July 18, 2003

I realised probably a little late that I should be updating my gash rather than the undergarment itself. This way, I'll be able to have an entry on Thursday instead of on Monday.

I promised myself I'd go to sleep over 4 hours ago. So, I was thinking about Amy Tam, and I tried to find out when I mentioned her in my friend's dildo, and I found nothing interesting. I don't change all that much, do I? I finished 2001 of stargazer. I am not a stalker; this is public information (and written by an interesting person, to boot).

What does that phrase mean, "to boot"? It means "as well" or "especially" or more likely both, but why does it mean that? Tying all of the above together, Mayhem King thinks my AS is "endearing".. amoung other qualities. Really, his praise isn't the reason I like his posts so much. Sczoyd also has been consistently using <-- for my gender-pronoun, whcih I absolutely adore because he's really the first person to ever do that consistently, and he did it completely independently of any mention by me ^_^
I love these people.

I'll go to sleep. ..so I had a dream. It involved a pair of mansions and a handheld device tat displayed my ICQ userlist (but it was really weird) and at the end there was a bus / trash pickup thing that was pushed by a thing.. hard to explain. And that's really the only part of it I rememebr now, too.. but it -was- really long and complicated before then... On the phone with Ka-la, she randomly insisted that I have the prettiest eyes she's ever seen. ..so I took a deep, relaxing, scalding-hot bath. It was good. Baths are infinitely superior to showers.

..which reminds me. Heather owes me a bath, and I never really did transfer the promises I've extracted over the years to Laine... ..I hope the water dmaage to her letters isn't that bad... ..ack. No mention, again, of FF1-3 (especailly, in this case, 2). There are two sister-sister relationships .... Faris' efforts to hide her sex blunt the sisterly bond .... The sole brother-sister relationship is Palom/Porom .... *ahem* Faris is physically female, yes, but is one of the few transgendered FF characters (Gogo, of course, also applies). Faris-Lenna is a brother-sister bond. Also, no mention is made of Leonhart/Maria of FF2 (another brother-sister relationship that expresses itself in misunderstandings.. throughout the game, Leonhart is the Dark Knight, your feared opponent..).

My throat still hurts, and I feel sick, and everywhere is hot and I can't focus for long periods of time. I had weird dreams. (and yes, I was lost in them). kraid eating thing, no backpack no paper wrong class RMZ airdash upward damage etc I had another dream. I was staying at Brian's apartment (I think), and the part I rememebr, I had to pick someone up at a certain time. I was talking with epople and stuff, and I totally lost track of the time, so it was 9 minutes after when was supposed to pick the person up that I actually went.. I, of course, got lost. Anyway, I was also supposed to order refreshments, only I didn't rememebr what so I didn't, and then I figured out taht i was supposed to order 58 coffees and "cups of donuts for everybody", whatever that means. After some discussion of love and sexuality with some other people, I left there (I think it was a church, because of when I got lost inside the building what I saw..) and was in a gymnasium or some other open room, and I was being chased by three other people.. the one who was chasing me first was actually trying to stay near me to keep away from the other two. It was weird. After a lot of chasing I just broke down crying and was hugging the person who was chasing me while sobbing uncontrollably.. and there was something about being really young and in love with someone rch that didn't make sense, and then I woke up.

Today is probably the weirdest day compared to that dream. The freshmen boys at school finally played a very funny prank on some of the seniors. Apparently, one of the freshmen boys, David, got a hold of the master key for the boys locker room. While all the other boys were out in the football field for P.E., David and his friend Thomas hid in the locker room and went opened all the lockers that belonged to the seniors. They grabbed and shoved all the seniors clothing in their backpacks. When P.E. finished for that period, all the senior boys weren't able to take a shower or even have a change of clothing. Everyone had so much teasing the seniors for wearing their P.E. uniforms for the rest of the day.

At the end of the day, David and Thomas were caught and suspended. But, for them they think they actually accomplished something by that stupid prank. Oh, and the funniest thing was the way that David and Thomas were caught. The school police officer found the two boys throwing the stolen clothing all over the teachers' parking lot. Clearly, David and Thomas must have been drugs or something because when they were caught. David acted all like the Riddler at the end of that Batman Forever and Thomas was covered up in the seniors' stolen boxer shorts. He had a pair boxer shorts for a hat, another one for a mask, another one as a pair of shorts over his pants, and several over both arms which acted like sleeves.

I think I'll go to sleep now.

