1. So about the design change. I was going for something along the lines of, "color-clashing and miserable experience for the eyes; the equivalent of being scared by a 300-lb. clown when you’re two years old," and I think I came close to succeeding, no?
2. Ro was showing me how to use Visual Studio and Visio last night, and instead of being productive, I made Douglas. Say howdy:
Aside from the "hmm, ew" Web searches that show up in my Stats/Referrals page, every once in a while something noteworthy comes along.
I had a really great (read: not great) post lined up about shoes, but, screw it. I’m running late for a gym session.
So. In response to TS’ comments about my bloggy-doo-logs:
6 things I tend to make up:
- The amount of sleep I actually get (or don’t get)
- My readership. I said I only have four readers? I actually have seven. But two of them are imaginary and another only reads this because I’m paying by the hit count for it, and that’s why I say four.
- My ability to follow-through
- My ability to count
6 things I indeed have not made up:
- That motherloving huge-ass spider
- My overachiever of a fridge
- How fan-smacking-tastic my hair smells
- I really do still have Vox invites. They keep "replenishing my stock." (They like me! Ooh.)
- My obsessive and overanalytical list-making tendencies
- My really crappy judgment when it comes to falling for guys, and my still-kind-of crappy ability to get over them, already
- The expedited rate at which I lose pens and bobby pins
6 names "TS" could potentially stand for:
- Tobias Smith
- T.S. Eliot
- Trustworthy Source
- Tate Shakespeare (Will’s half-brother’s great-great-great-etc. grandson)
Well, whomever you happen to be, TS, thanks for the referral. Hopefully it’ll bump me up to a whopping five readers! I’m hoping to push 10 by the end of this year. Let’s hit some goals!! Core values rock.
BONUS! Since it was mentioned in that entry:
- The more I blog, the more I find myself keeping an eye out on a daily basis for blog material, and just from simple observation do I discover a wealth of items to post to my blog.
"Blog," used three times in one (albeit complex) sentence, as a verb, adjective and noun. Though I guess something more concise could go like:
- Sometimes I blog about blog tools, but never on Xanga because that is my emo blog.
Thanks to Erin from Out of Character, I’ve become exposed to the darling wit of Jonathan Coulton, an independent musician over in New York. Vocally, he sounds a little bit like a cross between Ben Gibbard and James Mercer and Ted Leo, and for whatever reason, he reminds me of Ze Frank.
"Re Your Brains," was one of the songs she’d posted on Vox. It’s sung by a newly-turned zombie and I knew I had to visit Coulton’s website after I heard the first two lines of the chorus:
All we want to do is eat your brains
We’re not unreasonable, I mean, no one’s gonna eat your eyes
After listening to a handful of others on the songs page, my favorites became "Code Monkey" and "Ikea."
From "Code Monkey":
Rob say Code Monkey very diligent
But his output stink
His code not “functional” or “elegant”
What do Code Monkey think?
Code Monkey think maybe manager want to write god damned login page himself
Long ago in days of yore
It all began with a god named Thor
There were Vikings and boats
And some plans for a furniture store
Ikea: just some oak and some pine and a handful of Norsemen
Ikea: selling furniture for college kids and divorced men
Every single song is available for full listening, and a lot of them are available for free download. He’s also done an emo-alt-rock-esque cover of "Baby Got Back" and a mashup of "When I’m 64" and "25 or 6 to 4." Yum.
Some girls and a whole lotta guys would tell me to just shut up about it already and just be *thankful,* because GOD, I act like this is such a TRAGEDY, but you don’t understand. I ought to have an authoritarian power, a total dictatorship, a ruling with an iron fist (thumb?) relationship with my goddamn body.
And, I swear, I SWEAR my boobs have gotten bigger for no reason I can pinpoint. Like, not enough that I’m going to have to go out and buy more stupid bras, but enough that suspicion was raised (they were another factor of the paranoia). Enough that they feel… heavier. Enough that I’m am motherloving PISSED. Because now they’re even *more* in my way of everything. And this effing heat wave is driving me insane. And fat cells are natural insulators of heat, so I have two stupid, heavy, in-the-way thermal repositories making me miserable 24/7.
It all just reminds me of "Bruce Almighty," and I keep thinking, if this is all a result of some asshole’s wishful thinking, he better hope I never find him because if I do, I will smack him with a fury that hell, nor a woman scorned, hath never seen.
A short while ago (10-15 minutes?), the power just up and went out for two or three seconds.
It’s a weird thing to experience– the lights suddenly going off is certainly startling, but what really got my nerves going was the *sound* of everything turning off. The click of my speakers, the slow hum of the fan slowing to a halt. And the giant industrial fans on the other side of the back alley, the fans my (open) windows face, shut down in an instant.
The silence was unsettling. I hadn’t realized how *used* to hearing those fans I’d gotten. When I first moved in here, their sound was an annoyance. Now, I find, they’ve become a mark of reassurance.
Also kind of funny was the fact that Kipper was largely unaffected by the power outage because of his filled-to-the-brim battery supply. In ye olden tymes, I might have had to go about my business in the dark, eyesight aided only by the light of a candle. These days? I’ll do just fine off the light of my laptop screen, thanks.
In regards to future interchanges of communication between us, please note that it is now "Charcoal slate at midnight under an ebony Tuscan sky."
