K.K. asked me if I would want to be frozen alive in order to be reanimated in the future during lunch. I said something to the effect of I would not, as I would need my friends and family also frozen. Then, I said something very strange:
K.T.: You know, I'd rather achieve immortality by being a good person to my friends and family, and having them remember me well, and living on that way. Was there enough sarcasm in my voice? No, I'd rather just become the ruler of a third-world country, oppress my subjects, and be remembered that way.
Thing was, I was completely honest about what I first said, and there was no trace of sarcasm in my voice. Why did I feel the need to dissemble like that? Is this what I've come to, that I can't even reveal myself without hiding it away immediately?
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Long Journey
I kept a mini-journal whilst on business travel. Cut and pasted directly from the word document, it follows:
Monday, December 17, 2007. 7:10 P.M. Union Station, Amtrak train, aboard and awaiting trip to New York – Penn Station. Dark, chilly, but not oppressively so.
Over the last six days (and has it only been six days? It feels like it has been so much longer.), I have been distracted constantly, always a little shaky, a little sweaty. I'd stayed late at the office, something I do from time to time to talk to people once my shift is over. P.G. came into my office, and his first words to me were "When it rains, it pours."
(The train has just started, and we're trundling along for right now, but I can definitely see this ramping up very quickly. We're leaving the shelter of the train canopy, headed out into the placid black yonder. I know my journey is not over (hell, it has barely begun), but at least for now, I can rest easier now that I am finally on my way to New York City. If I seemd a little distracted over the past week, it was because I was thinking about this.)
I'd been posted to a project in Tennessee a couple of weeks ago, set to start in late January. Great times, I thought to myself, as this meant I'd finally have the opportunity to travel to the client site and do something different from what I'd been doing. Great times. Now, well, it turned out, I was going to be put on a project just before then, and sent to New York now, today, in order to assist an extant project.
(We're now trucking along. The train shakes much like a metro train, and the scenery outside is blurring by just as quickly as a metro train does overground. The conductor has just come by and punched our tickets, something I thought only happened in the movies. We've also just arrived at New Carrolton from Union Station in just over ten minutes.)
This wreaked havoc with my plans of last minute Christmas shopping, as now every minute was essentially my last minute. Still, I found enough time, somehow, to send stuff out and/or get it into the hands of people that would make sure the presents were distributed correctly. And if I gave you money, I apologize, but there was just not enough time this year otherwise.
I have never traveled long distance for business before. I have gone to the Pentagon on business, which proved a mockery of everything I hold dear (logic AND emotion). However, this journey off to the Newer York, well. You tell me what to think. I think part of this fright is that if something goes wrong when I am driving to work, I lose fifteen, twenty minutes. If something goes wrong leaving the state, I lose hours, maybe days, and can't readily make it up by staying fifteen minutes later.
This is now my role as a consultant. I'm sent out to consult. I am a supposed expert on my field, and have been trained to Make The World A Better Place™. And if you believe that load of bull honkey, I have a bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell you. Strangely, I'll probably be next to it in about three hours. How did J.L. put it? "Worry is good. If you're not worried, either you're not being challenged, or you don't care enough." I care. I care desperately. Think of me as a working-class version of Dudley Do-Right, trying to do the right thing at the workplace. I don't know if I am, but I'm trying.
(The foldout "desk", if you can call it that, is shaking worse than an alcoholic without his likker. These landmarks are all foreign to me. Hell, I didn't even realize that we'd re-entered Maryland, and for the next thirty minutes or so, I've regained the legal powers that make me such a "prized commodity.")
Last week and weekend were spent wrapping up everything. However, note my version of wrapping up is much like the present I gave to D.C., M.C. and A.W.: covered in a patchwork wrapping and smothered in duct tape, haphazardly bound and not really neat. It works, but it loses several points on style, though if you're postmodern, it gains in style.
Of course, the T.S. Christmas party (Corporate Headquarters version) took place last Friday, so I had an additional task or two to deal with. Like I said, it was a lot of fun, grand time had by all, and there are pictures floating around. The only problem was that I made it home by three in the ante meridian, and woke up around eight in the ante meridian. Burned, scorched, crisped, damn you circadian rhythm.
Saturday whipped past, spent mostly buying presents and some business casual clothing. At six in the post meridian, I looked at the clock, realized I could make it to C.E. and J.E.'s Christmas party, and told myself it would only be a fifteen minute nap. Then I woke up and it was ten in the post meridian.
Sunday saw me shipping out presents, attempting to clean (the one task I always shirk), and packing. Packing carry-on luggage is a crapshoot, and I'm pretty sure all my clothing will come out of the suit case rumpled and sad. However, I also wrapped up some sweat clothes for a-runnin', because I plan on a-runnin' at least one morning or evening outside in the New York rush hour in the piles of snow.
(We've just arrived at BWI, just under half an hour since we set out from Union Station. I might as well just take the train everywhere from now on, this is freaking incredible. To think that with all the requirements for flying, this trip will take about as much time as if I had flown is boggly to my mindery.)
And so we've been lead to today. Today, where all day, the same questions kept getting asked. Did I lock the front door? Did I lock the car door? Do I have my luggage? Do I have everything I'll need in my luggage? Do I know how to get to Union Station? Am I going to be late? Can I get to my hotel? Have I forgotten to plan anything? What if I get lost? What if they don't like me at the client site? What if I can't do the work? Where am I going, and why am I in a handbasket? Is this right? Is this right?
Though it's become a denigrating term, that I've been able to play Jack of All Trades instills me with a little pride. Vigiliant persistence, eternal flexibility. Something needs be done, and I do it. I may not do it to the best of my abilities (witness law school), but I get it done. Right now, as I'm figuratively and literally leaving my comfort zone, I can't help but look out at the Baltimore slums, and smile at my translucent reflection in the mirror. Because, maybe, just maybe, the question that should have been asked isn't "What if I can't," but "What if I can?"
Wednesday, December 19, 2007, 7:52 PM. 1515, hotel between Madison and 38th. Dark, rainy, chilly.
The toll New York takes on you is quite high. The taxi, the subway, the bus, the food, the rent, the parking, the walking, the smoke, the noise, the everything. These past couple of days, the persistent feeling I've had is that of a country bumpkin recently dislocated from his place in society, junked here, and left to explore. Bright lights, big city, and I cannot help but stare all about me.
One of the most embarrassing things about getting to New York was the simple fact that I'd never called for a taxi before. Here I am, walking in circles in front of the train station, wondering how to flag down a taxi. Every time I raised my hand, another taxi flew past. I eventually had to run up to a taxi stopped at the light and get inside.
Now, taxis are credit card enabled, and the one I got in had a touch screen map/television in the back. The driver referred to me as "boss." This is disorienting. (And I must say, I still cannot get used to some people calling me "Sir" while other people ask "So, are you in high school or college?")
The hotel was nothing special, but I found myself unable to sleep due to nervousness. Tossing and turning all night long, wondering what the next day would be like.
I'm going to refrain from giving too many details about the actual work. It's enough to say that I'm consulting right now. However, the taxi ride to the office the first morning was amazing. Never seen that many near misses in a ten minute cab ride since I went to Taiwan, and cars has roughly six inches to one foot of space between them.
There are a lot of buildings that I pass, and it's kind of ridiculous how many of them call themselves "the best." This is clearly untrue, as every sandwich shop cannot be the best, unless each is equally good (or bad).
Friday, December 21, 2007. 7:54 P.M. Train from Penn Station, en route to Union Station. Dark, unnaturally lighted with the faint glow of the track fluorescence.
Privilege brings distance. The higher the echelon you ascend, the fewer people around you. Look at The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe, wherein their single combat champions had ascended to heights few had ever known, few would know.
That is one of the reasons why the T.S. corporate headquarters is (perceived as) much more distant, much less cool than the T.S. N.Y. office. I had the opportunity to work from their office this afternoon. It is barely half the size of the T.S. corporate headquarters. They stuff four people into an office that I considered cramped when I saw two people within in the Annandale office. You can cross from one side of the office to the other in a few seconds, and you'll have to pass several cubicles in the middle. Makes it incredibly easy to start up conversation with your coworkers, because going anywhere in the office brings you close to them, by necessity.
Contrast this with the Annandale office, where many people have their own office, and those few that do not at least share an office space. Only our receptionist is accessible to all, and there are even two entry/exit doors to the office. It would be theoretically possible for me to come in to work, do my work, and leave, without being seen by another human.
Another issue is that the Annandale office seems always to be in transit. There, and everywhere, but never here. We are flung much further than our New York counterparts, often within subway distance of the office, and often working on New York projects as far as I can tell.
We're lucky enough to have our own offices, most of us, and because of that, we're lucky enough to be able to get away from each other, to do work without interruption if we so choose.
***
On Thursday night, at a steakhouse, both C.L. and T.K. pinched my cheek, within seconds of each other. I mean, damn. This is supposed to be a professional situation. They're my superiors. And they pinched my cheeks. What do I look like, I'm five? Wait, don't answer that.
***
Working in New York for a few days, (and N.H.'s and J.L.'s words) have shown me that I never quite worked out this wanderlust. When I return to VA, it's going to seem a dump (because it is a dump?). Not that I really did that much in New York, but it was just different. Different is neither inherently bad nor good, it just is different. And, I suppose that if I were able to meet more people, I wouldn't mind so much this life, but it's the same old rut over and over. Not that I'm knocking any of you, just that while a lot of you aren't hindering my goals, it's not exactly helping them either.
Maybe New York isn't the answer. Probably, New York isn't the answer. Then again, what is? Anything but D.C. If I could figure out a way to pay off all my loans, I'd pack up and move, right fucking now. Would I miss you all? Sure. Would it be that bad? No.
***
One of the client administrators spoke with a Russian accent, so I had to add in my mind "Moose and Squirrel" after everything she said, a pale imitation of Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
***
I met a lot of people in New York. Hopefully I'll be able to match some faces to some names. For better or for worse, a lot of them knew me through Google Talk as the guy with the constant away messages speaking of T.S.
I also had a chance to try to dissuade F.R.'s girlfriend from continuing on in law school. That half a beer really helped my case, I think. At the very least, it stripped me of balance and dignity, really my two biggest barriers towards meeting people (No, really. "I'm sorry for falling on you. By the way, I'm K.T.").
***
Running was so stop-and-go, much like this post. I'd go out ten or fifteen blocks, figure I was running out of time in the morning, then go running back. Ever seen those people jogging in place at intersections, waiting for the traffic to change, looking for all the world like flipping idiots? You may now count me among their number. Hell, I may be their king, for all I know.
***
It turns out if you leave your change on the counter in a hotel, it is taken as a gratuity. This bugged me the first night, when I lost all my change. I love change, unlike most people. Still, I guessed that I'd leave it as the gratuity when I was done anyways, so I just ended up emptying my pockets every night, leaving it there. Still sucked.
***
So I managed to make myself look like a complete idiot every time I walked through New York, staring up at the gigantic buildings like a complete fool. Yay, buildings. Now, I'm just a simple backwater country lawyer, but…
***
There was no free internet at the hotel, so the only time for most of the week I had an internet connection was through the client site. While at the client site, most of the time I was working on client hardware. Thus, my work week was almost like a mini vacation from my life, as I did not really respond to anyone's emails, did not keep up with the happenstances in the world at large, didn't waste hours upon hours browsing the intarwebs.
It was actually really nice. I spent a lot of my free time reading A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin. Such an epic scope, but at the same time, he focuses so well on a few characters that you feel immersed in it.
Living in that hotel room made me realize I have far too much stuff right now, and if I planned right, I really could get away with having very little. Since I'm moving (of necessity) fairly soon, this should be my goal, to get rid of everything nonessential, that I need not have to take it with me.
***
It's odd, I know the work when I go back will be absolutely horrific, but… I can't wait.
Monday, December 17, 2007. 7:10 P.M. Union Station, Amtrak train, aboard and awaiting trip to New York – Penn Station. Dark, chilly, but not oppressively so.
Over the last six days (and has it only been six days? It feels like it has been so much longer.), I have been distracted constantly, always a little shaky, a little sweaty. I'd stayed late at the office, something I do from time to time to talk to people once my shift is over. P.G. came into my office, and his first words to me were "When it rains, it pours."
(The train has just started, and we're trundling along for right now, but I can definitely see this ramping up very quickly. We're leaving the shelter of the train canopy, headed out into the placid black yonder. I know my journey is not over (hell, it has barely begun), but at least for now, I can rest easier now that I am finally on my way to New York City. If I seemd a little distracted over the past week, it was because I was thinking about this.)
I'd been posted to a project in Tennessee a couple of weeks ago, set to start in late January. Great times, I thought to myself, as this meant I'd finally have the opportunity to travel to the client site and do something different from what I'd been doing. Great times. Now, well, it turned out, I was going to be put on a project just before then, and sent to New York now, today, in order to assist an extant project.
(We're now trucking along. The train shakes much like a metro train, and the scenery outside is blurring by just as quickly as a metro train does overground. The conductor has just come by and punched our tickets, something I thought only happened in the movies. We've also just arrived at New Carrolton from Union Station in just over ten minutes.)
This wreaked havoc with my plans of last minute Christmas shopping, as now every minute was essentially my last minute. Still, I found enough time, somehow, to send stuff out and/or get it into the hands of people that would make sure the presents were distributed correctly. And if I gave you money, I apologize, but there was just not enough time this year otherwise.
I have never traveled long distance for business before. I have gone to the Pentagon on business, which proved a mockery of everything I hold dear (logic AND emotion). However, this journey off to the Newer York, well. You tell me what to think. I think part of this fright is that if something goes wrong when I am driving to work, I lose fifteen, twenty minutes. If something goes wrong leaving the state, I lose hours, maybe days, and can't readily make it up by staying fifteen minutes later.
This is now my role as a consultant. I'm sent out to consult. I am a supposed expert on my field, and have been trained to Make The World A Better Place™. And if you believe that load of bull honkey, I have a bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell you. Strangely, I'll probably be next to it in about three hours. How did J.L. put it? "Worry is good. If you're not worried, either you're not being challenged, or you don't care enough." I care. I care desperately. Think of me as a working-class version of Dudley Do-Right, trying to do the right thing at the workplace. I don't know if I am, but I'm trying.
(The foldout "desk", if you can call it that, is shaking worse than an alcoholic without his likker. These landmarks are all foreign to me. Hell, I didn't even realize that we'd re-entered Maryland, and for the next thirty minutes or so, I've regained the legal powers that make me such a "prized commodity.")
Last week and weekend were spent wrapping up everything. However, note my version of wrapping up is much like the present I gave to D.C., M.C. and A.W.: covered in a patchwork wrapping and smothered in duct tape, haphazardly bound and not really neat. It works, but it loses several points on style, though if you're postmodern, it gains in style.
Of course, the T.S. Christmas party (Corporate Headquarters version) took place last Friday, so I had an additional task or two to deal with. Like I said, it was a lot of fun, grand time had by all, and there are pictures floating around. The only problem was that I made it home by three in the ante meridian, and woke up around eight in the ante meridian. Burned, scorched, crisped, damn you circadian rhythm.
Saturday whipped past, spent mostly buying presents and some business casual clothing. At six in the post meridian, I looked at the clock, realized I could make it to C.E. and J.E.'s Christmas party, and told myself it would only be a fifteen minute nap. Then I woke up and it was ten in the post meridian.
Sunday saw me shipping out presents, attempting to clean (the one task I always shirk), and packing. Packing carry-on luggage is a crapshoot, and I'm pretty sure all my clothing will come out of the suit case rumpled and sad. However, I also wrapped up some sweat clothes for a-runnin', because I plan on a-runnin' at least one morning or evening outside in the New York rush hour in the piles of snow.
(We've just arrived at BWI, just under half an hour since we set out from Union Station. I might as well just take the train everywhere from now on, this is freaking incredible. To think that with all the requirements for flying, this trip will take about as much time as if I had flown is boggly to my mindery.)
And so we've been lead to today. Today, where all day, the same questions kept getting asked. Did I lock the front door? Did I lock the car door? Do I have my luggage? Do I have everything I'll need in my luggage? Do I know how to get to Union Station? Am I going to be late? Can I get to my hotel? Have I forgotten to plan anything? What if I get lost? What if they don't like me at the client site? What if I can't do the work? Where am I going, and why am I in a handbasket? Is this right? Is this right?
Though it's become a denigrating term, that I've been able to play Jack of All Trades instills me with a little pride. Vigiliant persistence, eternal flexibility. Something needs be done, and I do it. I may not do it to the best of my abilities (witness law school), but I get it done. Right now, as I'm figuratively and literally leaving my comfort zone, I can't help but look out at the Baltimore slums, and smile at my translucent reflection in the mirror. Because, maybe, just maybe, the question that should have been asked isn't "What if I can't," but "What if I can?"
Wednesday, December 19, 2007, 7:52 PM. 1515, hotel between Madison and 38th. Dark, rainy, chilly.
The toll New York takes on you is quite high. The taxi, the subway, the bus, the food, the rent, the parking, the walking, the smoke, the noise, the everything. These past couple of days, the persistent feeling I've had is that of a country bumpkin recently dislocated from his place in society, junked here, and left to explore. Bright lights, big city, and I cannot help but stare all about me.
One of the most embarrassing things about getting to New York was the simple fact that I'd never called for a taxi before. Here I am, walking in circles in front of the train station, wondering how to flag down a taxi. Every time I raised my hand, another taxi flew past. I eventually had to run up to a taxi stopped at the light and get inside.
Now, taxis are credit card enabled, and the one I got in had a touch screen map/television in the back. The driver referred to me as "boss." This is disorienting. (And I must say, I still cannot get used to some people calling me "Sir" while other people ask "So, are you in high school or college?")