Olivia Smith*'s aunt was the first parent/guardian I talked to on the phone prior to Junior Day Camp's beginning, and from the beginning I knew that Olivia Smith would break my heart.

And now she's done it.

Her aunt told me that Olivia would have trouble adjusting to camp life; that her background was harsher than the other kids; that, despite being a very smart girl, she had not the opportunity to learn very basic things.

The first day of camp, Olivia sat away from the other children, preferring to isolate herself. She ate her fruit cocktail with her fingers and emptied her bowels in her pants. None of this seemed to bother her, she just strayed farther away.

One of the other girls smelled something rank and had no qualms about saying so. I asked Olivia if she needed to go to the bathroom, and she said no.

I told her that I needed to go to the bathroom, and asked if she would go with me. She reluctantly followed. It was then that I asked, "Olivia, is there any possibility that you might have had an accident?" She denied it, despite the obvious brown spot on the back of her shorts. I asked her again, explaining that it would be our secret and that I wouldn't get mad at her, but she still denied it. It took 15 minutes for her to admit to this, but she refused to change her clothes. By now there were only a few minutes left of camp, so we waited for her aunt to pick her up.

It was that night that her aunt told me the extent of the situation. Olivia, her mother, and brother, ran away from her father in rural Idaho, for good reasons. Upon arrival at the welltodo town of Wilmette, IL, Olivia did not know what a doorbell was, spoke as a four year old, and did not know how to use a fork. Her aunt taught her these things.

The accident was repeated on the second day, as well as the third, but these times she managed to (somewhat) clean herself up and change clothes.

However, from the fourth day to today, four weeks later, Olivia has shown immense improvements. She has several friends, is talking better, and has markedly improved tablemanners. She is a funny, sweet, talented little girl, and I could not be prouder of how far she has come.

And now she's leaving.

Tomorrow is her last day of camp before she returns to Idaho, to her abusive father and poor neighborhood.

I don't know what to do, as this is her mother's choice to return. A large part of me says it is none of my business, and simply pray that her father has changed. But I have grown to care for her. Every achievement she makes I feel a part of. Yes, I may have started to love her, and I would feel better with her living in my crappy dorm room, eating crappy dorm food than back with that man.

Should I call family services? I still feel that I don't know enough to make a call on this.

This is the first time that work has made me cry.

*Name has been changed

(Taken from my livejournal, because while I feel this should be noded, I also ain't typing it twice.)

Ok. Chronological order is the ony I'm going to be able to relay this coherently in one lot. Keep reading through the day's events, because they get _really_ good/bad about the time they're supposed to be quiet so you can get sleep.

First off, a friend read my livejournal entry for Wednesday about Tuesday night, and came and visited me. Nice friend :) We stayed around my computer for a while despite my headache the previous night until Z ICQ-ed the right combination of words to get me off: "* Z don't like you being all ill :( ". Ain't that sweet? So I got off the computer, and we decided we should probably get some food at Midland gate (shopping complex). Before we left, I realised I _still_ hadn't got a present for Z (as I've said before, they're soooo hard to buy for), so I looked while we were there and I actually found one. Yay! We had food, wandered around some more. I went into my acting-like-a-kid state/mood, and was also getting depressed again, but my friend bought me an ice-cream, and which kid can stay depressed after that? :)

Came back home, but by then kid-state turned into lethargic state *sigh*. So I made lotsa calls, got my shift for that night replaced, organised some stuff with my brother from Sydney, etc. My poor friend just sat on the couch the whole while I was on the phone for ages, so I invited for him to stay for tea and watch a movie. Was a good night. Friend went home, I got ready for bed, and convinced Z they wanted to come to bed too.

Here's where it gets good/bad. Z, as usual, made it to bed before me. They were reading, with their feet on the hot water bottle. When I get in, they always push the hot water bottle over for my freezing cold feet to use. This time, they made some motions for that effect, and then started screaming and thrashing about in the covers. Kinda like how I'd react if I thought a huge spider was crawling on me under the covers. I was going "What?! what?!" and they were getting out of those covers _fast_. We found out we needed a new hot water bottle in a horrible way. Poor Z's feet were all burnt, and some of the boiling water with a nasty streak splashed up onto the back of one of their thighs, although not too big a patch. Eep. So with pained Z, and wet bed, the night was already eventful.

