterwards, my mechanic’s giving my Honda an enema; it drives like pure, unadulterated shit lately. I tick through my mental chore list: haircut, pile of bills on the coffee table, backed up toilet in the half-bath.
My will falters as I walk through the door and slump in my computer chair.
Tomorrow is going to be different.
-------------------------------------------------------
I guess I'll let it percolate a bit more. If I still don't want to gouge my eyes out after reading it tomorrow, maybe I'll deign to grace their forums with my amazing wit and literary prowess.
Get it? Tomorrow? Hah.
Riiiiight.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Woah..no posts since October? That was eight months ago. Scary. WoW needs a disclaimer on it: worse for you then heroin. You quite literally lose months of your life at a time. Let's measure my free time in virtual accomplishments, shall we? 60 NE Rogue, PvP Rank 9 on Dark Iron. 180 Fire Resist. Three piece NS set bonus, Perdition's Blade and Scarlet Kris, +5 damage and +15 Agi enchants, respectively. Full profile is here: http://ctprofiles.net/489119
More to follow tomorrow. There really isn't any excuse for me to neglect some semblance of a daily writing excercise, and I figure this is as good attempt as any to grease the ol' wheels up again. Perhaps I can even post here with impunity, since I'm sure no one reads this anyway.
More to follow tomorrow. There really isn't any excuse for me to neglect some semblance of a daily writing excercise, and I figure this is as good attempt as any to grease the ol' wheels up again. Perhaps I can even post here with impunity, since I'm sure no one reads this anyway.
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