The hotel was nothing special, but I found myself unable to sleep due to nervousness. Tossing and turning all night long, wondering what the next day would be like.
I'm going to refrain from giving too many details about the actual work. It's enough to say that I'm consulting right now. However, the taxi ride to the office the first morning was amazing. Never seen that many near misses in a ten minute cab ride since I went to Taiwan, and cars has roughly six inches to one foot of space between them.
There are a lot of buildings that I pass, and it's kind of ridiculous how many of them call themselves "the best." This is clearly untrue, as every sandwich shop cannot be the best, unless each is equally good (or bad).
Friday, December 21, 2007. 7:54 P.M. Train from Penn Station, en route to Union Station. Dark, unnaturally lighted with the faint glow of the track fluorescence.
Privilege brings distance. The higher the echelon you ascend, the fewer people around you. Look at The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe, wherein their single combat champions had ascended to heights few had ever known, few would know.
That is one of the reasons why the T.S. corporate headquarters is (perceived as) much more distant, much less cool than the T.S. N.Y. office. I had the opportunity to work from their office this afternoon. It is barely half the size of the T.S. corporate headquarters. They stuff four people into an office that I considered cramped when I saw two people within in the Annandale office. You can cross from one side of the office to the other in a few seconds, and you'll have to pass several cubicles in the middle. Makes it incredibly easy to start up conversation with your coworkers, because going anywhere in the office brings you close to them, by necessity.
Contrast this with the Annandale office, where many people have their own office, and those few that do not at least share an office space. Only our receptionist is accessible to all, and there are even two entry/exit doors to the office. It would be theoretically possible for me to come in to work, do my work, and leave, without being seen by another human.
Another issue is that the Annandale office seems always to be in transit. There, and everywhere, but never here. We are flung much further than our New York counterparts, often within subway distance of the office, and often working on New York projects as far as I can tell.
We're lucky enough to have our own offices, most of us, and because of that, we're lucky enough to be able to get away from each other, to do work without interruption if we so choose.
***
On Thursday night, at a steakhouse, both C.L. and T.K. pinched my cheek, within seconds of each other. I mean, damn. This is supposed to be a professional situation. They're my superiors. And they pinched my cheeks. What do I look like, I'm five? Wait, don't answer that.
***
Working in New York for a few days, (and N.H.'s and J.L.'s words) have shown me that I never quite worked out this wanderlust. When I return to VA, it's going to seem a dump (because it is a dump?). Not that I really did that much in New York, but it was just different. Different is neither inherently bad nor good, it just is different. And, I suppose that if I were able to meet more people, I wouldn't mind so much this life, but it's the same old rut over and over. Not that I'm knocking any of you, just that while a lot of you aren't hindering my goals, it's not exactly helping them either.
Maybe New York isn't the answer. Probably, New York isn't the answer. Then again, what is? Anything but D.C. If I could figure out a way to pay off all my loans, I'd pack up and move, right fucking now. Would I miss you all? Sure. Would it be that bad? No.
***
One of the client administrators spoke with a Russian accent, so I had to add in my mind "Moose and Squirrel" after everything she said, a pale imitation of Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
***
I met a lot of people in New York. Hopefully I'll be able to match some faces to some names. For better or for worse, a lot of them knew me through Google Talk as the guy with the constant away messages speaking of T.S.
I also had a chance to try to dissuade F.R.'s girlfriend from continuing on in law school. That half a beer really helped my case, I think. At the very least, it stripped me of balance and dignity, really my two biggest barriers towards meeting people (No, really. "I'm sorry for falling on you. By the way, I'm K.T.").
***
Running was so stop-and-go, much like this post. I'd go out ten or fifteen blocks, figure I was running out of time in the morning, then go running back. Ever seen those people jogging in place at intersections, waiting for the traffic to change, looking for all the world like flipping idiots? You may now count me among their number. Hell, I may be their king, for all I know.
***
It turns out if you leave your change on the counter in a hotel, it is taken as a gratuity. This bugged me the first night, when I lost all my change. I love change, unlike most people. Still, I guessed that I'd leave it as the gratuity when I was done anyways, so I just ended up emptying my pockets every night, leaving it there. Still sucked.
***
So I managed to make myself look like a complete idiot every time I walked through New York, staring up at the gigantic buildings like a complete fool. Yay, buildings. Now, I'm just a simple backwater country lawyer, but…
***
There was no free internet at the hotel, so the only time for most of the week I had an internet connection was through the client site. While at the client site, most of the time I was working on client hardware. Thus, my work week was almost like a mini vacation from my life, as I did not really respond to anyone's emails, did not keep up with the happenstances in the world at large, didn't waste hours upon hours browsing the intarwebs.
It was actually really nice. I spent a lot of my free time reading A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin. Such an epic scope, but at the same time, he focuses so well on a few characters that you feel immersed in it.
Living in that hotel room made me realize I have far too much stuff right now, and if I planned right, I really could get away with having very little. Since I'm moving (of necessity) fairly soon, this should be my goal, to get rid of everything nonessential, that I need not have to take it with me.
***
It's odd, I know the work when I go back will be absolutely horrific, but… I can't wait.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Ravenous Hunger
Well, I just watched the Baltimore Ravens get kicked in the teeth by the Miami Dolphins in overtime. I didn't really watch the game, as R.Y. came over and we were connecting (i.e. playing Halo and not really connecting). However, I did have to leave to mail out some Christmas presents (were you one of those lucky few? Stay tuned, you should have your answer by Wednesday). When I came back, the internets told me that it was 16-13, and the Ravens had 4th and goal at the 1 yard line. I turn on the television, and it turns out they kicked the field goal to tie it up.
You have it that close, and you're not going to go for it? Your team's offense is based on the running game, overtime is essentially a toss up, all you need to do is stack the line and essentially fall forward, and you're not going to go for it? You have an excellent chance to avoid the humiliation of losing to a winless team in week 14 of the NFL season, and you're not going to go for it?
In overtime, the Ravens did get the ball, and they put it on Matt Stover's foot to kick the winning field goal. It was a 44 yard field goal, not an automatic make for every kicker, and certainly not for Matt Stover, now about 62 years old. I do not blame him for the miss, because he can only do so much. No, when you have to gain 3 feet, and you do not go for it, and you think a 44 yard field goal, or losing that field position in OT, is the better option, you deserve to lose. Brian Billick, you make baby Jesus cry. Shame on you. I hope you go coach the Patriots as their offensive coordinator next year.
You have it that close, and you're not going to go for it? Your team's offense is based on the running game, overtime is essentially a toss up, all you need to do is stack the line and essentially fall forward, and you're not going to go for it? You have an excellent chance to avoid the humiliation of losing to a winless team in week 14 of the NFL season, and you're not going to go for it?
In overtime, the Ravens did get the ball, and they put it on Matt Stover's foot to kick the winning field goal. It was a 44 yard field goal, not an automatic make for every kicker, and certainly not for Matt Stover, now about 62 years old. I do not blame him for the miss, because he can only do so much. No, when you have to gain 3 feet, and you do not go for it, and you think a 44 yard field goal, or losing that field position in OT, is the better option, you deserve to lose. Brian Billick, you make baby Jesus cry. Shame on you. I hope you go coach the Patriots as their offensive coordinator next year.
At Steak
At the T.S. Christmas party (held at Ruth's Chris Steak House, hence the bad pun title), what was at stake for me? Two things, getting to mess around with my co-workers outside of the office, and determining whether or not to mess around with my friends in Azeroth.
The confluence of those things came in the form of D.C., long-standing friend and new co-worker. In an attempt to get me to rejoin the fold and start playing World of Warcraft again, he convinced R.L. to start tweaking my nipples, and to not stop until I started playing again.
R.L. resides in the office next to mine. You see how this would cause issues in the office. When I have time, I'm going to probably work on an installation.
There was also a lot of drunken merriment (read: drunken people). It is surprising how people can really knock back the booze. Nothing out of the ordinary, except one entire table cheering for what I assume was a plane taking off.
I wish I could tell you more, but this was one time I wanted to have fun solely to have fun. We'll keep closer track of details at a later date.
The confluence of those things came in the form of D.C., long-standing friend and new co-worker. In an attempt to get me to rejoin the fold and start playing World of Warcraft again, he convinced R.L. to start tweaking my nipples, and to not stop until I started playing again.
R.L. resides in the office next to mine. You see how this would cause issues in the office. When I have time, I'm going to probably work on an installation.
There was also a lot of drunken merriment (read: drunken people). It is surprising how people can really knock back the booze. Nothing out of the ordinary, except one entire table cheering for what I assume was a plane taking off.
I wish I could tell you more, but this was one time I wanted to have fun solely to have fun. We'll keep closer track of details at a later date.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Presenting Christmas
I've gotten to the point where I don't much care about what I get, so much as what I give for Christmas. This is dangerous when mixed with my perpetual laziness, because then I just give everyone money. Not that people mind so much, but when it comes down to it, sometimes I think they think they'd rather I put some thought into my gift giving. I posit.
Christmas has lost a lot of meaning for me. It's the end of the calendar year, and a time to exchange presents, but I no longer feel extra good will at this time of year. The optimist in me says it's because I try to extend that elevated level of good will all year, but the pessimist says it's because there's no good will left in me. The realist just doesn't have time, and wants to give everyone $20s.
Still, there I was just now, rushing from store to store, picking up presents for people, trying to keep track of what I still had to get, a bit flustered at my inability to keep it all straight. Told myself that I'd do the online shopping, like I tell myself every year. Realized that it wasn't going to happen because I was too lazy. Note the irony, since I spend weeks, months in a year doing nothing in the internet. How hard would it have been to take a quick shop? Pretty freaking hard, apparently.
Nonetheless, Happy (early) Christmas.
Christmas has lost a lot of meaning for me. It's the end of the calendar year, and a time to exchange presents, but I no longer feel extra good will at this time of year. The optimist in me says it's because I try to extend that elevated level of good will all year, but the pessimist says it's because there's no good will left in me. The realist just doesn't have time, and wants to give everyone $20s.
Still, there I was just now, rushing from store to store, picking up presents for people, trying to keep track of what I still had to get, a bit flustered at my inability to keep it all straight. Told myself that I'd do the online shopping, like I tell myself every year. Realized that it wasn't going to happen because I was too lazy. Note the irony, since I spend weeks, months in a year doing nothing in the internet. How hard would it have been to take a quick shop? Pretty freaking hard, apparently.
Nonetheless, Happy (early) Christmas.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Sleep Enough?
Who did I snap at during my work day? I don't even remember. What I do know is that it affirms that I absolutely need to get my eight hours, or I just devolve into a cranky child, short-tempered and wet-eared, being more of a jackass than normal.
I envy those that get by on four hours of sleep a night, and are fresh and ready to go. If we live to the same age, they will have lived one-sixth more than I have, due to that extra time up and doing stuff. I think about it, and I'd almost rather sleep every day than be doing stuff straight.
There's a book I read by Iain Banks, probably Consider Phlebas. One of the characters was able to put each hemisphere of his brain to sleep independently of the other. For eight hours of the day, he was coldly logical. For eight hours, he was incredibly creative. And for eight hours, it was all working together. What I wouldn't give for that.
The dolphins, they put half their brain to sleep also. I wouldn't mind being a dolphin. Swimming free for a few years, then ending up as someone's tuna sandwich. God I'm tired and illucid. Hell, is that even a word?
I envy those that get by on four hours of sleep a night, and are fresh and ready to go. If we live to the same age, they will have lived one-sixth more than I have, due to that extra time up and doing stuff. I think about it, and I'd almost rather sleep every day than be doing stuff straight.
There's a book I read by Iain Banks, probably Consider Phlebas. One of the characters was able to put each hemisphere of his brain to sleep independently of the other. For eight hours of the day, he was coldly logical. For eight hours, he was incredibly creative. And for eight hours, it was all working together. What I wouldn't give for that.
The dolphins, they put half their brain to sleep also. I wouldn't mind being a dolphin. Swimming free for a few years, then ending up as someone's tuna sandwich. God I'm tired and illucid. Hell, is that even a word?
Monday, November 26, 2007
Left Unsaid
Sometimes, what we don't talk about is just as important, if not moreso, than what we do say. I found out that my aunt's cancer has (surprise surprise) made yet another return visit. What was surprising is that I didn't find out from her. She has always been open and honest about her breast cancer. For her to refrain from speaking about it means, well. You tell me what it means if someone suddenly won't talk about something they've always been willing to talk about.
She has lived with this for over ten years now. In a perverse way, at this point, she is like Schrödinger's cat at this point, both alive and dead, at least to me. I've had over ten years to prepare for her passing, and it's still not enough. At the same time, I don't prepare because, well, she's still alive. This superposition of states, this gentle reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, this questioning, all of it because her body betrays her, as science attempts to sustain her.
I cannot now recall ever asking her about her cancer. I know that we must have. I know that we must have. Strangely, I just remember the good conversations. Not the words themselves, but just the general feeling of happiness. In a way, that's what we never talked about, if I don't remember. What does that say, my selective recall, about what I will and won't say?
As I think about it, this is how I've come to remember people. The ones that I love, I recall nothing but the good times (for the most part. My parents are special, and I recall a lot of the good and bad, but I still love them. I think). The ones that I can't stand, I recall nothing but the negative conversations. It's as if what I cannot recall never happened, went unsaid. What does that silence, what I can't or won't recall saying, tell you?
She has lived with this for over ten years now. In a perverse way, at this point, she is like Schrödinger's cat at this point, both alive and dead, at least to me. I've had over ten years to prepare for her passing, and it's still not enough. At the same time, I don't prepare because, well, she's still alive. This superposition of states, this gentle reminder of the fragility and preciousness of life, this questioning, all of it because her body betrays her, as science attempts to sustain her.
I cannot now recall ever asking her about her cancer. I know that we must have. I know that we must have. Strangely, I just remember the good conversations. Not the words themselves, but just the general feeling of happiness. In a way, that's what we never talked about, if I don't remember. What does that say, my selective recall, about what I will and won't say?
As I think about it, this is how I've come to remember people. The ones that I love, I recall nothing but the good times (for the most part. My parents are special, and I recall a lot of the good and bad, but I still love them. I think). The ones that I can't stand, I recall nothing but the negative conversations. It's as if what I cannot recall never happened, went unsaid. What does that silence, what I can't or won't recall saying, tell you?
Emotional Disconnect
I swear, I wasn't always this angry and bitter. There was a period of time in my life when I was still innocent and child-like, probably when I was innocent and child-like. I don't know what the hell happened.
I sort of know. My theory about bitter people, and I can't prove it, is that they just cared too much about something which then betrayed them, leading to them hiding away their heart. The first example I thought of was Captain Mal Reynolds from Firefly. In the pilot episode, during wartime, you see him praying and kissing a crucifix about his neck, asking for salvation. Soon thereafter, the enemy carpet-bombs the area, and he just watches those ships fly by. This results in the captain we see for the rest of the series. And he's not entirely bitter, but he's definitely very pragmatic, very distrusting of religion, and beyond his crew, wary of everything.
My dad is fairly angry, but the Chinese government tried to kill him and his family when he was young. He was raised by his older sister. He endured a divorce. There are more details I won't go into. I never knew my dad as a kid (how could I?), but I'd like to imagine he was happier then, at least before the Chinese government came a-knockin'.
As for me, organized religion betrayed me, stabbed me from behind. People, to a lesser extent, have done the same, time and again. There is a pattern that takes shape. I need to break that pattern, and stop trusting, stop believing.
I am convinced these days that emotion is a weakness, a crutch that we rely on only because evolution has instilled emotion in us. And it's good, like the things that help, hate the things that do not. Keeps you alive when you need to survive. Now, technology has supplanted evolution re: the betterment of humanity. We do not need these emotions. And there are many days where I wish to the blue sky that something could take away these emotions, leave me a soulless automaton that wouldn't give a shit.
No, I don't entirely believe that. I just wish for impossible things.
I sort of know. My theory about bitter people, and I can't prove it, is that they just cared too much about something which then betrayed them, leading to them hiding away their heart. The first example I thought of was Captain Mal Reynolds from Firefly. In the pilot episode, during wartime, you see him praying and kissing a crucifix about his neck, asking for salvation. Soon thereafter, the enemy carpet-bombs the area, and he just watches those ships fly by. This results in the captain we see for the rest of the series. And he's not entirely bitter, but he's definitely very pragmatic, very distrusting of religion, and beyond his crew, wary of everything.
My dad is fairly angry, but the Chinese government tried to kill him and his family when he was young. He was raised by his older sister. He endured a divorce. There are more details I won't go into. I never knew my dad as a kid (how could I?), but I'd like to imagine he was happier then, at least before the Chinese government came a-knockin'.
As for me, organized religion betrayed me, stabbed me from behind. People, to a lesser extent, have done the same, time and again. There is a pattern that takes shape. I need to break that pattern, and stop trusting, stop believing.
I am convinced these days that emotion is a weakness, a crutch that we rely on only because evolution has instilled emotion in us. And it's good, like the things that help, hate the things that do not. Keeps you alive when you need to survive. Now, technology has supplanted evolution re: the betterment of humanity. We do not need these emotions. And there are many days where I wish to the blue sky that something could take away these emotions, leave me a soulless automaton that wouldn't give a shit.
No, I don't entirely believe that. I just wish for impossible things.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
False World
A gracious offer has been extended (and re-extended) to me to rejoin World of Warcraft. Yes, I'd likely start from scratch, though if possible, I'd name the avatar based on my naming convention: P-c. Hence, my main character, a human priest named Prismatic, and my main alternate, a night elf druid named Paramedic. Hell, I'd probably start a night elf druid named Polychromatic, or a hunter of some race named Paraplegic.
And no, this post is not an acceptance of said offer, but just a talking through of it.