The doona was completely wet, so we dragged it out and threw it over the clothesline. The blankets survived, so we dragged them into the lounge room for a new bed consisting of a single bed mattress for my side and the cushion things from the lounge chair for Z's side. It was kinda like camping, only with no stars. We both wore our jackets to bed, and I put on double socks (_very_ cold feet). It's about 11/11:30pm by this time. Z couldn't get to sleep cos they were hurting too much.

At 12am, more events happened. The Tractor (Holden Jackaroo) had been stolen the previous night. Z had told me about it when they were making tea, but I didn't hear despite them saying later I had acknowledged it *heh*, so I asked later after dropping my friend back home and they told me again. So, at 12am, the cops called up and said they had found it (Z had reported it stolen) in Claremont, right near the train station. No sleep for us! We got a little more dressed, although we were mostly dressed already from trying to be warm, and then I drove Z out to where The Tractor was. Looks like they didn't just steal the stereo and sub-woofers (while leaving behind what Z says is a really good amp (an Alpine of some sort) ), but they also took it joy-riding. It ran like shit when we found it, but Z thought it might make it home. It was not to be. A few hundred metres down the road they pulled over cos it was over-heating. We waited around for 40mins for the tow guy to turn up in the cold, which was good for Z's bare burnt feet. At 2:30am, we're finally getting into bed again. Sleeeeeeeeeeeeep :)

Z slept in and called up work to tell them they weren't going in, but work had made a cake cos Saturday is Z's birthday. Their work always has cakes for people's birthdays there. So they went in anyway at about 10:30 this morning. They put shoes on too, much to my disgust, cos they took their motorbike. I offered to drive them in so they didn't have to wear shoes on their burnt feet, but they said their feet didn't really hurt anymore, even though the feet were really red. Their feet haven't blistered yet, I think mostly due to the freezing cold air while we were waiting for the tow guy.

I lost my best friend today. My beloved squash racquet became victim to a savage blow from the door on my local squash court. *Sniff*, I'm writing this out of respect for my loved one... Why, oh why, did she have to leave me? Ruthie the racquet (bless her heart) and I had been together for so long, my baby had lasted around 2 seasons (which is an unbelievably long life for a squash racquet), and now... she's gone.

The poor little thing is probably cold, lonley and malnourished, lying in a snapped heap underneath a mound of smelly trash at the local tip. I tried to salvage it before the heartless beasts of the squash club finished her off, but it was too late. I can still hear the brisk snap echoing throughout my head whenever I think of Ruthie (bless her heart), the slamming head-first into the open door of court-number-three-in-the-squash-club-of-Invercargill-Squash-City. It never fails to bring a tear to my eye thinking of lost loves of the past. *Tear*.

But, as they say, shit happens. Subtle as a brick, I know, but shit does happen and it will continue to do so forever.

Now I have a new racquet, but this isn't just any racquet, this one boasts a weight of only 110 grams, and it's made out of some type of titainium. Champion! I never used to believe in love at first sight, not even when that really, really, really cute girl moved in next door (yes she still lives there - and yes I do have a chance!), but now... I've changed my story. Ever since I laid eyes on this baby my heart told me that I was in love. I just had to sit down! Whew!

I'm really looking forward to smashing some balls with this baby! I'll post an update if we "hit it off" :-P

For those of you who don't know, squash is basically the same as racquet ball (this is played in America, I think).

I have wondered of late if there might be an eighth continent, located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The ocean seems too large and empty to fit nature's symmetry. If I had designed the Earth I would have put a continent there. I would not have left that empty space. And I am part of nature, I am an organic being, made of worms, and I am thus attuned to the mores and desires of the natural world.

You could argue, of course, that the Pacific Ocean is not 'empty space', because it's full of water, in which a wide and diverse fauna is born, grows up, has its first cigarette, learns to drive, gets married, experiences impotence and depression - not the glamorous, exciting kind of 'depression', but the real thing, the kind of depression which derives from the realisation that life really is rubbish, that it's not going to get better, and that you're in the last quarter of it - loses its spark, loses its confidence, dies alone in a home. As above, so below; the curve of life extends through the surface into the aquatic depths. We abandon, seek abandon, and are abandoned.