- From 9-10 p.m. Tuesday night, cried intermittently. From 10-11 p.m., just full-on cried non-stop. (-)
- By 2 a.m., I was still awake and had gotten a second wind, and by 3 a.m. I was ship-shape to hit the road. (+)
- After 15 minutes of driving, I started falling asleep. (-)
- Found gum in my purse. Chewing gum woke me up. (+)
- For about 10 seconds. I kept nodding off the rest of the 300-something mile drive. In the darkness. My leg was red and sore by the end because I kept pinching myself in an effort to keep myself alert. This method, by the way, doesn’t work AT ALL. And also, I started hallucinating about 50 miles into the trip, which is, y’know, just boatloads of fun. (-)
- Made it in one piece, though a distraught, delirious, and barely-holding-it-together one piece. No accidents. (+)
- Papers = not where I thought they would be. (-)
- My paycheck from the promo modeling gig I did WAY the fuck back in MARCH, finally came. (+)
- Had to go stand in a long line full of cranky people. (-)
- The line moved quickly. (+)
- The lady at the counter said all she could do for me today was tell me that I had to come back another time, armed with more filled-out paperwork and signatures and blah blah. (-)
- Completely stressed out and on the verge of an anxiety attack, I went shoe shopping. Because I had a membership gift certificate. And there was a sale on *top* of a pre-existing sale! I went in looking for a pair of black heels and left with six boxes. I have super-sleuth bargain hunting skills. But more about those tomorrow. (+)
- In the middle of my good-mood drive back to the house, as I’m nearly at my exit from the freeway, my "Check Engine" service light suddenly comes on. The dealership, incidentally, was right next to the shoe store. I really start panicking now, thinking something is going to explode any second, and, gritting my teeth the whole way, turn around and head to the dealership. (-)
- A very nice person from the service desk explains after checking it out that it’s just an emissions thing, that the part that may or may not need to be replaced is actually still under warranty, that I can totally drive it, even back to San Diego, without worrying and just get it taken care of here. I figure while I’m there, I may as well get my oil changed, and for the first time in years it actually takes less than 30 minutes for them to do it, and my car gets a bath to boot. (+)
- The second search for papers still turns up empty. (-)
- I got my hair done (i.e., shampooed, cut, dried). It was fabulous. And it was $10 less than I expected it to be, *and* I got a 15% "V.I.P. membership" discount, *and* a bag full of samples of spa stuff which I’ll probably never use, but hey! Free stuff! (+)
- Feeling perky and refreshed, I forgo a nap and decide to just head back now. Again, 10 minutes into the drive, I’m battling split-second blips of unconsciousness. (-)
- The guy at the service desk warned that I shouldn’t drive more than 100 miles in one go, so I had to keep making stops. At one of these stops, I bought a large diet soda and sipped it intermittently, and miraculously I woke up right away after that. (+)
- Hit, of course, an ugly snarl of traffic. Damn L.A. people. Making it better was the fact that my energy levels took a nose dive during all of the stop-and-go movement, and didn’t pick up again for the rest of the drive. (-)
- Again– I at least made it back in one (fractured but not broken) piece. (+)
Came home, checked my e-mail (Another LbtB this weekend!), called Honolulu to check in, then crashed. I can’t remember the last time I was able to fall asleep so quickly. (And apparently this is a normal thing? To get into bed and fall asleep in a matter of minutes? It’s *always* been a matter of hours for me.)
Hopefully, the rest of this week proceeds better than the first half.
So, the good news is, I’m NOT. Truth be told, I didn’t even have that much reason to entertain the notion, but I’ll take paranoia over oblivion any day in this department.
The BAD news is, I now have to either:
- a) personally account for, or
- b) find a new excuse for
the erratic jags of crying, the irritability, the throbbing headaches, the spells of nausea, and the goddamn fact that my goddamn jeans feel goddamn tighter on me.
I’m all for another scapegoat.
Oh, and also? Quick confidential to the dude in the waiting room: shut the fuck up. What, were you on your period? I hope someone kicks you in the balls, and soon. God forbid you ever procreate, you whiny, bitchy ingrate.
If my rolled tacos had a blog, their current mood right now would be "pissed" and they would write pithy little tirades (yes, that’s right, pithy tirades– rolled tacos do not bow down to oxymoronic confines) about identity theft and PETA and people who don’t wear sunscreen.
Goddamn, the potatoes were spicy today.
One of the disappointed observations I made while we were still at Starbucks was that Stephen Baylor, Steve for short, a.k.a. "George’s" hooded jacket had neither a working zipper nor a working drawstring.
But! Then! Five minutes ago! I found the little threads that were preventing his clothing from being fully operable!
So I cut them off. He’s much happier now.
(I took the liberty of filling all four of his pockets for you disbelievers. THEY ARE REAL POCKETS.)
Also, I found out that he was only four strings away from being able to have his jacket completely removed, so I went ahead and clipped those suckers, too. His shirt came off by itself, but his khakis are pretty well-secured in several areas, as is his Starbucks hat.
It was a rocking good discovery, and we’ve been having a rocking good time, though I don’t know why he wasn’t in bed, like, three hours ago. I at least have an excuse: JET LAG. I highly *don’t* recommend spending a week thinking simultaneously in terms of three different time zones, for what it’s worth, but hey, that’s just my opinion.
Link: Flickr set