The genius in World of Warcraft lies in two things: The quick, early returns, and the perseverance of the world and the game. When you start out, you get so many cool trinkets and skills so quickly, it keeps you coming back for more. Only problem, it gets harder and harder to get these trinkets and skills the longer you play, but you want that high. It really is like crack cocaine. The other thing is that since there's no end, you cannot beat the game. Those obsessive-compulsives needing to beat a game to stop playing will never stop playing this. There is always theoretically new content to digest.
Now, I respond to returns for my effort a little too much, and I absolutely must beat a game once I start. This would tend to bode unwell for the entirety of my life were I to delve back into it. One of the reasons why I quit in the first place was because it was becoming my life. Another was that it was an unhealthy escape, but I'd like to think I resolved the situation I was escaping from.
On the other hand, there is the allure of playing with people I knew, as I did before. Hell, I actually met someone in real life through World of Warcraft, and he turned out not to be a complete jackass (my greatest fear for meeting people through the internet. You clothe yourself in distance, anonymity, the perfect phrase, the perfect picture, perfection which is you, just through an imperfect prism reflecting all the best and filtering all the worst. I do it all the time). Presumably, I'd be playing with a goodly amount of people that I know, and there would be enough to avoid the anonymous jackasses.
Still, I have things to do in my life, goals to achieve, and a waxing/waning addiction to Halo 3 that is not helping matters. I sort of need to stop playing Halo 3 also, but that's another story for another day.
What makes it difficult is that I would still be escaping my life, because it's not perfect. Granted, it's a lot better than it could be; this fact I am cognizant of every time I drive to work and look inside the cars of others, look at the cars of others, when I stop at McDonald's for a greasy breakfast, when I pass a car wreck that caused me a minor discomfort, but probably changed several lives for the worse. These things I know. Yet, there is so much more that I want out of life, and am not entirely sure how to go about getting these things. A sense of fulfillment, a life partner, a published novel. Well, I know how to at least get the novel, but getting published is another matter entirely.
There is only so much time, and I waste so much of it in any given day. If I were to play World of Warcraft, well. It is fun, no doubt. Never question that. Sucks you in and never lets you go. Same time, it becomes a grind. It isn't that I want to snub people in saying I don't want to play. On the contrary, I wish I could play. I just don't know if I can handle all of the consequences of that choice.
And no, this post is not an acceptance of said offer, but just a talking through of it.
The genius in World of Warcraft lies in two things: The quick, early returns, and the perseverance of the world and the game. When you start out, you get so many cool trinkets and skills so quickly, it keeps you coming back for more. Only problem, it gets harder and harder to get these trinkets and skills the longer you play, but you want that high. It really is like crack cocaine. The other thing is that since there's no end, you cannot beat the game. Those obsessive-compulsives needing to beat a game to stop playing will never stop playing this. There is always theoretically new content to digest.
Now, I respond to returns for my effort a little too much, and I absolutely must beat a game once I start. This would tend to bode unwell for the entirety of my life were I to delve back into it. One of the reasons why I quit in the first place was because it was becoming my life. Another was that it was an unhealthy escape, but I'd like to think I resolved the situation I was escaping from.
On the other hand, there is the allure of playing with people I knew, as I did before. Hell, I actually met someone in real life through World of Warcraft, and he turned out not to be a complete jackass (my greatest fear for meeting people through the internet. You clothe yourself in distance, anonymity, the perfect phrase, the perfect picture, perfection which is you, just through an imperfect prism reflecting all the best and filtering all the worst. I do it all the time). Presumably, I'd be playing with a goodly amount of people that I know, and there would be enough to avoid the anonymous jackasses.
Still, I have things to do in my life, goals to achieve, and a waxing/waning addiction to Halo 3 that is not helping matters. I sort of need to stop playing Halo 3 also, but that's another story for another day.
What makes it difficult is that I would still be escaping my life, because it's not perfect. Granted, it's a lot better than it could be; this fact I am cognizant of every time I drive to work and look inside the cars of others, look at the cars of others, when I stop at McDonald's for a greasy breakfast, when I pass a car wreck that caused me a minor discomfort, but probably changed several lives for the worse. These things I know. Yet, there is so much more that I want out of life, and am not entirely sure how to go about getting these things. A sense of fulfillment, a life partner, a published novel. Well, I know how to at least get the novel, but getting published is another matter entirely.
There is only so much time, and I waste so much of it in any given day. If I were to play World of Warcraft, well. It is fun, no doubt. Never question that. Sucks you in and never lets you go. Same time, it becomes a grind. It isn't that I want to snub people in saying I don't want to play. On the contrary, I wish I could play. I just don't know if I can handle all of the consequences of that choice.
Flight/Class
About once a day, I have a daydream of flying. I just see these pearlescent wings pop out of my back, feathered and gigantic and smelling faintly of grass after the rains have dissipated. Then, I just alight from wherever it is I am sitting or standing, and just soar into the atmosphere, completely gone from my life, ready to forge a new trail. My glasses fall off, and the wind stings and dries my eyes, streaks the tears away that I'm trying to cry, but can't because it's so cold and windy, but so strangely wonderful. And then, I'm back in my seat, and it was all just a pitiful dream, one that I can never escape.
Once, one brilliant time long ago, I dreamt that I could actually fly, though telekinetically and not via wing. If I crossed my arms and concentrated, I could levitate off of the ground, and then land gently again. In this dream, I recall that I lost that ability to do so, and I was standing there for minutes trying to levitate again. Had I not awakened, I would have continued to try to fly. And when I was actually in the air, my heart was filled with such an overwhelming mix of wonder, delight and fear. There are few dreams I remember upon waking up, and very few I remember for more than a day after the dream. This one has stuck with me for years now.
About once a month, I have a dream of an inescapable situation, where I'm in some classroom-type environment with too much work and no way to escape. It is never law school (anymore), but the dream persists. I'm always quite thankful to awaken, slight sweat across my forehead, heart beating just a little faster than it should. I may never escape these dreams of pseudo-law school.
I don't know about any of you, but I am in constant denial of how the forces surrounding me have shaped me and my perception of the world. My mind is fully formed, and at this point, it's just slight massaging and tweaking that leads to changes, one of which was law school. But my subconscious fights back. It will not let me give in, as I probably should have by this point. I don't know why, but flight (and the inability to do so) is the constant in my life, in my head, in my heart. At this point in my life, I don't care how it happens, but I want to meet someone, anyone, that makes me feel the way I did in that dream, when I thought I could fly. I don't know how the hell it will happen, but I hope desperately it will. On the flip side, everyone that makes me feel like I'm in an inescapable morass, sinking deeper into the muck, I want to avoid.
Once, one brilliant time long ago, I dreamt that I could actually fly, though telekinetically and not via wing. If I crossed my arms and concentrated, I could levitate off of the ground, and then land gently again. In this dream, I recall that I lost that ability to do so, and I was standing there for minutes trying to levitate again. Had I not awakened, I would have continued to try to fly. And when I was actually in the air, my heart was filled with such an overwhelming mix of wonder, delight and fear. There are few dreams I remember upon waking up, and very few I remember for more than a day after the dream. This one has stuck with me for years now.
About once a month, I have a dream of an inescapable situation, where I'm in some classroom-type environment with too much work and no way to escape. It is never law school (anymore), but the dream persists. I'm always quite thankful to awaken, slight sweat across my forehead, heart beating just a little faster than it should. I may never escape these dreams of pseudo-law school.
I don't know about any of you, but I am in constant denial of how the forces surrounding me have shaped me and my perception of the world. My mind is fully formed, and at this point, it's just slight massaging and tweaking that leads to changes, one of which was law school. But my subconscious fights back. It will not let me give in, as I probably should have by this point. I don't know why, but flight (and the inability to do so) is the constant in my life, in my head, in my heart. At this point in my life, I don't care how it happens, but I want to meet someone, anyone, that makes me feel the way I did in that dream, when I thought I could fly. I don't know how the hell it will happen, but I hope desperately it will. On the flip side, everyone that makes me feel like I'm in an inescapable morass, sinking deeper into the muck, I want to avoid.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Lost Respect
You teach people how they should treat you. Teach them to treat you with respect and they treat you with respect. Teach them to disrespect you and they walk all over you. It isn't a one-time thing, but a continued habit.
It takes me a while to realize this, but there are some people to which I have debased myself. There was one occasion a while back when I was walking in D.C. with someone when their phone rang. The person answered it without even an "Excuse me" and just kept on talking for the next five or ten minutes while we kept on walking. I didn't call them out on it. Instead, I proceeded to treat them like shit, mocking them mercilessly for the rest of the night.
The problem was that I let myself be walked all over previously, and that led to the current state of affairs. I now know that this person has no respect for me, and sadly, it goes both ways at this point. To be (un)fair, my current viewpoint was more reactionary to them than an independent assessment. Still, that is how it stands now. It's too late to change their mindset, and so I question whether it's even worth it to keep interacting with this person. Theoretically, I am deserving of respect, but to this particular person, I am not. Why should I continue smiling and laughing and playing the fool when they're laughing at me, and not with me?
Another person, I now have trouble talking to. The relationship we established in the past involved me swallowing my pride and grinning at their comments directed towards me, sometimes throwing back similar. I wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but decided it would be easier to just keep my mouth shut.
That person has stayed the same, making the same comments, but I've changed. I'm no longer so willing to accept it, and have made this known, but to no avail. They continue to make the comments. Again, there's no respect there, and I question why I even try to deal with it. It's a fight that I'm no longer willing to raise arms for. Some people lower their shoulders right before a collision. Here, I've lowered my expectations and decided to just give up.
It hurts, because at one point, I liked both of them. I tried to be their friend, but more and more, it seems like a one-sided friendship. Maybe a loving slave type of relationship. It's frustrating. It's a waste of their time, because they could just as easily get a dog, and it's a waste of my time, because I could go hang out with peers, not superiors.
On the flip side, I was joke-lamenting how no one respected me one day. The other person just looked at me and said "I don't know why you keep saying no one respects you." Didn't believe it then, but I do realize that there are people that respect me. For whatever reason, I have taught them to treat me as a fellow human being, and it turns out that they still do. For this I am thankful. Though it is a small thing, these interactions with others, it is strangely reassuring and reaffirming to me, this respect.
I haven't watched too much Scarface. It's not like I'm all of a sudden going to demand you respect me. There's no point to that. Just going to try to teach people from here on out to respect me. If that's not possible for them, for whatever reason, they can keep on going on their path, and leave me to mine. I already have low-enough self-esteem, and don't need them pushing it even lower.
On the brighter side, all this has taught me to, in the future, demand more from others. Set the baseline to be treatment as an equal, and at least if it is impossible to start from there, I can stop wasting effort, energy and emotion on these people.
It takes me a while to realize this, but there are some people to which I have debased myself. There was one occasion a while back when I was walking in D.C. with someone when their phone rang. The person answered it without even an "Excuse me" and just kept on talking for the next five or ten minutes while we kept on walking. I didn't call them out on it. Instead, I proceeded to treat them like shit, mocking them mercilessly for the rest of the night.
The problem was that I let myself be walked all over previously, and that led to the current state of affairs. I now know that this person has no respect for me, and sadly, it goes both ways at this point. To be (un)fair, my current viewpoint was more reactionary to them than an independent assessment. Still, that is how it stands now. It's too late to change their mindset, and so I question whether it's even worth it to keep interacting with this person. Theoretically, I am deserving of respect, but to this particular person, I am not. Why should I continue smiling and laughing and playing the fool when they're laughing at me, and not with me?
Another person, I now have trouble talking to. The relationship we established in the past involved me swallowing my pride and grinning at their comments directed towards me, sometimes throwing back similar. I wasn't entirely comfortable with it, but decided it would be easier to just keep my mouth shut.
That person has stayed the same, making the same comments, but I've changed. I'm no longer so willing to accept it, and have made this known, but to no avail. They continue to make the comments. Again, there's no respect there, and I question why I even try to deal with it. It's a fight that I'm no longer willing to raise arms for. Some people lower their shoulders right before a collision. Here, I've lowered my expectations and decided to just give up.
It hurts, because at one point, I liked both of them. I tried to be their friend, but more and more, it seems like a one-sided friendship. Maybe a loving slave type of relationship. It's frustrating. It's a waste of their time, because they could just as easily get a dog, and it's a waste of my time, because I could go hang out with peers, not superiors.
On the flip side, I was joke-lamenting how no one respected me one day. The other person just looked at me and said "I don't know why you keep saying no one respects you." Didn't believe it then, but I do realize that there are people that respect me. For whatever reason, I have taught them to treat me as a fellow human being, and it turns out that they still do. For this I am thankful. Though it is a small thing, these interactions with others, it is strangely reassuring and reaffirming to me, this respect.
I haven't watched too much Scarface. It's not like I'm all of a sudden going to demand you respect me. There's no point to that. Just going to try to teach people from here on out to respect me. If that's not possible for them, for whatever reason, they can keep on going on their path, and leave me to mine. I already have low-enough self-esteem, and don't need them pushing it even lower.
On the brighter side, all this has taught me to, in the future, demand more from others. Set the baseline to be treatment as an equal, and at least if it is impossible to start from there, I can stop wasting effort, energy and emotion on these people.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Primal Urges
In less than two hours, I will once again don my football raiment, step out onto the field, and play yet another game of pickup football. I will be hurt. This is not even up for debate. I will take chances that I should not take, for a game that is essentially meaningless (though, on the cosmic scale, all we do is meaningless). There will be triumphs, as I probably score a touchdown, and tragedies, as I probably fumble the ball and it is returned for a football. I will launch myself full speed at people I should not (everyone else on the field). There may be pictures of my embarrassment (witness the last time when I went shoulder to shoulder with J.G. and came away wondering why the sky was full of grass).
Why do I do this? Because evolution has designed me to respond well to physical activity and minor pain. No doubt one of these days I will break a limb, and I will no longer play. But until then, playing football satisfies some primal urge within me. Plus, it helps me to bond with people. I mean, really, talking? You can talk and talk and talk with people, but what do you really learn? Well, OK, you learn quite a bit, but none of the truly important stuff. Actions do not speak louder than words, for they have no mouths, but they reveal a great deal about a person. There are things I will pick up about people on the field that would take me months, years to learn through conversation.
This is not something I need. People call me a fool for doing this, though they have called me a fool for doing many things. On the list of idiotic things I have tried, this is fairly low. And yet, when I go out and play football, it makes me feel like a little bit more of a complete human being. Maybe it's a reaction to being one of the smallest kids and physically inept? I'm still physically inept, but at least I can get out there and get hurt. I don't know, and maybe I can't put it into words (what? K.T. unable to use words? Preposterous!), but there's something special when I go out there on the initial kickoff, and the ball is flying in my direction, and my two thoughts are "Don't drop the ball" and "Don't get badly hurt."
Why do I do this? Because evolution has designed me to respond well to physical activity and minor pain. No doubt one of these days I will break a limb, and I will no longer play. But until then, playing football satisfies some primal urge within me. Plus, it helps me to bond with people. I mean, really, talking? You can talk and talk and talk with people, but what do you really learn? Well, OK, you learn quite a bit, but none of the truly important stuff. Actions do not speak louder than words, for they have no mouths, but they reveal a great deal about a person. There are things I will pick up about people on the field that would take me months, years to learn through conversation.
This is not something I need. People call me a fool for doing this, though they have called me a fool for doing many things. On the list of idiotic things I have tried, this is fairly low. And yet, when I go out and play football, it makes me feel like a little bit more of a complete human being. Maybe it's a reaction to being one of the smallest kids and physically inept? I'm still physically inept, but at least I can get out there and get hurt. I don't know, and maybe I can't put it into words (what? K.T. unable to use words? Preposterous!), but there's something special when I go out there on the initial kickoff, and the ball is flying in my direction, and my two thoughts are "Don't drop the ball" and "Don't get badly hurt."
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
mobile post
This is just a proof of concept. I bought a new cell phone with web capability and am posting from it. Typing takes forever.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Cheating Ways
Bill Belichick, coach of the New England Patriots, got caught cheating. His coaches and subordinates were caught recording the defensive signals from the New York Jets. Now, if you have been following the NFL in any fashion, you know that the Patriots are en route to at least a playoff berth, if not a bye in the playoffs, if not the first 16-0 regular season. They didn't even need the edge, and there are hints that many in the NFL engage in the same types of behavior.
So, why do we even have rules, if people don't follow them? In the NFL, there are series of rules that are routinely contravened, covertly or overtly. There are rules not always enforced on the field. Watch for holding, offensive and defensive. It occurs on every single play at the line. The issue is that these players are incredible at hiding what they do from the referees, or the referees cannot call every single instance, for fear of slogging down the game and making it unwatchable.
What is the point of these rules? We have to try to impose some order on the game, else it would devolve into a fist fight. Hell, we even have rules for fist fights. No "cheap shots" like kidney punches, crotch punches, neck punches. But really, who made up that rule, that if you fight with those, you fight without honor? When your life is at stake, the rules sort of go out the window. You can always get more honor, but how can you get a life back?
At least in the context of a sporting match, we need an equal playing ground. Think about how easy soccer would be if you could pick up the ball and run with it. Baseball, if you replace the ball on random pitches with a lead shotput. NASCAR with rockets. I could be the greatest quarterback in the NFL with an assault rifle in my back pocket. Without these rules, the game becomes meaningless. These rules, more than just order, they offer a chance at substance.
Then why break them? Why make irrelevant our attempt to make it fair? If you want to win a game, you do it within the context of the game, or you do it outside that context. Going back to my earlier example, I could be the greatest quarterback, but only if I shot everyone. As it stands, I am not even the greatest quarterback in this seat right now. Even if I practiced as a child, I do not possess the physical attributes inherent within the new quarterback prototype. Right there, at those upper echelons, the game is limited to those blessed with that little extra, and we reward them with our money and our love.