But the ocean world is another world. I am of the Earth Nature; men are soil-dwellers, we live on the crust. We make use of the worlds of air and water and space and energy but we are not their friends, and they not ours; the birds and fish are not on our side. The ocean was our womb, but we have left the womb; the air is just a waystation to our final destinations; the heart of stars, and eventual dissipation via black holes into the final energy state of all things. The birds block our beam to the heavens, they disturb our transmissions. It's not their fault, but they must perish. We do not eat them, or use their bodies for fuel; we will not miss them. Chickens and other foul may pretend to be on our side - they have given up flight, and the fight, andostriches are virtually mammals - but they will never be one with us. When the order to charge is made and the final bastion of human civilisation is under attack they will not be on our barricades, they will stand aside and let us die. There will be no mercy for them from either side; they are Russian prisoners of war at the end of WW2, the surviving rebel soldiers on the blockade runner at the beginning of 'Star Wars'. They were led off whilst the vessel was being searched, and it wasn't into captivity, it was to their deaths.

The Pacific Ocean is a waste. It should have a big continent in the middle of it. A new land to be found, explored and conquered, preferably one that does not have an existing animal population, only plants and organic matter, so as not to offend the sensibilities of human rights peddlers and vegetarian deviants. For all their veneration of the plant kingdom, nobody weeps when the machete slices into bark and leaf, and no-one cries when the bananas are peeled, or when nature is perverted to create the seedless orange. This hypocrisy makes me sick; if people love plants so much, why do they eat them? Surely it would make more sense for vegetarians to preserve plants, and eat animals instead! Why are people so full of unreason and unsight?

The new continent may already exist. It is my belief that it does, but that we are so trained to believe that there are only seven continents that we block it out, we prevent ourselves from seeing it. It's there, on the map, on the globe, vast and empty, but where there is land we just see water. It is our collective will to ignore this paradise, and to deny it. Ships do not travel through this section of the pacific; although the navigators believe that they do, they are in fact subconsciously plotting a course around the breakers. Aircraft do not pass over this area, because if they crash the game will be up, they detour, instead. The extra fuel required is not noted or commented on. I don't know why we do this to ourselves. Perhaps it's because we feel that we do not deserve heaven, part of our psychosis of self-hate. We need a topographic map of the Earth to touch, an elevation height-map so that the blind can Braille-read the new land and show us what we cannot perceive through our self-imposed veils, and thus the blind will be the true-seeing eyes of hand and we will find our way to the end of the world, the last new country, to build and make.

The blind, and those who can break through the force of mental will that keeps us truly blind, for the blind are merely those who cannot see, whilst the true blind are those who see, but deny what they see. The human world would be a more manageable place if each child's eyes were plucked out at birth; there would no more body fascism, no more neuroses. A race of desensitised children, armless, legless, immobile, their heads bound in black bandages, would be the paradise we seek in this new continent; the master race to which we might aspire, once we have removed our hang-ups about aspiration and perfection. There is perfection; it is good, we should not be ashamed.

I would like to be given control of the world, but of course control is not given, it is taken, and what control is there, if there is not the control to remove people's eyes? If that legislation cannot be pushed through the World Government, then there is no power. Each man is equal in a world without senses and without limbs. The course of human evolution will take us either to destruction, or limblessness. We need to make the final cut, take that final step, towards the removal of all responsibility and desire from the human mind and body, and neither Labour nor the Conservative Party seem willing to take note of my proposed policies, and believe me I have sent them many detailed letters and illustrations. This species is amusing itself to death.

How long has this willing unseeing persisted? Did we once discover the New Found Land - which I shall call 'Lemuria', for the Lemur - and, if so, where does it exist in our holy texts, our oral histories? Did Velikosky, Plato, with their artificial societies and interpreted pasts, how close were they? How close? To make oneself pregnant would be the ultimate form of self-worship, of self-love. One uterus dispenses eggs; the other sperm. One new baby every nine months, at least; by my calculation, assuming the onset of puberty - accelerated by a western high-fat, high-sugar, high-calorie diet - at the age of ten, and a lifespan of 77 years, each New Woman could produce 89 and a third children, the last being partially-developed at the moment of death; more food for the worms. One hundred women tethered in a factory for five years would produce 666.666 babies, enough for a Satanic army. This is the future of war - babies spinring out of the womb straight into battle. Or has Lemuria evaded us forever, which raises the possibility that the continent might well be inhabited already, and that the people living there do not want us to visit for fear that we will disturb their order? I would not want people to disturb my continent, if I had a continent - and there is still time, still time for that!

~

After viewing a programme on Adam Ant last night I got to talking with a workmate, who described him as a 'failed punk'. My reply was that all punks failed, in the long run. There was no answer to that, and nor can there be.

On this my twenty-eight birthday, a body suspected suspected to be that of Dr. David Kelly has been found near Abingdon. I'm working at the moment in a research center not far from that town. It feels surreal that the eyes of the world will now turn to this olde English world. A nearby pub is where Jerome K. Jerome penned "Three men in a boat". Dr. Kelly is suspected of being the mole who gave information to a BBC reporter which led to them accusing the government of "sexing" up the Iraqi intelligence dossier.

In this area of south Oxfordshire nothing dramatic ever happens. There are research facilities dotted around the rolling hills. Centuries ago a Saxon army faced the Danes on Wittenham Clumps. Oxford was split between supporters of Cromwell in the English Civil War. Since them a polite decorum has ruled all social discourse these parts. Presently the media shall descend to cover this fascinating story

In a moment I shall flee to Oxford to meet up with people and celebrate my making it around the sun again intact. My birthday may be overshadowed slightly by this breaking news but not as much as my brother's was not too long ago.

usual caveats apply

this weekend is the hopefully-to-become-annual bristol nodermeet and i can't go. things like a master's dissertation to write and 2p in the bank have something to do with it. but i have got to know a very lovely noder over the past few months and he's made it across several oceans to be here for the meet so i made the effort to meet up with him and his partner-in-crime while they were in london on thursday before they set off to sample the delights of bristolian hospitality.

the hugging started at 5pm when we met in the porterhouse in covent garden to sample such delights as brainblasta and wait for a couple more noders to arrive for this impromptu mini-nodermeet. toalight brought me a present of a mix cd and he'd also visited cafepress to bring me an e2 coffee mug and fill the coffers. what a loyal noder! we exchanged language trivia, including me failing miserably to correctly pronounce their real names and them learning what the loo is. more hugging when tiefling arrived, shortly followed by booyaa. several beers later and i was walking through the back streets of covent garden clutching my mug for fear i would drop it, following tiefling to the nearest wagamama. the trendy wireless pda ordering kit impressed our scandinavian friends though i wonder if their comments might have scared the waitress who received them. dinner was delicious and yet more norwegian generosity came our way as tingo and toalight offered to pay for dinner for all present. it either says something about the standard of living in norway or brainblasta was living up to its name. whatever the reason behind it, thanks guys!

after dinner (without pudding, disappointingly) tiefling was the very model of an upmarket tour guide, walking and talking us through the city of westminster towards our next goal, enlightening us all (even booyaa, who has lived in london all his life) with a myriad of amazing facts and stories. he took us to ye olde cheshire cheese pub, once the haunt of samuel johnson and so deemed worthy of the presence of such literary figures as, well, us. a quiet, unpresuming pub with a scary low-ceilinged, twisty, wobbly staircase which made going to the loo an extreme sport after a few pints. yet another gold star for tiefling. nordic myths and snow-scooters ruled the conversation. i had a brief knee-quivering moment when viggo mortensen came into the conversation. there's a photo somewhere to remind me.

ten pm came and went and people had trains to catch. big hugs were shared and i felt even sadder that i would miss out on the company of such wonderful people over the weekend. after a few more photos we toddled off to take our various tubes, trains, dragons and pavements home. i dreamt of a beautiful park made entirely of man-made materials, with trees whose leaves were made of chopped up old paint tins, the green paint that once filled them still wet and glistening. don't ask me, ask freud.

and this morning, i sit drinking taylors of harrogate lazy sunday coffee by the very-large-e2-mug-full and listen to my new mix cd. amongst other things, there are three tracks by madrugada, a norwegian band we had talked about, my interest spurred, at this stage, purely by the name (it's spanish and means something like the wee small hours, just before dawn. it's a word i love - it brings back many fond memories of my life in spain.) the music is beautiful, with bluesy piano and sexy vocals. words like sultry and images of a smoky low-lit bar come to mind. indeed, everything they conjure up fits in with my feelings about the band's name.

i wish i could get on a train and go to bristol to enjoy yet more sparkly moments spent in the company of noders.

this is not why i am not using capital letters. it's just because, frankly, i don't see the point. i apologise to those, and i know you are legion, who get offended by this gratuitous flouting of orthographic rules. i won't do it again.

More and more, everyday, I shake my head in amazement….

Okay, if any of you have read some of my previous w/u’s it should come as no surprise that I’m not so enamored of President Bush and his policies, both domestic and foreign. I’m feeling even less enamored today when I got my daily dose of news and was greeted by this. (Courtesy of the New York Times.)

Do you want to send an e-mail to the White House?