If you add new ways to succeed, ways that fall outside of the rules, it definitely opens it up to more people. That sense of privilege dissipates. Let's take steroids. They definitely enable more people to play sports at a professional level. In a way, they also expand the group of elites. They remove it from the realm of fantasy, and shove professional sports a little closer to the realm of possibility.
The NFL institutes a salary cap. No team is allowed to spend more than the salary cap on their entire roster (and, of course, there are ways around that also). The theory behind that is that no team will be able to become that much better than all the rest, because they can all only spend so much. That the Patriots this year are excelling is a testament to Bill Belichick and Scott Pioli's personnel decisions. But, still, imagine a scenario wherein there is an utterly average offense given the defense's signals. That offense would perform at a much higher level. When Belichick won his first Super Bowl, he screamed something to the effect of "Can you believe we won with this bunch of guys?" At the time, the Patriots offense was being run by a 6th round draft pick, taken over for an injured and aging Drew Bledsoe. Not the most imposing of situations.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but I know that, in my life, no matter how confident I am about something, anything, there will always be at least a seed of doubt. Granted, I don't have the greatest self-esteem, but even if I did, that kernel would still be there. Couldn't you imagine a scenario where Bill Belichick, working with lesser-skilled players, learning at the foot of others, started capturing defensive signals, and just got used to it? A safety blanket, too hard to shed, even at this point with an offense potentially for the ages. Who would notice? Just keep your eyes open, take some quick picks, and we'll decipher them during halftime.
Do I defend him? I'm not sure. I just offer one possible interpretation. After all, in addition to having rules, we have penalties, and the Patriots were penalized. However, did they really learn anything? The ultimate penalty, $750,000 and a first-round pick, are like a slap on the wrist. Consider that the salary cap is in the multi-million range, and that the Patriots have so much skill/luck in picking later round draft picks, that this penalty is only punitive/retributive to the average person, removed from the realities of the NFL. Hell, I'm not even sure if the penalty is more oppressive than I thought, because I have no experience in the NFL.
That is how far removed I am from the realities of the NFL. The rules serve to create a situation I cannot understand, the playing field is such I cannot compete, and the attempt to break those rules was an attempt for people still much better than me but much worse than the top tier to compete. In a way, it was all just another attempt to level the playing field, but if you level too much, you dilute, you remove what was special. Why was the cheating wrong? In the end, because if left unchecked, it would allow every last one of us to do what these people do. It would rob their actions of any semblance of uniqueness, of specialty. And that is why we must try and prevent these rules from being broken, so that we cannot participate, so we are forced to watch and appreciate the NFL.
***
May or may not extend these ideas to the law at large, but I would need a bit of time to think about it. It definitely ties into my theory that people see laws as a limbo bar to walk under, and not a hurdle to leap over.
So, why do we even have rules, if people don't follow them? In the NFL, there are series of rules that are routinely contravened, covertly or overtly. There are rules not always enforced on the field. Watch for holding, offensive and defensive. It occurs on every single play at the line. The issue is that these players are incredible at hiding what they do from the referees, or the referees cannot call every single instance, for fear of slogging down the game and making it unwatchable.
What is the point of these rules? We have to try to impose some order on the game, else it would devolve into a fist fight. Hell, we even have rules for fist fights. No "cheap shots" like kidney punches, crotch punches, neck punches. But really, who made up that rule, that if you fight with those, you fight without honor? When your life is at stake, the rules sort of go out the window. You can always get more honor, but how can you get a life back?
At least in the context of a sporting match, we need an equal playing ground. Think about how easy soccer would be if you could pick up the ball and run with it. Baseball, if you replace the ball on random pitches with a lead shotput. NASCAR with rockets. I could be the greatest quarterback in the NFL with an assault rifle in my back pocket. Without these rules, the game becomes meaningless. These rules, more than just order, they offer a chance at substance.
Then why break them? Why make irrelevant our attempt to make it fair? If you want to win a game, you do it within the context of the game, or you do it outside that context. Going back to my earlier example, I could be the greatest quarterback, but only if I shot everyone. As it stands, I am not even the greatest quarterback in this seat right now. Even if I practiced as a child, I do not possess the physical attributes inherent within the new quarterback prototype. Right there, at those upper echelons, the game is limited to those blessed with that little extra, and we reward them with our money and our love.
If you add new ways to succeed, ways that fall outside of the rules, it definitely opens it up to more people. That sense of privilege dissipates. Let's take steroids. They definitely enable more people to play sports at a professional level. In a way, they also expand the group of elites. They remove it from the realm of fantasy, and shove professional sports a little closer to the realm of possibility.
The NFL institutes a salary cap. No team is allowed to spend more than the salary cap on their entire roster (and, of course, there are ways around that also). The theory behind that is that no team will be able to become that much better than all the rest, because they can all only spend so much. That the Patriots this year are excelling is a testament to Bill Belichick and Scott Pioli's personnel decisions. But, still, imagine a scenario wherein there is an utterly average offense given the defense's signals. That offense would perform at a much higher level. When Belichick won his first Super Bowl, he screamed something to the effect of "Can you believe we won with this bunch of guys?" At the time, the Patriots offense was being run by a 6th round draft pick, taken over for an injured and aging Drew Bledsoe. Not the most imposing of situations.
I cannot speak for anyone else, but I know that, in my life, no matter how confident I am about something, anything, there will always be at least a seed of doubt. Granted, I don't have the greatest self-esteem, but even if I did, that kernel would still be there. Couldn't you imagine a scenario where Bill Belichick, working with lesser-skilled players, learning at the foot of others, started capturing defensive signals, and just got used to it? A safety blanket, too hard to shed, even at this point with an offense potentially for the ages. Who would notice? Just keep your eyes open, take some quick picks, and we'll decipher them during halftime.
Do I defend him? I'm not sure. I just offer one possible interpretation. After all, in addition to having rules, we have penalties, and the Patriots were penalized. However, did they really learn anything? The ultimate penalty, $750,000 and a first-round pick, are like a slap on the wrist. Consider that the salary cap is in the multi-million range, and that the Patriots have so much skill/luck in picking later round draft picks, that this penalty is only punitive/retributive to the average person, removed from the realities of the NFL. Hell, I'm not even sure if the penalty is more oppressive than I thought, because I have no experience in the NFL.
That is how far removed I am from the realities of the NFL. The rules serve to create a situation I cannot understand, the playing field is such I cannot compete, and the attempt to break those rules was an attempt for people still much better than me but much worse than the top tier to compete. In a way, it was all just another attempt to level the playing field, but if you level too much, you dilute, you remove what was special. Why was the cheating wrong? In the end, because if left unchecked, it would allow every last one of us to do what these people do. It would rob their actions of any semblance of uniqueness, of specialty. And that is why we must try and prevent these rules from being broken, so that we cannot participate, so we are forced to watch and appreciate the NFL.
***
May or may not extend these ideas to the law at large, but I would need a bit of time to think about it. It definitely ties into my theory that people see laws as a limbo bar to walk under, and not a hurdle to leap over.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Darting Away
Happy birthday M.C.!
***
D.C., M.C., congrats on your imminent human-spawn!
***
I'm going to start wearing suits all the live long day. This will perhaps be the only way I can manage to look older than "twelve". Yeah, it happened again, another stranger accused me of looking like I'm just a little kid. And it's crazy, this is in a bar. I obviously have to be above the age of twelve if I'm in there, right?
If I didn't own a car, I'd love the rain. There's something soothing about the constant pitter-patter, walking through the precipitation, surrounded by what is essentially the essence of life. However, when you unify rain with the rush hour traffic, it all goes downhill. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."
I agreed to meet J.L. at a bar for darts after work, then we'd go into D.C. to meet G.B. and S.B. Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men. It took me a good-lovin' hour of fording through the urban rivers and causeways to make it there, and I was kind of burnt out by that time. Still, darts!
For those of you uninitiated into the ways of cricket, know that it is a hard game, but it is a fun game. J.L. and I have been playing on a semi-regular basis once every week or couple of weeks, kill some time and some brain cells (with beer, not by throwing the darts at each others' heads. That will come at a later date).
It was pretty packed, and at one point, two people came and took the dart board next to us. One was a large African-American, mid-forties, at least six-foot-three, thin, calm, composed, opening a box labeled "Python." He removed three darts, sleek, black, dangerous. The other was an average height Caucasian-American, late-twenties, smartly dressed, with a Blackberry.
I'd just like to note that more things need names that evoke images of violence. If ever Honda created the "Marauder" or the "Bonecrusher" or the "Eviscerator" I would buy it in a heartbeat. Same with body armor. If there's fury-style kevlar, I'd go all fury-style on it. Lord, I've problems.
J.L. and I shot for first (what we later learned was called "diddle for the middle"), and the woman just turned after we shot and said "Poor shot." I wasn't looking at her, so I wasn't sure if she was serious or sarcastic. I thought serious. Once again, first impression not entirely correct.
After a while, it was obvious they knew what they were doing, as he was hitting whatever he aimed for. He just didn't know the rules of the game. She was doing much the same, and instructing him on how to play and the finer strategic points. Meanwhile, J.L. is using his athletic ability and superior hand-eye coordination to destroy me.
At some point, the woman asks if we want to play versus them partner-style, and we agree. We should leave soon to go to D.C., so we figure there's enough time for one game. Really, we ended up playing about eight or nine.
The woman's name was J., man's name was L. For some reason, I'm meeting a lot of people with the same first name as the woman. At any rate, J. is a sarcastic smartass, though it was probably because she essentially lost her job with a lot of advance notice earlier that day. So, anger plus beer plus darts equals fun for the whole family!
Of course, the traditional mocking. They thought I was twelve, but knew I had to be twenty-one, or have a real good ID. When i told them I was twenty-seven, they just shook their heads. At least J.L. they gave credit, figured he was eighteen.
It was plenty obvious from pretty early on that the only reason we weren't being hustled was because there was no money on the line. It wasn't that they were good, but that they were great. Plus, it never helps whenever your somewhat attractive female opponent starts touching you and grinding against you. It's a miracle I hit the board.
For J., each dart throw slammed into the board. Was it a reaction to her suffering a fairly large loss in life, that she had to summon a win in a realm she could control? Was it fury at having been betrayed by her boss-slash-friend? Was it just nothing more than how she played darts? I don't know, and I'm no certified psychoanalyst.
We played game after game, and J.2, J.'s boyfriend, replaced L. after four or five games. Eventually, J. got to the point of "choice quotes."
J.: The board moves when I aim at it. Is it moving for you?
J.: Let me see your booty shake.
[K.T. shakes his booty]
J.: That was a pretty sad booty shake.
K.T.: I have white man's rhythm.
[J. shakes her booty]
J.: You shouldn't feel bad, I've played darts competitively off and on for over ten years.
J.L.: That makes me feel better.
J.: On the other hand, I was drunk, so you should've been able to beat me.
J.: Remember when I said there was a point I shouldn't have passed? I think that last beer made me pass it.
J.L.: You two should bump uglies.
J.: Oh, mine isn't ugly.
K.T.: Yeah, mine is.
J.: Then it should be singular. We should bump ugly.
J.: If you tickle me, I'll kick you in the crotch.
K.T.: Is that a punishment or a reward?
J. There's only one way to find out.
K.T.: Maybe we should wait until later.
It's fun to screw with drunk people. It's fun when drunk people screw with me. Targets, all of us, for the various darts and barbs flying our way.
***
D.C., M.C., congrats on your imminent human-spawn!
***
I'm going to start wearing suits all the live long day. This will perhaps be the only way I can manage to look older than "twelve". Yeah, it happened again, another stranger accused me of looking like I'm just a little kid. And it's crazy, this is in a bar. I obviously have to be above the age of twelve if I'm in there, right?
If I didn't own a car, I'd love the rain. There's something soothing about the constant pitter-patter, walking through the precipitation, surrounded by what is essentially the essence of life. However, when you unify rain with the rush hour traffic, it all goes downhill. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."
I agreed to meet J.L. at a bar for darts after work, then we'd go into D.C. to meet G.B. and S.B. Ah, the best-laid plans of mice and men. It took me a good-lovin' hour of fording through the urban rivers and causeways to make it there, and I was kind of burnt out by that time. Still, darts!
For those of you uninitiated into the ways of cricket, know that it is a hard game, but it is a fun game. J.L. and I have been playing on a semi-regular basis once every week or couple of weeks, kill some time and some brain cells (with beer, not by throwing the darts at each others' heads. That will come at a later date).
It was pretty packed, and at one point, two people came and took the dart board next to us. One was a large African-American, mid-forties, at least six-foot-three, thin, calm, composed, opening a box labeled "Python." He removed three darts, sleek, black, dangerous. The other was an average height Caucasian-American, late-twenties, smartly dressed, with a Blackberry.
I'd just like to note that more things need names that evoke images of violence. If ever Honda created the "Marauder" or the "Bonecrusher" or the "Eviscerator" I would buy it in a heartbeat. Same with body armor. If there's fury-style kevlar, I'd go all fury-style on it. Lord, I've problems.
J.L. and I shot for first (what we later learned was called "diddle for the middle"), and the woman just turned after we shot and said "Poor shot." I wasn't looking at her, so I wasn't sure if she was serious or sarcastic. I thought serious. Once again, first impression not entirely correct.
After a while, it was obvious they knew what they were doing, as he was hitting whatever he aimed for. He just didn't know the rules of the game. She was doing much the same, and instructing him on how to play and the finer strategic points. Meanwhile, J.L. is using his athletic ability and superior hand-eye coordination to destroy me.
At some point, the woman asks if we want to play versus them partner-style, and we agree. We should leave soon to go to D.C., so we figure there's enough time for one game. Really, we ended up playing about eight or nine.
The woman's name was J., man's name was L. For some reason, I'm meeting a lot of people with the same first name as the woman. At any rate, J. is a sarcastic smartass, though it was probably because she essentially lost her job with a lot of advance notice earlier that day. So, anger plus beer plus darts equals fun for the whole family!
Of course, the traditional mocking. They thought I was twelve, but knew I had to be twenty-one, or have a real good ID. When i told them I was twenty-seven, they just shook their heads. At least J.L. they gave credit, figured he was eighteen.
It was plenty obvious from pretty early on that the only reason we weren't being hustled was because there was no money on the line. It wasn't that they were good, but that they were great. Plus, it never helps whenever your somewhat attractive female opponent starts touching you and grinding against you. It's a miracle I hit the board.
For J., each dart throw slammed into the board. Was it a reaction to her suffering a fairly large loss in life, that she had to summon a win in a realm she could control? Was it fury at having been betrayed by her boss-slash-friend? Was it just nothing more than how she played darts? I don't know, and I'm no certified psychoanalyst.
We played game after game, and J.2, J.'s boyfriend, replaced L. after four or five games. Eventually, J. got to the point of "choice quotes."
J.: The board moves when I aim at it. Is it moving for you?
J.: Let me see your booty shake.
[K.T. shakes his booty]
J.: That was a pretty sad booty shake.
K.T.: I have white man's rhythm.
[J. shakes her booty]
J.: You shouldn't feel bad, I've played darts competitively off and on for over ten years.
J.L.: That makes me feel better.
J.: On the other hand, I was drunk, so you should've been able to beat me.
J.: Remember when I said there was a point I shouldn't have passed? I think that last beer made me pass it.
J.L.: You two should bump uglies.
J.: Oh, mine isn't ugly.
K.T.: Yeah, mine is.
J.: Then it should be singular. We should bump ugly.
J.: If you tickle me, I'll kick you in the crotch.
K.T.: Is that a punishment or a reward?
J. There's only one way to find out.
K.T.: Maybe we should wait until later.
It's fun to screw with drunk people. It's fun when drunk people screw with me. Targets, all of us, for the various darts and barbs flying our way.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Chicken Run
It's not that I'm funny, but that I'm more willing to do ridiculous things. Witness yesterday at work, which resulted in me making another Popeye's fried chicken run. I've become the "chicken guy," though that name is just a placeholder until we come up with another name. Thus, that means that I will be known as the "chicken guy" for a while. I left an away message up which stated that I was on a chicken run for the office. M.C. saw it and accused me of slowly killing off the office. I do not deny this, but at least it wasn't done out of spite. (And the road to hell is paved with good intentions).
Somehow this lead to me remarking that I was widely perceived at work as being rather off kilter. Somehow, that lead to her telling me to go around the office whistling "Killing Me Softly," originally by Roberta Flack, redone by the Fugees. After all, I am killing everyone with chicken and grease. I told her I'd think about it.
And think about it I did on the long, slow drive home. Coming up with alternate lyrics, practicing in my car, making preparations. Like I said, I'm not funny, just more willing to do ridiculous things.
My biggest issue with the entire venture was that I wasn't prepared to walk around the office floor singing, and I didn’t really want to make myself the focus when everyone was on the floor. The great thing about coming into work before most everyone else is that you can get work done without being interrupted, and you can do things when only a few people are there. Case in point, when D.R. got to work, I decided that was the time.
Around 0910, I saunter over to her office, note that the new secretary (whose name I still do not know) is there, and decide to run and gun with it.
[K.T. knocks]
D.R.: Morning.
K.T.: Hey, so, you know how [M.C.] has a high threshold for entertainment slash low threshold for boredom?
D.R.: Yeah.
K.T.: Well. OK.
[K.T. breathes deep]
[K.T. sings to the tune of "Killing Me Softly"]
K.T.: Strumming my pain with its feather
[D.R. laughs]
K.T.: Singing my life with its grease
D.R.: I don't have a lighter. This is great.
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
[D.R. breaks down laughing]
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
[D.R. breaks down laughing]
K.T.: Shortening my whole life with Popeye's
D.R.: My side hurts, this is great.