Good luck…

According to the article, (http://www.cnn.com/2003/US/07/18/nyt.markoff/) if one of us lowly citizens, in simpler times, wanted to get a message to the President, all they had to do was plop themselves down in front of a pc, get on the Internet and shoot a message off to president@whitehouse.gov. It didn’t matter if the message was supportive or was critical of the Presidents policies and was more of a free form text type of letter. Of course there was no guarantee the President or any of his aides would actually read or take into consideration your expression but still, the concept of direct access to the president was reassuring.

Well folks, not anymore. It seems that now, if you use the address the article mentioned, your message will come back to you with an automated reply and offer you some advice on how to send it in the new format. I’m okay with that, times change and , for the most part, we should change with them. I don’t know if this is one of them though.

According to the article, it seems you now have to wade through up to nine Web pages before you can convey your message. Just for shits and grins, I thought I’d give it a try.

Page 1 is sort of a disclaimer stating that there is no guarantee that the President will read or respond to your message. I’m okay with that too. The President is quite naturally a busy man with more important things on his mind. It’s some of the other pages and questions that I have a problem with.

Page 2. First of all, you are asked if you support the President’s polices or if you have a differing opinion. (It comes as no surprise that the default value is "support".) I asked myself, what difference should that make? What if I just want to offer up some friendly advice? I’m (for the most part) a law abiding, tax-paying member of society and whether I agree or disagree with the current Administrations polices has little or nothing to do with getting my message to the Commander in Chief or one of his staff.

Next, one is provided with a selection of topics to choose from. The current list provides a drop down list of values with various sub –categories attached to them. Here’s the major ones.

Economy
Education
Environment
Foreign Policy
General Defense/Homeland Security
Health
Legal/Judicial
Science/Technology
Small Business
Social
Veterans

Here’s the thing folks, you can only choose one major and one sub-category at a time. For example, lets look at the Environment. Under that heading, I can choose from:

Atmospheric Issues
Clean Air/New Source Review
Clean Water
Energy
Healthy Forest Initiative
Yucca Mountain

What if I wanted to talk about some other issue related to the environment like oh, I dunno, endangered species? Where can I express my thoughts about that? Or, better yet, what if I wanted to express my feelings about the Environment and the Economy (another major category) at the same time? I will now be forced to send two separate messages.

Page 3. You must then enter your full name, your full address and your e-mail address. Optional fields are Title and Organization. Actually, it’s at this point that I gave up since I don’t need nor do I want my name on file with a certain government agency just because I might have sent a letter to the White House expressing my dismay over current Presidential policies. I’m surprised they didn’t ask if I minded giving them a DNA sample.

If the article is to be believed, you are then prompted to send your message. You would think that would be it wouldn’t you. No, again, according to the article, you will receive one of those automated responses to your e-mail address ( I guess they wanna confirm that it’s you) that asks if you really want to send your message. Only after you confirm that, yes indeed, I do want to send my message will it be delivered to the White House.

The White House advises that if you have a “sensitive” or “personal matter” to discuss with the President, you can always write a letter, send a fax or give him a jingle. Yeah, right.

All in all folks, this is one of the worst designed websites I’ve ever seen. It’s slow, it doesn’t meet my needs and as for user friendly, forget about it.

To me though, that’s not the important part. While it might be well intended, to me it’s just another sign of the current Administrations attempt to put a wall around itself. It’s sorta like them saying “Yeah, you can ask us all the questions you want but we’ll tell you which questions to ask.”

Oh yeah, if you don't believe me, try it yourself at www.whitehouse.gov/webmail.

The Fat Boys are back. And you know they could never be wack. The Fat Boys are Back. Do you like-a the Fat, Boys?!

Sorry friends, I know I promised not to come back, but those clowns in the government are doing it again. Propogating confusion, primitive and wild and all that. Welcome to the occupation.

So anyways, all apologies to Halspal, who taught me an important lesson: my homenode is His to censor. I must've misread the fag. This could be misconstrued as rude. And of course it is, dude.

Anyone, since no way ever likes my daylogs, I'll just suffice it to say that I'm in the library right now (seeinashow I pawned my computer for Bonnaroo tickets with which money I spent in one night on the local bar scene) doing the ol' interneto time waster, my mom's still waiting for me, God love her. I was supposed to meet Seargent David Scott here at 10:00 am so he could try once again to get me to join the U.S. Marine Corps. Fortunately I showed up 20 minutes late, he was gone, and I had to leave him a voice mail on his cell explaining how sorry I was to waste his time, and how I was honestly "against war and things like that."