K.T.: Killing me softly with chicken
Note that I was leaning with my back against the wall, my arms crossed, not really looking directly at D.R. As soon as I finished singing, I immediately left her office, just as G.H. was entering. He just looked up at me, looked at D.R. laughing, and asked me what was going on.
K.T.: I don't know. I think [D.R.]'s laughing.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
We're Back?
You can't do things for other people, and you can't save other people. This is what I learned in the two-plus months I went on hiatus from Writ. It got to the point where I was updating Writ solely for other people, and that was tedious. Same thing with a lot of other things in my life. I was doing them just for other people. I've cut a lot of those things out of my life (I think, I pray, I hope, I fear). Lot more things I do because I want to do them. Sure, there are still things that I'll bite the bullet for, but they don't take up the majority of my time now.
Not much has happened in the interim. Somehow I've become the chicken guy at work. Whenever people get a jones for Popeye's chicken, I'm the one that gets it. I'm also becoming known as the slightly off kilter one. I guess it was somewhat inevitable, that seems to be the arc of my life.
I don't know, there's not much I have to say right now, but I was reminded I had this blog, and felt like I wanted to update. Not anyone else, just me. Screw the regular updating, I'm going to update when I feel like it.
Not much has happened in the interim. Somehow I've become the chicken guy at work. Whenever people get a jones for Popeye's chicken, I'm the one that gets it. I'm also becoming known as the slightly off kilter one. I guess it was somewhat inevitable, that seems to be the arc of my life.
I don't know, there's not much I have to say right now, but I was reminded I had this blog, and felt like I wanted to update. Not anyone else, just me. Screw the regular updating, I'm going to update when I feel like it.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Screw It
I don't think I'm addicted to adrafinil yet. Note the key word in that statement, "yet." I probably have a caffeine addiction, so why not adrafinil? C.E. probably put it best when he said "[K.T.], I'm concerned about your use of stimulants." But, really, who is to say what is too much? So I have a few Cokes in a day and pop one, maybe two adrafinil. I can stop any time I want, I just don't want to. Wow, I can't even tell if I was kidding.
***
For various reasons, today was an extraordinarily bad day at work. That plus some stuff that happened over the past couple of weeks has me on edge.
I can't be absolutely sure that the person isn't reading this, but I'm relatively sure that, on the off chance they were, they wouldn't get that it was them, so we'll keep this entirely anonymous. What does this mean? If you're sitting at a table for 20 minutes and can't spot the sap, you are the sap. What? No, I don't know what it means.
This person has a tendency to contact me only when s/he needs a sympathetic ear. As I think about it, that's they way it's been for a few years now. I find it hard to strike a balance between telling him/her to go f*ck themselves and actually try to help them, in that I try to help.
It is so much fun when you have friends like that. S/he isn't the only one, so I'm especially lucky. All the patience that the Almighty blessed me with (what? K.T. is patient? bullsh*t.) gets burned up by these people. Sometimes, when it gets down to people that actually do matter, all I want to do is yell at them, make them proxies for those other people.
It makes me sick to think of how they're using me, and it makes me sick to think of how I let them. And, really, that's the key if you want something from me: just ask. Because somewhere within me, I am so god damned afraid of being alone, that I will do whatever it takes in an attempt to please people, even if it means making myself miserable. Especially if it means making myself miserable.
Because, as f*cked up as it is, I sort of look forward to interacting with them. It shows that they haven't forgotten me. Yeah. It's great, especially for this person, because I boil down to a disposable person. Use me, discard me, when you need me a few months later, use me again. I'm a sap.
And I keep telling myself every few months, "Self, this is now the time to cut all the people that are just using you out of your life." Can't do it, too afraid of that, of walling myself away a little more from the world. This is also partly why I'm loathe to meet people. I can't take too many more of those people in my life.
Why do I have to be the one to put forth all the effort, when they're getting all the benefit? F*ck that, and f*ck you for making me sad, even when you're not around. Is it too much to ask for those people to stop trying to find me, to go bother other people? And still I try, on the off chance I might need help someday. And if I ever went to those people, "Sorry, K.T., kind of busy." Why am I such a pushover?
Is this how people become jaded and disenchanted? Good thing this all kicked in over the past couple of weeks, whilst I was most vulnerable. Oh, wait.
***
For various reasons, today was an extraordinarily bad day at work. That plus some stuff that happened over the past couple of weeks has me on edge.
I can't be absolutely sure that the person isn't reading this, but I'm relatively sure that, on the off chance they were, they wouldn't get that it was them, so we'll keep this entirely anonymous. What does this mean? If you're sitting at a table for 20 minutes and can't spot the sap, you are the sap. What? No, I don't know what it means.
This person has a tendency to contact me only when s/he needs a sympathetic ear. As I think about it, that's they way it's been for a few years now. I find it hard to strike a balance between telling him/her to go f*ck themselves and actually try to help them, in that I try to help.
It is so much fun when you have friends like that. S/he isn't the only one, so I'm especially lucky. All the patience that the Almighty blessed me with (what? K.T. is patient? bullsh*t.) gets burned up by these people. Sometimes, when it gets down to people that actually do matter, all I want to do is yell at them, make them proxies for those other people.
It makes me sick to think of how they're using me, and it makes me sick to think of how I let them. And, really, that's the key if you want something from me: just ask. Because somewhere within me, I am so god damned afraid of being alone, that I will do whatever it takes in an attempt to please people, even if it means making myself miserable. Especially if it means making myself miserable.
Because, as f*cked up as it is, I sort of look forward to interacting with them. It shows that they haven't forgotten me. Yeah. It's great, especially for this person, because I boil down to a disposable person. Use me, discard me, when you need me a few months later, use me again. I'm a sap.
And I keep telling myself every few months, "Self, this is now the time to cut all the people that are just using you out of your life." Can't do it, too afraid of that, of walling myself away a little more from the world. This is also partly why I'm loathe to meet people. I can't take too many more of those people in my life.
Why do I have to be the one to put forth all the effort, when they're getting all the benefit? F*ck that, and f*ck you for making me sad, even when you're not around. Is it too much to ask for those people to stop trying to find me, to go bother other people? And still I try, on the off chance I might need help someday. And if I ever went to those people, "Sorry, K.T., kind of busy." Why am I such a pushover?
Is this how people become jaded and disenchanted? Good thing this all kicked in over the past couple of weeks, whilst I was most vulnerable. Oh, wait.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Place Holder
I've been tasked to create a write-up for one of my fantasy football leagues on a weekly basis. On the night that I write that up, I'm just going to throw down some filler for Writ.
You know those people that feel that writing is a mystical experience, that you have to be blessed to do it, that it's something that only certain people can do? Bullshit. It's all practice and hard work, and above all, perseverance. All the skill in the world won't do you a damned bit of good if you don't apply it. Put your fingers to the keyboard, or the pen to the paper, and bang it out.
You know those people that feel that writing is a mystical experience, that you have to be blessed to do it, that it's something that only certain people can do? Bullshit. It's all practice and hard work, and above all, perseverance. All the skill in the world won't do you a damned bit of good if you don't apply it. Put your fingers to the keyboard, or the pen to the paper, and bang it out.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Renaissance, Man, part 2
Hot as all hell.
A.W., at the urging of M.C., buys a drinking/blowing horn. It's cow, as I recall. Holds roughly two, two and a half pints of beer. The curvature matches his body perfectly.
The proprietor of the horn store mocks a man for carrying a plastic cup, for if he should fall, he would crush his cup. Clearly, he must pay a king's bounty for a drinking horn.
There are so many people inappropriately dressed.
A man dressed as a dark elf, with white-powdered hair, black face paint, and way too much leather.
A woman in a metal bikini top, like hammered plate metal. However, she carried a few extra pounds, and they brought some friends.
An extraordinarily skinny man in an open robe with a nipple piercing.
A gigormous man wearing a clever shirt that said something akin to "Stop making your boobs look at my eyes." Classy.
Another large man wearing a shirt that said something like "Maybe the clever statement on this shirt will make me popular."
Perhaps on the right people... well, no. There's not much place for either.
D.C. saw some gypsies with tramp stamps.
M.C. saw a mother with pink hair.
I saw far too many women wearing bustiers that elevated their chests to top shelf in a gravity-damning manner (think 50s bullet bras).
Far too many people in tight leather that exposed fat waddles and dimples.
A man wearing a signed Michael Jordan jersey. Why are you going to wear a signed jersey?
Nothing wrong with the people that dress for the period, but mayhaps the tight clothing should be under the gymnasts' purview.
A.W., at the urging of M.C., buys a drinking/blowing horn. It's cow, as I recall. Holds roughly two, two and a half pints of beer. The curvature matches his body perfectly.
The proprietor of the horn store mocks a man for carrying a plastic cup, for if he should fall, he would crush his cup. Clearly, he must pay a king's bounty for a drinking horn.
There are so many people inappropriately dressed.
A man dressed as a dark elf, with white-powdered hair, black face paint, and way too much leather.
A woman in a metal bikini top, like hammered plate metal. However, she carried a few extra pounds, and they brought some friends.
An extraordinarily skinny man in an open robe with a nipple piercing.
A gigormous man wearing a clever shirt that said something akin to "Stop making your boobs look at my eyes." Classy.
Another large man wearing a shirt that said something like "Maybe the clever statement on this shirt will make me popular."
Perhaps on the right people... well, no. There's not much place for either.
D.C. saw some gypsies with tramp stamps.
M.C. saw a mother with pink hair.
I saw far too many women wearing bustiers that elevated their chests to top shelf in a gravity-damning manner (think 50s bullet bras).
Far too many people in tight leather that exposed fat waddles and dimples.
A man wearing a signed Michael Jordan jersey. Why are you going to wear a signed jersey?
Nothing wrong with the people that dress for the period, but mayhaps the tight clothing should be under the gymnasts' purview.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Renaissance, Man, part 1
Thoughts week, because it was a busy weekend.
Smoked turkey leg. Even now, I'm still salivating at the thought of it. So damnably delicious.
I'd been thinking of the smoked turkey ever since M.C. mentioned the renaissance festival. Had D.C., M.C. and A.W. not already been waiting at the front gate, the plan was to gun straight for the turkey leg stand.
Saw some women on stilts. "That's how I like my women: tall and without feet." They were leading kids around on ribbon leashes, but the kids had dyed white hair. Who led whom?
Once I got the turkey leg, speech became extraneous, and grease was everywhere. All focus was on the the leg. I want to smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving. It was sooooo good.
We watched Johnny Fox, the sword swallower. Had I not been obsessed with the turkey, I'd have noticed the first half of the act. As it was in my hand, I couldn't really clap, though his swallowing was quite... pornographic?
In the port-a-potty, at a relatively early time in the day, someone had someone left their mark on the toilet seat itself. Number two. How?
Smoked turkey leg. Even now, I'm still salivating at the thought of it. So damnably delicious.
I'd been thinking of the smoked turkey ever since M.C. mentioned the renaissance festival. Had D.C., M.C. and A.W. not already been waiting at the front gate, the plan was to gun straight for the turkey leg stand.
Saw some women on stilts. "That's how I like my women: tall and without feet." They were leading kids around on ribbon leashes, but the kids had dyed white hair. Who led whom?
Once I got the turkey leg, speech became extraneous, and grease was everywhere. All focus was on the the leg. I want to smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving. It was sooooo good.
We watched Johnny Fox, the sword swallower. Had I not been obsessed with the turkey, I'd have noticed the first half of the act. As it was in my hand, I couldn't really clap, though his swallowing was quite... pornographic?
In the port-a-potty, at a relatively early time in the day, someone had someone left their mark on the toilet seat itself. Number two. How?
Friday, September 07, 2007
Interesting Times
Off the top of my head, these were the major points of the past year: I found a job captioning television programs in Virginia. I shifted my living schedule to an evening shift. I was admitted to the Maryland Bar Association. I developed a crush on someone. I managed to run three miles in twenty-four minutes. I quit the job captioning television programs. I found another job technical writing in Virginia. I shifted back to a day schedule in a weekend. I moved down to Virginia after a ridiculous seven hours of commuting in two days thanks to snow. I found out my crush was not reciprocated, and took that really poorly. I vowed to write fifty thousand words in a month, and produced about thirty thousand. I started bar hopping to meet women, only to discover that even though they wanted to talk to me, I was too shy to talk to them. I quit the technical writing position. I found another job as a business analyst. I started taking adrafinil, though not to the point of addiction yet. I continued working on the novel in spurts.
The minor recurrent points: I lied to everyone I met about my educational background. I ran. I listened to people when they asked me "if I had a second." I played video games. I drank water. I ranted and raved about the most inconsequential things. I danced when people were watching. I danced when no one was watching. I sang at the top of my lungs, serenading a choir of angels. I made goofy faces at babies, strangers and friends. I surfed the internet. I typed up blog entries. I drove for the hell of it. I ate 7-11 hot dogs, because I have mental problems. I accused myself of having mental problems. I played football. I dreamt about playing football. I read. I spoke in halting tones. I spoke in bombastic tones. I went for entire conversations without speaking, relying on hand gestures, nods, and clever eye waggles. I smiled at friend and enemy, stranger and familiar. I cried. I laughed.
That was my twenty-sixth year on this earth. One of so few, and as I sit here right now, it feels like I didn't do that much. Then I read all that, and I think about all that I did, and realize that, yes, it was a crapload. Maybe this past year wasn't a wasted year. I was born around 12:30 A.M. on Sunday, September 7, 1980. I'm now twenty-seven years of age. I'm still angry about life, and frightened of my future. I'm still hopeful about what might come, and compassionate towards others. I'm unsure as to what this year will bring, but should be so lucky if it is half as interesting as the past year. Let us never forget the curse, "May you live in interesting times."
The minor recurrent points: I lied to everyone I met about my educational background. I ran. I listened to people when they asked me "if I had a second." I played video games. I drank water. I ranted and raved about the most inconsequential things. I danced when people were watching. I danced when no one was watching. I sang at the top of my lungs, serenading a choir of angels. I made goofy faces at babies, strangers and friends. I surfed the internet. I typed up blog entries. I drove for the hell of it. I ate 7-11 hot dogs, because I have mental problems. I accused myself of having mental problems. I played football. I dreamt about playing football. I read. I spoke in halting tones. I spoke in bombastic tones. I went for entire conversations without speaking, relying on hand gestures, nods, and clever eye waggles. I smiled at friend and enemy, stranger and familiar. I cried. I laughed.
That was my twenty-sixth year on this earth. One of so few, and as I sit here right now, it feels like I didn't do that much. Then I read all that, and I think about all that I did, and realize that, yes, it was a crapload. Maybe this past year wasn't a wasted year. I was born around 12:30 A.M. on Sunday, September 7, 1980. I'm now twenty-seven years of age. I'm still angry about life, and frightened of my future. I'm still hopeful about what might come, and compassionate towards others. I'm unsure as to what this year will bring, but should be so lucky if it is half as interesting as the past year. Let us never forget the curse, "May you live in interesting times."
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Heartless Wonderment
I love this article for two reasons.
One, it causes us to question our humanity, and with the greater intersection between technology and medicine, forces us to consider whether or not we are actually improving life by extending life. Many are the times I dreamt of shedding all emotion, but at what cost would I really do it?
Two, the quote from Tupac Amaru Shakur. "Everybody's at war with different things. . . . I'm at war with my own heart sometimes." I know I have absolutely nothing in common with Tupac, aside from too much anger. Still, perhaps precisely because of that anger, this statement resonates inside my own heart. Despite my hate for the world around me, I'll want nothing more than to integrate with it, become part of it. There are times I am utterly frustrated by people, yet want to hold them close and tell them that everything will be OK. Some days, I will love myself more than life, and in the same breath, hate myself more than life.
One, it causes us to question our humanity, and with the greater intersection between technology and medicine, forces us to consider whether or not we are actually improving life by extending life. Many are the times I dreamt of shedding all emotion, but at what cost would I really do it?
Two, the quote from Tupac Amaru Shakur. "Everybody's at war with different things. . . . I'm at war with my own heart sometimes." I know I have absolutely nothing in common with Tupac, aside from too much anger. Still, perhaps precisely because of that anger, this statement resonates inside my own heart. Despite my hate for the world around me, I'll want nothing more than to integrate with it, become part of it. There are times I am utterly frustrated by people, yet want to hold them close and tell them that everything will be OK. Some days, I will love myself more than life, and in the same breath, hate myself more than life.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Load Bearing
My standard kit/loadout whenever I leave the apartment:
Armor: Undershirt, underwear, overshirt, pants, socks, shoes. Type of overshirt, pants and shoes will depend on mission.
Visual Augmentation: glasses or contacts, dependent on mission.
Equipment: Wallet with money, various identification information, credit cards; cell phone; carabiner with house keys, car keys, office keys, thumb drive.
I've carried the same carabiner for the past 4 years now, a red jobby with "University of Maryland School of Law" etched onto it. It also warns me it is not for climbing use. It has served me well, and serves to remind me of my past. So, I went and bought a new one, which carries the warning "Not Load Bearing." This is perfect, as I, too, am also not load-bearing. I crack under pressure.
Armor: Undershirt, underwear, overshirt, pants, socks, shoes. Type of overshirt, pants and shoes will depend on mission.
Visual Augmentation: glasses or contacts, dependent on mission.
Equipment: Wallet with money, various identification information, credit cards; cell phone; carabiner with house keys, car keys, office keys, thumb drive.
I've carried the same carabiner for the past 4 years now, a red jobby with "University of Maryland School of Law" etched onto it. It also warns me it is not for climbing use. It has served me well, and serves to remind me of my past. So, I went and bought a new one, which carries the warning "Not Load Bearing." This is perfect, as I, too, am also not load-bearing. I crack under pressure.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Poor Taste
I have poor taste when it comes to matching colors. My parents have excellent eyes for colors. Yet another thing I did not inherit from them. I always used to dress like a color-blind person, until I learned the key to dressing myself. I think it may have been cribbed from Jurassic Park, or an issue of GQ.