And this is absolutely true. You can't make this stuff up. This is not bovine excrement. It's probably for the best that I could not show him the materials of my high school career alone, as he would have been shocked at the photographs of pollen, insect parts, and microscopic diamonds I took during my research at USA the summer of 1998.

And he certainly would've been saddened ate the final hand-written page which read, and still reads as I transcribe it:

To Whom It May Concern, Since 1516, minds have been attacked and overseen. Now we crawl amongst the ruins of this empty dream. With their borders and boots on top of us, they're spilling drops on the floor of their toxic metropolis. So how are you going to get what you need to get? The gut eaters' le trench! Get offensive like Tet!

The fifth Sun sets, get back, proclaim, "The Spirit of Red Eagle! Alive and untamed."

Now take this funk, I'm right here now, nice to meet ya! On the One! Maya! Mexica! Them boys who came to try to seat your name but now you found a gun!YOUR HISTORY!This is for the People of the Sun!

Yay! I'm going to a hardcore show in Taos tomorrow!

This show is something I need. *NEED*.

For those of you who don't know, I am a dancer. Through and through. This isn't something like, "I like to go shake my ass over a few martinis," or "I like to go show off for the girls." It's a powerful experience for me, life-changing, even.

It's the whole process of it that makes it so wonderful, not just the fulfillment of it all. The process of getting to the venue. The preparation beforehand, the cleansing of my body before I go, the excitement I feel as every minute that passes brings me just one step closer to fulfillment. I only eat certain foods for several days beforehand, and generally fast for at least 6 hours before the night of the show.

Once there, I prepare for the catharsis that is almost certain to ensue. I pace nervously across the dancefloor, stretching my arms and legs, and sending myself through breathing exercises. I close my eyes, swaying gently in time with the music, occasionally tapping one heel to feel the beat. I send my body through some of the more familiar routines, dancing for a few seconds at a time, then stopping to resume my pacing and stretching.

A couple hours pass... Maybe several. My mind turns more and more inward, seeking that place within myself when I can truly let go.

The moment comes... The quintessential "click." Ask any freestyle dancer about it, and they'll tell you. My mind, my body, and my spirit merge into one, as my entire consciousness and being all turn toward one thing.

To absorb, transform, and experience the energy all around me.

My movements become more solid, more fluid. The hesitancy apparent earlier evaporates away. This time, once I start, I don't stop.

I am a disciplined frenzy.

A precision hurricane.

And in the middle of this perfectly organized insanity, I stand perfectly still. Not moving, but being moved.

I exist on the very edge of a breaking wave that somehow never breaks. I exist one beat at a time, 150 times per minute.

And I hold the power of creation in the palm of my hand.

Yes. This is the moment I've waited for, that I've craved for so long. My mind floats peacefully in the emptiness, surrounded by the waves of beautiful, blissful energy. My body translates this pervasive energy into movement of it's own volition, of it's own instinct.

Yes. This is the moment I've craved for so long. When I shine brighter than at any other time. The only time in my existence when a random passerby will stop, and stare in awe, because in this moment, I am beautiful.

Yes... this is the moment I've needed...

And I've never been more in love.

Tomorrow marks my first anniversary with E2. I haven't been home much lately because life has gotten too jam-packed with nonsense. I'd like to think that will change, but I doubt it.

What have I learned during my time here?

More than I realized I needed to know about soy, monkeys, Butterfinger McFlurries and sex.

How has E2 enhanced my life?

I've become extremely popular because I have used some of the recipes and how-to's I've found here. Utilizing only two nodes, I have increased my popularity by 3,000 percent! (ymmv) Other nodes, such as those dealing with general health care, relationships and religion, have also helped my life in the real world enormously.

All in all, E2 has been a wonderful educational experience. Thank you everyone!

First Item

This has been a big week for Snakey, SweetFaceBoy's seven-month-old red rat snake. He shed for the third time on Wednesday and is absolutely glistening. SFB has saved all the sheddings and stored them in secret places around his room, guarded by armies of Legos bristling with weaponry. On Friday's he gets fed. Today he graduates from pinkies (hairless baby mice, eyes still closed) to fuzzies (look like grown mice, but really tiny). Red rat snakes are notorious pigs so I'm not worried about him eating.

Supervixen says she hates it when we feed him, but I think it is more squeamishness than anything. After all, her all brothers had snakes. ( Heavens! That may be the problem.) She won't allow RunningHammer to watch Snakey eat, although we've snuck him in a couple of times. He just wants to be one of the guys.