All my shirts are white, grey, or black, with a couple of green, blue and red shirts for color. All my pants are white, black or blue. My shoes are all black, tennis and dress. Socks are white and black. As a result, it doesn't take that much to dress. For the most part, everything matches by default. Unless I'm trying to make a statement, I just avoid the same color top and bottom. Simple.
All my shirts are white, grey, or black, with a couple of green, blue and red shirts for color. All my pants are white, black or blue. My shoes are all black, tennis and dress. Socks are white and black. As a result, it doesn't take that much to dress. For the most part, everything matches by default. Unless I'm trying to make a statement, I just avoid the same color top and bottom. Simple.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Labored Day
On Friday, as I was ready to leave for a nice weekend, D.R. wished me a good holiday. I stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. We had a holiday? Yep. Turned out that we got Monday off, due to Labor Day. Incredible bonus. Now, as I type this on Sunday night, I realize that it's essentially Saturday night, and I have one extra day to ... screw around. Still, it's more time off to take care of stuff. Plus, maybe I can get some new glasses, assuming some of the glasses stores are open.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Lesson Taught
What Teachers Make. Oh, damn it.
1,000 teachers. He fell short, but I want to throw my hat in the ring. Oh, damn it.
Q.L. and I had that inevitable discussion at work one day. You know, the one that starts out "Why aren't you a lawyer?" At some point, it wound about to what else I could have done. And like an idiot, the word "teacher" crept past my lips. Q.L. started talking about the difference I could make in these lives, and I flippantly responded "Yes, for the worse. But imagine how much better their lives are right now, that they've never met me." Another functional lie.
It's the thin-slice difference between never being satisfied, and reaching towards my goals. Me working at T.S. is a result of never being satisfied. Me writing a novel is a result of reaching towards my goals. And teaching, ah teaching.
A lot of you are questioning me on this one. "But, K.T.," the thought starts out. "I've seen you almost vomit after giving a five minute speech in public. How are you going to teach a full class, let alone four or five?" Excellent question, and I'll thank you to stop asking the hard questions so I don't have to give hard answers.
There are times in your life where you do things that you don't want to, because you have to, because something greater compels you. And if you've never experienced those moments, I pity you, I really do. It is in those moments, when we are caught between several difficult choices, that for a split-second, between when we ponder all those options, and when we select one, that we come closest to truly understanding Us. Not the United States, Us. Sometimes we shrink away, we walk the easy route, and we fail. Sometimes, we make our stand.
No doubt for the first four or five years, every day, every class, every single moment would be yet another challenge, a moment of running like hell, versus accepting that there are things I have to do, in order to try to make this world a better place. People say that the law was my destiny, that I would be that weathered soul, eyes purpled and watery, defending those falsely-accused citizens, "making right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap would be the leap home." I say someday, it'll be me dancing on my desk, pounding at the novel, driving home the point that repeated phrases mean a feeble attempt to convince yourself of something.
***
Strong possibility of short posting next week, what with football starting, novels to write, the always unexpected, yet strangely welcome diversions in my life, this weekend threatening to destroy me, and getting way too creaky.
1,000 teachers. He fell short, but I want to throw my hat in the ring. Oh, damn it.
Q.L. and I had that inevitable discussion at work one day. You know, the one that starts out "Why aren't you a lawyer?" At some point, it wound about to what else I could have done. And like an idiot, the word "teacher" crept past my lips. Q.L. started talking about the difference I could make in these lives, and I flippantly responded "Yes, for the worse. But imagine how much better their lives are right now, that they've never met me." Another functional lie.
It's the thin-slice difference between never being satisfied, and reaching towards my goals. Me working at T.S. is a result of never being satisfied. Me writing a novel is a result of reaching towards my goals. And teaching, ah teaching.
A lot of you are questioning me on this one. "But, K.T.," the thought starts out. "I've seen you almost vomit after giving a five minute speech in public. How are you going to teach a full class, let alone four or five?" Excellent question, and I'll thank you to stop asking the hard questions so I don't have to give hard answers.
There are times in your life where you do things that you don't want to, because you have to, because something greater compels you. And if you've never experienced those moments, I pity you, I really do. It is in those moments, when we are caught between several difficult choices, that for a split-second, between when we ponder all those options, and when we select one, that we come closest to truly understanding Us. Not the United States, Us. Sometimes we shrink away, we walk the easy route, and we fail. Sometimes, we make our stand.
No doubt for the first four or five years, every day, every class, every single moment would be yet another challenge, a moment of running like hell, versus accepting that there are things I have to do, in order to try to make this world a better place. People say that the law was my destiny, that I would be that weathered soul, eyes purpled and watery, defending those falsely-accused citizens, "making right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap would be the leap home." I say someday, it'll be me dancing on my desk, pounding at the novel, driving home the point that repeated phrases mean a feeble attempt to convince yourself of something.
***
Strong possibility of short posting next week, what with football starting, novels to write, the always unexpected, yet strangely welcome diversions in my life, this weekend threatening to destroy me, and getting way too creaky.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Run Time
On Sunday mornings, while many people sleep in, I go running as soon as I wake up, because I'm an idiot. Plus, there aren't that many people, so it's one of the few times I can truly get some alone time, away-from-my-creative-writing-and-technological-tethers alone time. (Most of the time, I'm accessible to others at an instant's notice, or I'm subsuming myself for the sake of my writing. But when I'm running, the lack of oxygen after five minutes and the isolation means I can just free think. It isn't as if I'm coming up with great insight into the human condition, or that I'm contemplating my novel [though I might be, it is free think].
Honestly, a lot of the time, it's like a just-forgotten dream, and I don't remember the specifics, but it also isn't anything serious, and so I can relax, mind and body. I don't have to worry about the important people in my life. I don't have to worry about the unimportant people in my life. I don't have to worry about myself or my future. I don't have to think about a damned thing, if I want. I'll wave and say "hi" in a breathy, would-be-sexy-if-i-were-on-the-phone manner if someone passes, but for the most part, it's just me. And these days, I need it so much more than I used to.
People used to tell me that the older I got, the fewer friends I would have, but the more important they would be to me. They were half right. I have many more friends now than when I was younger, and they are more important to me now than my friends were when I was younger. This presents minor difficulties at times. Sometimes, like silly putty, they stretch me in different directions. Sometimes, I stretch, and sometimes, I snap. And sometimes, I run away from all of it for three miles at a time.
A while back, I felt like I was constantly fighting... something. It turns out that what I was fighting was my own laziness and self-centeredness [go back through Writ and do a word count. "I" will constitute by far the most common word, exceeding "candy," the next most common word, by more than a twenty-to-one ratio.]. Less and less of my time is my own. Other concepts have dibs on it before I do, for the most part. I'm even starting to borrow time from sleep in order to work on Saving Grace. But the running, that remains. That's K.T. time.)
Well, that was a hell of a tangent.
So, running. Usually no one on Sunday mornings, but this morning, there was another runner. We were running a one mile loop, only in opposite directions, so we crossed each other a couple of times. Now, I don't have the brainpower to come up with something witty to say on the spot, because all the oxygen is shunted to my legs. My omnipresent fallback for such situations is "We keep running into each other."
*groan*
She said something as I was running away, and I couldn't quite make it out for a few minutes, but what I think she said was "We do, you're so much faster." I think I really am getting faster over longer distances, and for some reason, I take real pride in that, in a way normally reserved for my writing. Probably because, like writing, I have a little natural skill, and a lot of perseverance.
Later, stumbling back to the apartment, a guy I've run past several times before asked me how much I ran, and I mumbled, "Three miles." He said, "Good," and kept on walking. Hell yeah. I remember when I could barely run a mile before wanting to die. Now, I run barely a mile before wanting to die, but I keep going. I know here *points to skull* it was just idle chitchat, but here *points to heart*, it still makes me smile, even now.
Honestly, a lot of the time, it's like a just-forgotten dream, and I don't remember the specifics, but it also isn't anything serious, and so I can relax, mind and body. I don't have to worry about the important people in my life. I don't have to worry about the unimportant people in my life. I don't have to worry about myself or my future. I don't have to think about a damned thing, if I want. I'll wave and say "hi" in a breathy, would-be-sexy-if-i-were-on-the-phone manner if someone passes, but for the most part, it's just me. And these days, I need it so much more than I used to.
People used to tell me that the older I got, the fewer friends I would have, but the more important they would be to me. They were half right. I have many more friends now than when I was younger, and they are more important to me now than my friends were when I was younger. This presents minor difficulties at times. Sometimes, like silly putty, they stretch me in different directions. Sometimes, I stretch, and sometimes, I snap. And sometimes, I run away from all of it for three miles at a time.
A while back, I felt like I was constantly fighting... something. It turns out that what I was fighting was my own laziness and self-centeredness [go back through Writ and do a word count. "I" will constitute by far the most common word, exceeding "candy," the next most common word, by more than a twenty-to-one ratio.]. Less and less of my time is my own. Other concepts have dibs on it before I do, for the most part. I'm even starting to borrow time from sleep in order to work on Saving Grace. But the running, that remains. That's K.T. time.)
Well, that was a hell of a tangent.
So, running. Usually no one on Sunday mornings, but this morning, there was another runner. We were running a one mile loop, only in opposite directions, so we crossed each other a couple of times. Now, I don't have the brainpower to come up with something witty to say on the spot, because all the oxygen is shunted to my legs. My omnipresent fallback for such situations is "We keep running into each other."
*groan*
She said something as I was running away, and I couldn't quite make it out for a few minutes, but what I think she said was "We do, you're so much faster." I think I really am getting faster over longer distances, and for some reason, I take real pride in that, in a way normally reserved for my writing. Probably because, like writing, I have a little natural skill, and a lot of perseverance.
Later, stumbling back to the apartment, a guy I've run past several times before asked me how much I ran, and I mumbled, "Three miles." He said, "Good," and kept on walking. Hell yeah. I remember when I could barely run a mile before wanting to die. Now, I run barely a mile before wanting to die, but I keep going. I know here *points to skull* it was just idle chitchat, but here *points to heart*, it still makes me smile, even now.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Word Count
I'll admit that I didn't fully read this article on the average number of words spoken in a day. Mostly, I just wanted a count. Around 6,000 for a man, 8,000 for a woman. Fair enough.
Might these be adjusted for all communication? I can tell you that I average far, far less than 6,000 words spoken. Today, I talked to a few people at work for about five minutes each. Let's say I spoke a total of 2,000 words, a good overestimate. As my average conversation involves much more listening than speaking, 900 words is not out of the question on the day. Figure one third of my words were "well," "poop," and "candy," and there is so little actual knowledge conveyed by what I say.
However, if you throw in instant messaging and the occasional email, I probably exceed 5 digits worth of words. Include Writ and other leisurely writing, and I could be up to 15,000 words a day. Tack on the constant inner monologue and narration, and, good gravy, I'm a wordy bastard.
I've had the pleasure to make acquaintance with those that occupy the opposite end of the spectrum. Would not be surprised if they hit fifty thousand words in a day. Eight-six thousand, four hundred seconds in a day. Take out eight hours for sleep, and that's fifty-seven thousand, six hundred seconds. These people average .87 words a second. In contrast, if I speak 2,000, I average .04 words a second.
I suppose the meaningful measure is how much information was actually conveyed per word. Damned if I'm going to create a metric on this, but I'm sure that, because of the higher frequency of words, the gabbers convey more overall, but they probably also have more filler. Of course, there's always a possibility that entirely no meaningful information is conveyed.
Might these be adjusted for all communication? I can tell you that I average far, far less than 6,000 words spoken. Today, I talked to a few people at work for about five minutes each. Let's say I spoke a total of 2,000 words, a good overestimate. As my average conversation involves much more listening than speaking, 900 words is not out of the question on the day. Figure one third of my words were "well," "poop," and "candy," and there is so little actual knowledge conveyed by what I say.
However, if you throw in instant messaging and the occasional email, I probably exceed 5 digits worth of words. Include Writ and other leisurely writing, and I could be up to 15,000 words a day. Tack on the constant inner monologue and narration, and, good gravy, I'm a wordy bastard.
I've had the pleasure to make acquaintance with those that occupy the opposite end of the spectrum. Would not be surprised if they hit fifty thousand words in a day. Eight-six thousand, four hundred seconds in a day. Take out eight hours for sleep, and that's fifty-seven thousand, six hundred seconds. These people average .87 words a second. In contrast, if I speak 2,000, I average .04 words a second.
I suppose the meaningful measure is how much information was actually conveyed per word. Damned if I'm going to create a metric on this, but I'm sure that, because of the higher frequency of words, the gabbers convey more overall, but they probably also have more filler. Of course, there's always a possibility that entirely no meaningful information is conveyed.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Musical Equation
The problem with writing on multiple legal pads at the same time is that I lose stories. Well, I do not lose them, per se. They are in the apartment somewhere, but I forget to type them up, and so the stories lay dormant for weeks, months, as I work on other things.
I've hung a white board in my room, and write ideas on it. In one corner, in scrawled blue ink, is the following:
music v. math
science v. religion
legitimized
science/math?
This story had potential (though, really, all stories do, and it falls to the writer to imbue the story with purpose, meaning.). The basic conceit was a world where music was the key to both magic and technology. Though a middle-ages level of technology, being able to sing lent to metalworkers the capability to work the metal, for example. The more melodious your song, the more you could achieve.
The protagonist was an apprentice executioner, recently elevated to head (only) executioner at a most tender age. He would have one of the most beautiful voices in the land, and it would be directed towards singing the life songs of criminals, forcing them to relive their many sins before the song swept to a close, as did their lives.
I saw the first half of the story as a bildungsroman complicated by his duties as official executioner. The first vomit upon a criminal, the first full day of executions, dealing with how the rest of society saw him, even as they acknowledged they needed him.
The second half would revolve around him discovering that many of the people he was executing in the name of justice was because they were versing themselves in mathematics to perform miracles, rather than using magic. This would constitute heresy and endanger their way of life, much as the advent of science threatened the old religious orders. He would've had to come to grips with the fact that he wasn't as special as he thought, then worked out whether or not to keep supporting the musical regime, or join the mathemagicians (wow, yes, I made that pun. I went there.)
There are too many damn stories I need to tell, and not enough time to tell all of them.
I've hung a white board in my room, and write ideas on it. In one corner, in scrawled blue ink, is the following:
music v. math
science v. religion
legitimized
science/math?
This story had potential (though, really, all stories do, and it falls to the writer to imbue the story with purpose, meaning.). The basic conceit was a world where music was the key to both magic and technology. Though a middle-ages level of technology, being able to sing lent to metalworkers the capability to work the metal, for example. The more melodious your song, the more you could achieve.
The protagonist was an apprentice executioner, recently elevated to head (only) executioner at a most tender age. He would have one of the most beautiful voices in the land, and it would be directed towards singing the life songs of criminals, forcing them to relive their many sins before the song swept to a close, as did their lives.
I saw the first half of the story as a bildungsroman complicated by his duties as official executioner. The first vomit upon a criminal, the first full day of executions, dealing with how the rest of society saw him, even as they acknowledged they needed him.
The second half would revolve around him discovering that many of the people he was executing in the name of justice was because they were versing themselves in mathematics to perform miracles, rather than using magic. This would constitute heresy and endanger their way of life, much as the advent of science threatened the old religious orders. He would've had to come to grips with the fact that he wasn't as special as he thought, then worked out whether or not to keep supporting the musical regime, or join the mathemagicians (wow, yes, I made that pun. I went there.)
There are too many damn stories I need to tell, and not enough time to tell all of them.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Bouncing Run
I run in boxer briefs, because the flapping of my genitals and the potential chafing of my testicles against my thighs can get painful and raw. (Yes, I ran in boxers for a while, and no, it was not good times at higher speeds.) Cinch the waist a little higher than normal and I'm good to go.
The reason I mention this is because as I was running today, I passed a female runner with disproportionately large breasts. Normally, I'll either have contacts or my glasses on when I run, but sometimes, I just go "blind," and avoid all the blobs running towards me. This, however, even a blind man could see. She was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt three sizes too large. No doubt this trick she uses every day to hide her ample bosom. However, when your breasts are that large, no sports bra can hold them in place. They bounced from about clavicle level to around her belly button. Is there anything you can do at that point? Wrap a sports bandage around and hope for the best? Hold them with your hands?
Yes, I got a cheap thrill (I am a guy), but I also felt bad for her. She wasn't running that fast; it'd probably be excruciating to do so. It was a slow jog, but even so, she looked as if she'd knock herself out at any second. Given how young she looked, I guessed she was a high schooler (and how much must it suck to go through high school with large breasts? Males are basically walking hormones). They were probably real (and if she's a teenager with implants, god help her). So many women pop in implants to achieve a larger chest, but I can't help but wonder if she wished she were flat chested, just so she could go for a run and actually run for once.
The reason I mention this is because as I was running today, I passed a female runner with disproportionately large breasts. Normally, I'll either have contacts or my glasses on when I run, but sometimes, I just go "blind," and avoid all the blobs running towards me. This, however, even a blind man could see. She was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt three sizes too large. No doubt this trick she uses every day to hide her ample bosom. However, when your breasts are that large, no sports bra can hold them in place. They bounced from about clavicle level to around her belly button. Is there anything you can do at that point? Wrap a sports bandage around and hope for the best? Hold them with your hands?
Yes, I got a cheap thrill (I am a guy), but I also felt bad for her. She wasn't running that fast; it'd probably be excruciating to do so. It was a slow jog, but even so, she looked as if she'd knock herself out at any second. Given how young she looked, I guessed she was a high schooler (and how much must it suck to go through high school with large breasts? Males are basically walking hormones). They were probably real (and if she's a teenager with implants, god help her). So many women pop in implants to achieve a larger chest, but I can't help but wonder if she wished she were flat chested, just so she could go for a run and actually run for once.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Novel Idea
I'd never expected to meet a fellow hopeful novelist at work, due to the heavy information technology slant at T.S. Nonetheless, I did, almost by accident. N.H. dreams as I dream. I know there are more of us out there, but I never really talked much with them when I was in class with them. Now, the main circles I move in, these people are all too rare. And the brief conversations about novels with N.H., and about the process of writing, reminded me that in order to be true to myself, I can never forget that, first and foremost, I write.
What I'd been afraid of admitting was that, despite all the work I'd put into the novel (tentatively titled "Saving Grace" in the fashion that "Final Fantasy" was named as it was to be the final game released by Square), I'd lost motivation and direction. Recently, I'd started editing chapter 1, and going through the thirty thousand words, reading parts here and there. There are plenty of things I don't remember writing, and several times, I thought to myself, "Damn, I wrote that?"
Part of the problem was that I was making it up as I go. Though I have fixed the climax of the story in my mind, all full of revelation and heartache and the necessity that my protagonist continue on despite said revelation, Rollie must still struggle through the story. He has to earn this climax that he will probably discover he does not want, and it is my job to get him there. Rollie does not believe in gods, which is for the best, as I am his creator. Right now, his fate and destiny are mine to sketch, and I am currently failing him.
Times like this make me question what reality is. Are all of you more real than the storied threads trailing in my mind? Am I really me, and the stories my dream, or are they what is, and I just an extended thought cobbled together by their collective mindset? Is this all a pile of metaphysical bullcrap? Probably, but it is nice to dream. And to write. But not so nice to dream about writing. I have to write. If I don't write, I have nothing. I am nothing.
What I'd been afraid of admitting was that, despite all the work I'd put into the novel (tentatively titled "Saving Grace" in the fashion that "Final Fantasy" was named as it was to be the final game released by Square), I'd lost motivation and direction. Recently, I'd started editing chapter 1, and going through the thirty thousand words, reading parts here and there. There are plenty of things I don't remember writing, and several times, I thought to myself, "Damn, I wrote that?"
Part of the problem was that I was making it up as I go. Though I have fixed the climax of the story in my mind, all full of revelation and heartache and the necessity that my protagonist continue on despite said revelation, Rollie must still struggle through the story. He has to earn this climax that he will probably discover he does not want, and it is my job to get him there. Rollie does not believe in gods, which is for the best, as I am his creator. Right now, his fate and destiny are mine to sketch, and I am currently failing him.
Times like this make me question what reality is. Are all of you more real than the storied threads trailing in my mind? Am I really me, and the stories my dream, or are they what is, and I just an extended thought cobbled together by their collective mindset? Is this all a pile of metaphysical bullcrap? Probably, but it is nice to dream. And to write. But not so nice to dream about writing. I have to write. If I don't write, I have nothing. I am nothing.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Asperger's Syndrome
Take the test. I scored a 23, apparently just below your average math contest winner. It also correlates into me not having Asperger's Syndrome.
This will sound strange, but I was almost hoping that I had Asperger's Syndrome, to help explain away the poor social skills. At least then, it would be another reason, a better reason, than just being shy.
It drives me crazy, because I do want to be social, but sometimes I just get really uncomfortable about it. Even among my friends, there will be some occasions when I'll just get that feeling, that heart-gripping sensation, and want to be alone.
It's not that I want to be normal, which is what I used to tell myself all the time. "Why can't I be normal?" If anything, there are times I revel in my peculiar brand of insanity. No, I think it's sometimes more that I want to be accepted. And I know on some level that I am. I guess it is that I wish I didn't stand out so much.
This will sound strange, but I was almost hoping that I had Asperger's Syndrome, to help explain away the poor social skills. At least then, it would be another reason, a better reason, than just being shy.
It drives me crazy, because I do want to be social, but sometimes I just get really uncomfortable about it. Even among my friends, there will be some occasions when I'll just get that feeling, that heart-gripping sensation, and want to be alone.
It's not that I want to be normal, which is what I used to tell myself all the time. "Why can't I be normal?" If anything, there are times I revel in my peculiar brand of insanity. No, I think it's sometimes more that I want to be accepted. And I know on some level that I am. I guess it is that I wish I didn't stand out so much.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wasabi Burns
Did you know that the wasabi you normally acquire isn't usually real wasabi? J.L.J. and I found this out by accident, when the waitress said they had real wasabi, for only two dollars extra. What the hell, always up for a challenge.
Holy crap.
You know how sometimes, you're in a group of people, and the dares escalate more and more absurd? And how sometimes, it involves eating crazier food? Clearly, real wasabi must be a component of any of these competitions.
Was it J.L.J. or me that took the first bite, slathered in this lime green grated root? I remember watching a tear hang in the corner of his eye, as he groaned and tried to refrain from screaming. My experience, no less harrowing.
Each piece revealed a new world of ancient madness, but I would most like to describe the bite I took, slathering the scallop in the root and soy sauce, and letting it sit on my tongue. I remember the sensation that the food jumped straight into my nose, melting through my upper palate. I looked at the setting sun, calling me home, as the entirety of my head cracked into itself. There was a flare of sharp pain, like a broken bone, sustained for thirty seconds. The hope that this would end eluded me, and I started clenching my fists and shaking them at the heavens. J.L.J. said I changed several shades. I told him he'd done the same several minutes ago.
If you're looking for a challenge, rush down some real wasabi. And pray.
Holy crap.
You know how sometimes, you're in a group of people, and the dares escalate more and more absurd? And how sometimes, it involves eating crazier food? Clearly, real wasabi must be a component of any of these competitions.
Was it J.L.J. or me that took the first bite, slathered in this lime green grated root? I remember watching a tear hang in the corner of his eye, as he groaned and tried to refrain from screaming. My experience, no less harrowing.
Each piece revealed a new world of ancient madness, but I would most like to describe the bite I took, slathering the scallop in the root and soy sauce, and letting it sit on my tongue. I remember the sensation that the food jumped straight into my nose, melting through my upper palate. I looked at the setting sun, calling me home, as the entirety of my head cracked into itself. There was a flare of sharp pain, like a broken bone, sustained for thirty seconds. The hope that this would end eluded me, and I started clenching my fists and shaking them at the heavens. J.L.J. said I changed several shades. I told him he'd done the same several minutes ago.
If you're looking for a challenge, rush down some real wasabi. And pray.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Chameloid Identity
My Team (asterisks designate starters):
QB: Vince Young*, Tony Romo, JaMarcus Russell
RB: Joseph Addai*, Willie Parker*, Julius Jones*, Fred Taylor, Mike Bell
WR: Anquan Boldin*, Mark Clayton*, Donte Stallworth*, Isaac Bruce, Anthony Gonzalez, Devery Henderson, Robert Meachem
TE: Randy McMichael*
K: Nate Kaeding*
DST: Eagles*
***
Might have touched on it before, but I was just thinking about how I am many different things to many different people. Some of you flat out love me, and cannot live without me. Admit it. Some of you can't stand me, and hope I go to hell as soon as is humanly possible. Admit it. Some of you, you could go either way when confronted with the idea of me, and don't know near enough to form an opinion, or don't care enough to do so. Admit it. Admission shall set you free, even though it is more expensive at night.
I don't think it really truly hit me until I started paying attention to how I acted around people at work, seeing as how I'm just now getting to know them, as they are getting to know me. I don't act the same way around any two people. There are slightly different nuances, at the very least. Sometimes, radical shifts. This is easy to identify. Any two of you, compare notes on me, and you will find simple, crucial differences.
If you really want to notice a difference, ask someone outside of your social circle about me. There's where the real fun comes in. You may wonder if you're even talking about the same person, or if I'm just playing a truly elaborate trick on the lot of you. And I know I'm not the only one. We all have our baseline personality, sure. But then we add on little modifications, affect small affectations, modify, customize ourselves to the situation, as it would be expected of us.
Of course, this also raises the issue of when am I just me, as opposed to an almost-me. More metaphysical bullcrap, yay.
QB: Vince Young*, Tony Romo, JaMarcus Russell
RB: Joseph Addai*, Willie Parker*, Julius Jones*, Fred Taylor, Mike Bell
WR: Anquan Boldin*, Mark Clayton*, Donte Stallworth*, Isaac Bruce, Anthony Gonzalez, Devery Henderson, Robert Meachem
TE: Randy McMichael*
K: Nate Kaeding*
DST: Eagles*
***
Might have touched on it before, but I was just thinking about how I am many different things to many different people. Some of you flat out love me, and cannot live without me. Admit it. Some of you can't stand me, and hope I go to hell as soon as is humanly possible. Admit it. Some of you, you could go either way when confronted with the idea of me, and don't know near enough to form an opinion, or don't care enough to do so. Admit it. Admission shall set you free, even though it is more expensive at night.
I don't think it really truly hit me until I started paying attention to how I acted around people at work, seeing as how I'm just now getting to know them, as they are getting to know me. I don't act the same way around any two people. There are slightly different nuances, at the very least. Sometimes, radical shifts. This is easy to identify. Any two of you, compare notes on me, and you will find simple, crucial differences.
If you really want to notice a difference, ask someone outside of your social circle about me. There's where the real fun comes in. You may wonder if you're even talking about the same person, or if I'm just playing a truly elaborate trick on the lot of you. And I know I'm not the only one. We all have our baseline personality, sure. But then we add on little modifications, affect small affectations, modify, customize ourselves to the situation, as it would be expected of us.
Of course, this also raises the issue of when am I just me, as opposed to an almost-me. More metaphysical bullcrap, yay.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Learning Language
I know a fair number of individuals that are proponents of classifying programming languages as foreign languages, in an effort to circumvent the requirement of learning a foreign language in college. They argue that computer languages conform to all the requirements of language systems, and thus, should qualify in lieu of French or German.
There are so many things that sound great on paper, and almost plausible. Then you speak them outloud, and the illusion dissipates. On the contrary, I'd almost rather that everyone learn a computer language in addition to a foreign language, and attempt to help bridge the gap between the technical haves and the technical have-nots. Besides, some of those computer science courses need more women.
I'd like to imagine that part of the reason for learning a foreign language is to expand the possibilities of communication with those different than you. Computer languages, on the other hand, expand the possibilities of telling computers what to do. It's almost digital slavery, but for the lack of free will in computing. And someday, in the far-flung future, someone will raise this same issue.
Communication with others. This is not something that developers are naturally good at (and I absolutely suck around people, before you say I'm a hypocrite). If anything, learning a computer language solely will isolate them further from those different than them. Yeah, people are scary, I know this too damned well. Deal with the technological dearth.
There are so many things that sound great on paper, and almost plausible. Then you speak them outloud, and the illusion dissipates. On the contrary, I'd almost rather that everyone learn a computer language in addition to a foreign language, and attempt to help bridge the gap between the technical haves and the technical have-nots. Besides, some of those computer science courses need more women.
I'd like to imagine that part of the reason for learning a foreign language is to expand the possibilities of communication with those different than you. Computer languages, on the other hand, expand the possibilities of telling computers what to do. It's almost digital slavery, but for the lack of free will in computing. And someday, in the far-flung future, someone will raise this same issue.
Communication with others. This is not something that developers are naturally good at (and I absolutely suck around people, before you say I'm a hypocrite). If anything, learning a computer language solely will isolate them further from those different than them. Yeah, people are scary, I know this too damned well. Deal with the technological dearth.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Adrafinil Adventures, part five
A.A. put it best when he told me that TANSTAAFL in medicine. No matter the benefits gained, the person also incurs drawbacks. Sometimes, it's a matter of whether the pluses outweigh the minuses, such as injecting heroin into your veins for a high, and obtaining that heroin-chic look, in exchange for ruining yourself. Other times, it's a matter of if you can combat the downsides with more medicine, such as weaning yourself off of heroin via methadone.
The main benefits, as I see them:
Increased alertness, without the jitters associated with caffeine consumption. Very sweet.
Increased focus and concentration. Useful at work.
Mood elevation. Who knew?
Possibly more outgoing, as I was talking nicely to my laptop, rather than cursing at it.
The main drawbacks:
Quick addiction. On Friday morning, after I'd taken three in two days, I decided to not take any, when I woke up and my first thought was to pop one. Also, I did seem to be a little more depressed, i.e. back to normal, though this could be because I hadn't run for a little while.
Response suppressant, or the "I'm a robot" factor. Friday morning, I did take one at 0800 at work. We normally get brunch around 1030, so I decided not to eat breakfast, especially since I wasn't hungry. It turned out I was, when I got some food at 1100, and my whole body was shaking while I walked. I actually did need food.
Not sleeping. I like sleep, but until that Wednesday night, I wasn't sure how much.
Possible paranoia, moreso than normal.
The final judgment? I take one in lieu of morning coke or coffee. Per pill, it is cheaper than a cup of coffee, and a little more expensive than a twenty ounce bottle of coke. But it has some amazing effects. I also limit myself to one a day, absent extenuating circumstances.
I do note that it takes a while to metabolize, and wonder how modafinil, or new derivatives coming down the pipeline, would affect me. I also will start to plan the mad quest for staying up for 100 hours, and will document that for your pleasure. My body is a laboratory.
The main benefits, as I see them:
Increased alertness, without the jitters associated with caffeine consumption. Very sweet.
Increased focus and concentration. Useful at work.
Mood elevation. Who knew?
Possibly more outgoing, as I was talking nicely to my laptop, rather than cursing at it.
The main drawbacks:
Quick addiction. On Friday morning, after I'd taken three in two days, I decided to not take any, when I woke up and my first thought was to pop one. Also, I did seem to be a little more depressed, i.e. back to normal, though this could be because I hadn't run for a little while.
Response suppressant, or the "I'm a robot" factor. Friday morning, I did take one at 0800 at work. We normally get brunch around 1030, so I decided not to eat breakfast, especially since I wasn't hungry. It turned out I was, when I got some food at 1100, and my whole body was shaking while I walked. I actually did need food.
Not sleeping. I like sleep, but until that Wednesday night, I wasn't sure how much.
Possible paranoia, moreso than normal.
The final judgment? I take one in lieu of morning coke or coffee. Per pill, it is cheaper than a cup of coffee, and a little more expensive than a twenty ounce bottle of coke. But it has some amazing effects. I also limit myself to one a day, absent extenuating circumstances.
I do note that it takes a while to metabolize, and wonder how modafinil, or new derivatives coming down the pipeline, would affect me. I also will start to plan the mad quest for staying up for 100 hours, and will document that for your pleasure. My body is a laboratory.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Adrafinil Adventures, part four
I woke up at 0630, about the same time I normally wake up. The disorientation remained, from having slept so little, but none of the normal exhaustion followed. So, so very strange. I felt about the same as if I'd gotten seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. Everything felt a little out-of-body that day. So surreal. I even popped one around 1100, just to be safe. Well, that and I wanted it.
Thinking back, I cannot remember that day. This is not unusual, for if I am not actively concentrating, I don't remember everyday details. And it was probably an uneventful day, save that modafinil was powering me.I do remember starting to calculate how long I could go before I needed to order more, and already calculating what I would need to do to get that supply. Madness. This is how my obsession manifests: madness.
The crazy thing that I did notice, even though I was not tired, my body was reacting as though I hadn't slept, even though my mind didn't register it. If I don't get enough sleep, my knees and calves ache. I'd had that all day, but chalked it up to the running. No, I just didn't get enough sleep. Had my mind not been cheddar-sharp, I'm sure I would have been colliding into fixtures in the office and the apartment all day long.
That night, I feared not being able to sleep, but I blanked out in less than five minutes. The legends were true. If you didn't take it right before bedtime, you could dare to dream. And now, I dare to dream, but with hesitance and provisos. It was scary that the lack of sleep still affected my body, though not my mind. It is as if adrafinil is the first step in evolution, disconnecting the tethers that tie my mind and body so closely together. (and now I wonder if there is a drug that does so to heart and soul, besides love.)
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Adrafinil Adventures, part three
I didn't have a chance to test all of the positive side effects, but I do know that I was awake and active for the rest of the day at work. It's never the grand gestures that carry significance, but the small, repeated details. I didn't have a chemically induced high, but the world seemed a little better, a little calmer, less harsh. Besides, it was like everything was falling into place at work, like I'd hit the zone. This effect continued later, when I was playing Picross DS, and the puzzles were so much easier than they'd been the day before.
Later that night, around 2100, I wondered if it was time to execute the crazy plan of staying up for one hundred hours. So, on yet another whim (I'm like a woman, in that my emotions more than cold logic dictate my actions. I'm like a man, in that my actions are almost entirely idiotic and wasteful.), I popped another little round white pill. Yes, I didn't think this course of action through. If I'm going to be staying awake that long, it requires more planning. That realization kicked in around midnight,when I'd normally be dead on my feet. Instead, I was awake, raring to go, nothing to do. Could have written, but instead, I played video games. Stupid.
At 0100, I finished Going Postal. Very entertaining story about an angel giving a con man a second chance at life, by forcing Moist von Lipwig (pronounced "Lipvig") to restart the post office. Fantastic, and fantasy based, but Discworld is top-tier, as is Terry Pratchett.
At 0130, still wide awake, but not in the jittery, heart-thumping means, I finally decided that I should try to sleep, in case staying awake all night would affect me as it normally did, making me worthless for the next day, the feminist's dress if you will. "Here I lay me down to" stare. Staring into the almost-dark of my bedroom, cautiously illuminated by a yellowed lamp-post, so weak I'd hardly even known about it, until now.
Somewhere around 0200, I finally lapsed off, but it was a struggle to fall asleep. Most nights, I'm probably down in under five minutes. For a little while, I feared never being able to sleep normally again. As usual, I don't remember what I dreamt about. That probably is a function more of me waking up every hour to check the clock, then trying to peace out again.