"Daddydaddydaddy!" he yells, popping with excitement as he looks up to me from the feeding bag we have Snakey in. "Nakey eating. NAKEY EATING!!"

We all look back in to see him slurp the final bit of tail.

Next item

Vonda MaShone is going to his crackhead father and underage stripper girlfriend for the weekend to meet his new baby sister who was born while he was vacationing with his slut-whore-bitch mother for the last two weeks. I'm waiting for the question:

"Uncle Lovejoy, I love you and Aunt Vix and all and everything, but why does the new baby get to live with my daddy and I don't and my mommy buys a new big house and I don't live with her?"

Answer (Brain Version): Well, buddy, your dad is a violent drunk and a drug addict. He's been in jail several times. We took you in when he was busted for beating up stripper and no one could find your mom because she was whoring in Dallas. Remember when you couldn't see him for a long time? It was because he had a house arrest ankle transmitter and he knew he couldn't explain that one to you. He can't keep his dick in his pants, which is why you now have a sister. Your mother didn't want you. She walked out on you and your dad when you were three months old. She only wants to see you now to parade you in front of her friends. You mean nothing to her.

Answer (Mouth Version): Listen, sweetie. Families come in all different shapes and sizes. Your mommy and daddy, like a lot of mommies and daddies, didn't get along. They thought it best that you come live with us. They have grownup things in their lives that make it so it is still best that you live with us. We love you. I know it might be hard to understand, but that's the way it is. (Uneasy pause.) Come on, lets go watch Spongebob.

He'll nod his head OK, and we'll all get cozy on the couch. The sick thing is that I'm getting good at this.

Last Item

Is is possible to love someone so intensely that you are driven almost mad with desire? Is it possible for this to last for 12 years? Is it possible to be thunderstruck by her beauty while stepping out of the shower, rushing to work, holding a child? Is it possible to feel all this despite her regular infuriating nature?

Blessedly, the answer is yes.

Today was a bad day. But it could have been worse.

It started when my alarm never went off. I woke up an hour and a half later than I should, which meant that I couldn't eat breakfast, and tried to shower as fast as I could.

So I rush out the door, and am five minutes down the road, when I realize that I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer. So I turn around my car and go back to the house to get the chicken.

Now I'm running ten minutes later on top of everything. OK, fine, I'm in my car and on my way. The Schuylkil (I76) is realtively clear, I'm sailing by at 80 mph, into the city. I'm making good time. I'm driving though the city, and then--

I could see the cat run out into the street. I could see the woman yelling after the cat, upset, afraid for it. But worst, I could feel that horrible, bone-breaking thud as I ran over the cat. I looked in my rearview mirror as I skidded to a halt. The cat was twitching. I jumped out of the car. Ran down the half-block. The cat twitched. Then stopped breathing. It's green eyes, like marbles, open, saw nothing, didn't see it's owner looking at it, crying. It didn't see it's killer looking at it, trying not to cry.

I never killed anything before.

And the woman was upset but understood I didn't mean to do it. It was actually her mother's cat, and I got the phone number for her mother, so that I could contact her later in the day. I wanted to make it up to her, to maybe get her a new cat.

So later, I called the mother, and told her I was the one who ran over her cat. She'd gotten it for $50. So I told her I'd give her $50--she wanted to go to the SPCA. And so, later, after work, I stopped by the house. It's not in the best part of town--North Philly, where so much is dilapidated or abandoned. I didn't care--I work in this area, I drive through here, eat here, am here every day. I grew up just west of here, actually. It's familiar, and as run down as it is, it's kinda homelike.

I was nervous, of course. She'd been kind on the phone, but still I was nervous, facing the woman whose pet I killed. I knocked on the door. A boy came, let me in. I explained who I was to a woman--another daughter. Mrs. Harris came downstairs. I explained again. She was sad, but grateful that I called to apologize. So I gave her the $50, and she hugged me. "Thank you. Not everyone would even stop, you know."

"Oh, but, but it was your pet! It wouldn't be right not to!" But still I felt horrible for what had happened.

And then, as I drove home, I was listening to the news on NPR. They ran the story about the elderly man in California who ran over ten people in a farmer's market. I don't know his circumstances, exactly, but suddenly I thought, "Thank God that wasnt' me. Thank God it was only a cat and not a person." Because if a cat feels this bad, I can't imagin what it would be like to kill a person because I was late for work.