Later that night, around 2100, I wondered if it was time to execute the crazy plan of staying up for one hundred hours. So, on yet another whim (I'm like a woman, in that my emotions more than cold logic dictate my actions. I'm like a man, in that my actions are almost entirely idiotic and wasteful.), I popped another little round white pill. Yes, I didn't think this course of action through. If I'm going to be staying awake that long, it requires more planning. That realization kicked in around midnight,when I'd normally be dead on my feet. Instead, I was awake, raring to go, nothing to do. Could have written, but instead, I played video games. Stupid.
At 0100, I finished Going Postal. Very entertaining story about an angel giving a con man a second chance at life, by forcing Moist von Lipwig (pronounced "Lipvig") to restart the post office. Fantastic, and fantasy based, but Discworld is top-tier, as is Terry Pratchett.
At 0130, still wide awake, but not in the jittery, heart-thumping means, I finally decided that I should try to sleep, in case staying awake all night would affect me as it normally did, making me worthless for the next day, the feminist's dress if you will. "Here I lay me down to" stare. Staring into the almost-dark of my bedroom, cautiously illuminated by a yellowed lamp-post, so weak I'd hardly even known about it, until now.
Somewhere around 0200, I finally lapsed off, but it was a struggle to fall asleep. Most nights, I'm probably down in under five minutes. For a little while, I feared never being able to sleep normally again. As usual, I don't remember what I dreamt about. That probably is a function more of me waking up every hour to check the clock, then trying to peace out again.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Adrafinil Adventures, part two
You're probably asking yourself, "K.T., you're already cracked out enough. Do you need to be even more cracked out?"No, but who among us strictly needs anything beyond food, clothing, shelter, all in the pursuit of generic warmth? Ours is a society steeped in chemicals. We drink coffee to get up. We drink alcohol to get down. We drink coffee after we drink alcohol to really get down. Doctors prescribe ADHD drugs at the slightest sign of boredom. Mood elevators, mood downers, muscle builders, muscle restraints. Better living through chemistry.
I only drink Coke to get through work, and I've never tried an illicit drug (though I was prescribed percocet when I had all four wisdom teeth removed. Slept that entire week, it was so strong. Might as well have been opium, only without the crazy dreams.). I don't need this, but I want to try it. Besides, I think it is crazy that the active form of the drug is controlled by the DEA, but the inactive form is not yet controlled. How does that make sense? And am I hoping to be grandfathered in if/when they do start controlling it? Does this mean I need to start stockpiling? Oh, the questions.
It took me a few days to actually try it. Believe it or not, I was frightened. The blister packs weigh less than half a pound, but I could hardly lift them in my hand. I think it was W.T. that made a joke that this could kill me, that I couldn't be sure I'd even received the correct drug. But the box looked so official, the blister packs, so sealed, the packaging so... French? I can't read this. Damn it.
Threw some in my bag, and carried it with me to work. One morning, around 1000, I'd been there for a couple of hours, and was already dragging. Looked at the Coke in my hand, rummaged in my bag, popped a blister, took the pill, swallowed it. Kept on drinking the Coke. I knew that the drug would take a while to kick in, as I kept yawning and downing more coke. After about an hour, the caffeine sleepiness remained, and I thought to myself that I'd thrown more money away on a random whim (and it's a good thing that I make more than minimum wage. If I did not, I would be so screwed, because I would give up the needs to buy stupid crap).
I don't know when exactly it happened, but I noticed that the XML started to make more sense. At first, I chalked it up to familiarity with the material, having worked with it for a couple of weeks now. Then, I realized that my mind was operating on a different level. Not the blinding intensity of a good writing jag where I lose a few hours, but neither was it the barely able to operate moments peppered through my law school career.
Well, well. Hello, nurse.
I only drink Coke to get through work, and I've never tried an illicit drug (though I was prescribed percocet when I had all four wisdom teeth removed. Slept that entire week, it was so strong. Might as well have been opium, only without the crazy dreams.). I don't need this, but I want to try it. Besides, I think it is crazy that the active form of the drug is controlled by the DEA, but the inactive form is not yet controlled. How does that make sense? And am I hoping to be grandfathered in if/when they do start controlling it? Does this mean I need to start stockpiling? Oh, the questions.
It took me a few days to actually try it. Believe it or not, I was frightened. The blister packs weigh less than half a pound, but I could hardly lift them in my hand. I think it was W.T. that made a joke that this could kill me, that I couldn't be sure I'd even received the correct drug. But the box looked so official, the blister packs, so sealed, the packaging so... French? I can't read this. Damn it.
Threw some in my bag, and carried it with me to work. One morning, around 1000, I'd been there for a couple of hours, and was already dragging. Looked at the Coke in my hand, rummaged in my bag, popped a blister, took the pill, swallowed it. Kept on drinking the Coke. I knew that the drug would take a while to kick in, as I kept yawning and downing more coke. After about an hour, the caffeine sleepiness remained, and I thought to myself that I'd thrown more money away on a random whim (and it's a good thing that I make more than minimum wage. If I did not, I would be so screwed, because I would give up the needs to buy stupid crap).
I don't know when exactly it happened, but I noticed that the XML started to make more sense. At first, I chalked it up to familiarity with the material, having worked with it for a couple of weeks now. Then, I realized that my mind was operating on a different level. Not the blinding intensity of a good writing jag where I lose a few hours, but neither was it the barely able to operate moments peppered through my law school career.
Well, well. Hello, nurse.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Adrafinil Adventures, part one
Ideally, I'd have written this at three in the morning, but it never occurred to me to do so. Instead, I was either asleep, or freaking out about not being asleep, and not having any good reason. Well, aside from the fact that I took an anti-narcoleptic substance at 2100, as a test.
Ever since I'd heard of modafinil a few years ago, I'd become enamored with it, especially with the tests the United States Army conducted on pilots. Days awake in a row, with no ridiculous side effects, like leprosy or a taste for dirt. Intriguing. Plus, for those of you that have watched me, you know how easy it is for me to drift off, whether in a car or past 2200. I needed a supply.
Of course, one of the big issues was how to acquire it. This is a controlled substance, and I'm not about to fly out of the country just to try to figure out a way to get a supply.
Random stranger: Can I help you?
K.T.: Yes, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm, uh, I'm looking to purchase something.
R.S.: Marijuana? I know several bars.
K.T.: Uh, not quite.
R.S.: Women? No need to be shy, this is Amsterdam.
K.T.: Um, well, we'll come back to that. But, uh, I was...
R.S.: You cannot surprise me. What is it you want?
K.T.: I'm looking for modafinil. It's an anti-narcoleptic drug.
[SILENCE]
R.S.: You flew to Amsterdam to stay awake.
K.T.: For several days in a row, yes.
[SILENCE]
R.S.: So, about those women...
I'd let the dream go, hoping one of my friends would eventually get a scrip pad (by hook or by crook) and I could abuse my friendship with them by forcing them to write me an illegal prescription. Am I proud that this would be my plan? No, but pride goeth before a fall (and that statement has nothing to do with this). Besides, A.A. and T.K. would have understood. No, they wouldn't have, but I would've found a way.
Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when I looked up modafinil on Wikipedia, and found a link to adrafinil. Oh, no way. Five minutes later, I'd ordered a box off a website I'd never heard of before, then left for work. Things like this are why I need to stop using the intarwebs before work. And, really, despite the emails, I'd hardly expected the supply to come in the mail. When I opened the mailbox that fateful Tuesday, and pulled out the nondescript white padded mailer, with no return address, but "Royal Mail" all over it, my hands started shaking.
Ever since I'd heard of modafinil a few years ago, I'd become enamored with it, especially with the tests the United States Army conducted on pilots. Days awake in a row, with no ridiculous side effects, like leprosy or a taste for dirt. Intriguing. Plus, for those of you that have watched me, you know how easy it is for me to drift off, whether in a car or past 2200. I needed a supply.
Of course, one of the big issues was how to acquire it. This is a controlled substance, and I'm not about to fly out of the country just to try to figure out a way to get a supply.
Random stranger: Can I help you?
K.T.: Yes, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm, uh, I'm looking to purchase something.
R.S.: Marijuana? I know several bars.
K.T.: Uh, not quite.
R.S.: Women? No need to be shy, this is Amsterdam.
K.T.: Um, well, we'll come back to that. But, uh, I was...
R.S.: You cannot surprise me. What is it you want?
K.T.: I'm looking for modafinil. It's an anti-narcoleptic drug.
[SILENCE]
R.S.: You flew to Amsterdam to stay awake.
K.T.: For several days in a row, yes.
[SILENCE]
R.S.: So, about those women...
I'd let the dream go, hoping one of my friends would eventually get a scrip pad (by hook or by crook) and I could abuse my friendship with them by forcing them to write me an illegal prescription. Am I proud that this would be my plan? No, but pride goeth before a fall (and that statement has nothing to do with this). Besides, A.A. and T.K. would have understood. No, they wouldn't have, but I would've found a way.
Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when I looked up modafinil on Wikipedia, and found a link to adrafinil. Oh, no way. Five minutes later, I'd ordered a box off a website I'd never heard of before, then left for work. Things like this are why I need to stop using the intarwebs before work. And, really, despite the emails, I'd hardly expected the supply to come in the mail. When I opened the mailbox that fateful Tuesday, and pulled out the nondescript white padded mailer, with no return address, but "Royal Mail" all over it, my hands started shaking.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Suicide Squeeze
Here's the definition of suicide squeeze in terms of baseball, if you're curious where the phrase comes from. Running for home, risking everything on a hit, something that happens less than three out of ten times, on a good day. Even on those three occasions, you're not guaranteed a score. Pretty slim odds.
***
I have sat on this post for so long. So many edits, and I'll never get it right, but I just have to post it.
Many of you know that I was depressed in law school. Few of you know that I was suicidally depressed in law school. That dark joke I make when I say that I'll kill myself if I work as a lawyer for more than six months? Not a joke. There were a couple of times where the only thing that stopped me was that I didn't have any ice to numb my wrists, and was so lazy from the depression that I didn't want to walk to the Rite-aid across the street to buy some ice.
A lot of you wonder why I hated law school, and I couldn't really articulate to any coherent degree the depths of my hatred. The excuses I gave were all valid, giving yourself over to the law, working insane hours, mindless tedium, sure. At the baseline, however, it wasn't so much me hating law school, but me hating the way law school made me feel about myself, drove me to hate my life, myself, so much that it would have been preferable to end it, rather than keep going. Becoming a lawyer would have only extended the stress, the self-loathing, and ultimately, I would have gotten out by any means necessary.
I'm a creative person; no more than many, just more adept at using my creativity. If I don't express myself in a creative fashion, whether through an absurd statement, or writing, or even a silly walk, then I get depressed. Think of the color bleeding off of a painted peacock in the rain. That's the basic effect. There was absolutely nothing creative about law school. To me, it epitomized everything wrong with the educational system. Rote memorization, parroting back of facts and rules, fitting the fact pattern into precedent. I now think this is why I did so poorly for so long, because I insisted on asking "What if?" and all they wanted to know was "What is."
So much time spent learning, so little time spent expressing. Deeper I sank. Then I started thinking about a future, a boring future, filled with motions and pleadings and research and precedent and oh lord my skin crawls even now. There is no intellectual stimulation in it. It would have consumed me. Bleak, hopeless, pointless. Thought to myself, if that's really what I've got to look forward to, what's the point of going on?
I gave the law three and a half years of my life. Three and a half good years. I almost ended up giving it a lot more. It was so miserable, trudging through it, doing it for my parents. I get along with them better now, but it'll never be the same, and I don't think I can ever really tell them how I felt. And not a one of you reading this will ever tell them, either.
The Law means different things to people. For some, it's a way out of poverty. For some, it's respect. The ability to defend yourself in the real world, without resorting to your fists. A way to get away with more than the laws decree you should. The capacity to defend those that need help, because no one else can, or will. Something to do because you don't know what to do. What is The Law, to me? As close to death as I've ever come, or wanted to come. Is it my shield? Sure, but it was also my sword, and I came very close to coming home on it.
Maybe I should've talked to someone. No, no maybe about it. I should've talked to someone. But I just got caught up in a cycle of depression. It was so easy to be isolated in Baltimore, alone. That's part of why I hate living in VA, isolated, alone. But I didn't, I made it through alone, needlessly, as I always have.
I think the biggest thing was that I felt that no one would understand. Everyone was so proud of me, and they kept telling me that I didn't hate it, that it was a good thing, that I was doing good. For them, maybe. In the face of all that, how was I supposed to tell them that I was so "proud" of what I was doing, it was driving me to the point of getting ready to kill myself? And I'm not blaming any of you, because none of you knew, and I think now that, had you known, you'd have listened.
Instead, the enduring memory of my law school experience was one afternoon, lying on the floor in my apartment, curled in the fetal position, bawling so hard that my nasal cavity clogged up. It was like a cement block in there. I couldn't breathe because of how hard I was crying. Everything went dark as I closed my eyes, my wracked sobs and my heart beat the only things I could hear. And I don't think it really bothered me that much when I thought to myself that that was it, that I would mysteriously suffocate with an open window.
So, why am I suddenly writing about this secret that I've kept for so long? I don't know. Why do we do anything in our lives? But I think the biggest thing, there's no reason for any of you to suffer alone, if you're thinking suicide. Talk to someone, anyone. If you're worried that they're going to think less of you, don't be. If they're your friend, they'll want to see you better, see you alive tomorrow. If you think no one will understand, then talk to me. But please, don't let it get the better of you. It may feel and seem like everything's gone so wrong, and the world's so narrow, but it hasn't. There's always some other way.
***
No post tomorrow. This was hard enough.
***
I have sat on this post for so long. So many edits, and I'll never get it right, but I just have to post it.
Many of you know that I was depressed in law school. Few of you know that I was suicidally depressed in law school. That dark joke I make when I say that I'll kill myself if I work as a lawyer for more than six months? Not a joke. There were a couple of times where the only thing that stopped me was that I didn't have any ice to numb my wrists, and was so lazy from the depression that I didn't want to walk to the Rite-aid across the street to buy some ice.
A lot of you wonder why I hated law school, and I couldn't really articulate to any coherent degree the depths of my hatred. The excuses I gave were all valid, giving yourself over to the law, working insane hours, mindless tedium, sure. At the baseline, however, it wasn't so much me hating law school, but me hating the way law school made me feel about myself, drove me to hate my life, myself, so much that it would have been preferable to end it, rather than keep going. Becoming a lawyer would have only extended the stress, the self-loathing, and ultimately, I would have gotten out by any means necessary.
I'm a creative person; no more than many, just more adept at using my creativity. If I don't express myself in a creative fashion, whether through an absurd statement, or writing, or even a silly walk, then I get depressed. Think of the color bleeding off of a painted peacock in the rain. That's the basic effect. There was absolutely nothing creative about law school. To me, it epitomized everything wrong with the educational system. Rote memorization, parroting back of facts and rules, fitting the fact pattern into precedent. I now think this is why I did so poorly for so long, because I insisted on asking "What if?" and all they wanted to know was "What is."
So much time spent learning, so little time spent expressing. Deeper I sank. Then I started thinking about a future, a boring future, filled with motions and pleadings and research and precedent and oh lord my skin crawls even now. There is no intellectual stimulation in it. It would have consumed me. Bleak, hopeless, pointless. Thought to myself, if that's really what I've got to look forward to, what's the point of going on?
I gave the law three and a half years of my life. Three and a half good years. I almost ended up giving it a lot more. It was so miserable, trudging through it, doing it for my parents. I get along with them better now, but it'll never be the same, and I don't think I can ever really tell them how I felt. And not a one of you reading this will ever tell them, either.
The Law means different things to people. For some, it's a way out of poverty. For some, it's respect. The ability to defend yourself in the real world, without resorting to your fists. A way to get away with more than the laws decree you should. The capacity to defend those that need help, because no one else can, or will. Something to do because you don't know what to do. What is The Law, to me? As close to death as I've ever come, or wanted to come. Is it my shield? Sure, but it was also my sword, and I came very close to coming home on it.
Maybe I should've talked to someone. No, no maybe about it. I should've talked to someone. But I just got caught up in a cycle of depression. It was so easy to be isolated in Baltimore, alone. That's part of why I hate living in VA, isolated, alone. But I didn't, I made it through alone, needlessly, as I always have.
I think the biggest thing was that I felt that no one would understand. Everyone was so proud of me, and they kept telling me that I didn't hate it, that it was a good thing, that I was doing good. For them, maybe. In the face of all that, how was I supposed to tell them that I was so "proud" of what I was doing, it was driving me to the point of getting ready to kill myself? And I'm not blaming any of you, because none of you knew, and I think now that, had you known, you'd have listened.
Instead, the enduring memory of my law school experience was one afternoon, lying on the floor in my apartment, curled in the fetal position, bawling so hard that my nasal cavity clogged up. It was like a cement block in there. I couldn't breathe because of how hard I was crying. Everything went dark as I closed my eyes, my wracked sobs and my heart beat the only things I could hear. And I don't think it really bothered me that much when I thought to myself that that was it, that I would mysteriously suffocate with an open window.
So, why am I suddenly writing about this secret that I've kept for so long? I don't know. Why do we do anything in our lives? But I think the biggest thing, there's no reason for any of you to suffer alone, if you're thinking suicide. Talk to someone, anyone. If you're worried that they're going to think less of you, don't be. If they're your friend, they'll want to see you better, see you alive tomorrow. If you think no one will understand, then talk to me. But please, don't let it get the better of you. It may feel and seem like everything's gone so wrong, and the world's so narrow, but it hasn't. There's always some other way.
***
No post tomorrow. This was hard enough.
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