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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Nauseating Lunch
We went to Fuddrucker's for G.H.'s birthday. B.M. and G.H. both ordered one pound burgers.
Good lord, I wanted to vomit.
B.M. is not a small man. G.H. is.
B.M. finished his without much trouble.
G.H. got tired of eating it, but wasn't actually full. He ate some fries without difficulty. So much meat.
We sat there for ten minutes watching him finish the last two bites, plus many gulps of water to try to cram it down his gullet.
These burgers were larger than J.E.'s head, and the baby has a significantly baby-sized head.
***
I got stuck for a post due to events beyond my control, plus a healthy dose of Picross DS. There is a post I've been working on for a while, but that's not quite ready for posting, and you'll understand why when you read it (it will eventually get posted, if only because it's something I think you all should know about me, but it's not something I find easy to talk about. And, surprise, surprise, it concerns law school.)
Good lord, I wanted to vomit.
B.M. is not a small man. G.H. is.
B.M. finished his without much trouble.
G.H. got tired of eating it, but wasn't actually full. He ate some fries without difficulty. So much meat.
We sat there for ten minutes watching him finish the last two bites, plus many gulps of water to try to cram it down his gullet.
These burgers were larger than J.E.'s head, and the baby has a significantly baby-sized head.
***
I got stuck for a post due to events beyond my control, plus a healthy dose of Picross DS. There is a post I've been working on for a while, but that's not quite ready for posting, and you'll understand why when you read it (it will eventually get posted, if only because it's something I think you all should know about me, but it's not something I find easy to talk about. And, surprise, surprise, it concerns law school.)
New Baby
I picked up Picross DS for the Nintendo DS. Have been looking forward to this puzzle game for a long time. This goes a significant way towards explaining why I "forgot" to post. Seeing as how I "remembered," I might as well describe little J.E., barely three weeks old.
When I visited C.E. and J.E.'s new house, J.E. gave me the opportunity to hold the baby, but only if I washed my hands first. (Let me say, mother and child's same initials wreak havoc with Writ.) Walking over to the kitchen sink, I soaped up, and as I rinsed off all the nasties, I looked in the dish rack. There were at least five baby bottles drying, along with their nipples. The baby consumes a lot, apparently.
When I walked back over, J.E. just held out the baby, and I just sort of took him, really only cognizant of being sure to keep his head supported so it didn't fall off, or something. And after holding him, I understand why. The child's head, topped with a fine dusting of light brown mini-hair, was roughly one-fourth to one-third the mass of his entire body. Really. Remove the arms and the legs, and he is the size of a NFL regulation-sized football.
Standing there like an idiot holding a ticking bomb, both of us were staring at each other, him because he sort of lacked the control to turn away, me because I sort of lacked the control to turn away. His tiny arms and legs still had that undefined look, the skin a few sizes too big, and slipped on, waiting for him to grow into. Just like that too-large clothing handed down from older brothers and sisters. The legs especially wrinkled in all the wrong places; they were still legs, but yet not quite functional, for today.
What struck me hardest was how big and how reflective his sharp grey eyes were. Staring up at me, I could almost see my reflection in them. As he sat there sucking in his pacifier, and every so often panicking and starting to breathe even heavier (panic? maybe just sleepiness?), the baby would just keep staring at me. Those portentous eyes (well, not portentous. A three week old child cannot possibly communicate anything beyond the basics: I am hungry. I am tired. I have soiled myself. Love me.) almost tried to promise to show me the future. Then, the baby spit out the pacifier and started on the verge of tears.
I only held the baby for five minutes before C.E. took him away and put him to bed. Still, holding that barely-there weight in my arms, it was surprising just how light a bundled mass of potential really is. Thinking about the possibility in that kid, it's very frightening.
When I visited C.E. and J.E.'s new house, J.E. gave me the opportunity to hold the baby, but only if I washed my hands first. (Let me say, mother and child's same initials wreak havoc with Writ.) Walking over to the kitchen sink, I soaped up, and as I rinsed off all the nasties, I looked in the dish rack. There were at least five baby bottles drying, along with their nipples. The baby consumes a lot, apparently.
When I walked back over, J.E. just held out the baby, and I just sort of took him, really only cognizant of being sure to keep his head supported so it didn't fall off, or something. And after holding him, I understand why. The child's head, topped with a fine dusting of light brown mini-hair, was roughly one-fourth to one-third the mass of his entire body. Really. Remove the arms and the legs, and he is the size of a NFL regulation-sized football.
Standing there like an idiot holding a ticking bomb, both of us were staring at each other, him because he sort of lacked the control to turn away, me because I sort of lacked the control to turn away. His tiny arms and legs still had that undefined look, the skin a few sizes too big, and slipped on, waiting for him to grow into. Just like that too-large clothing handed down from older brothers and sisters. The legs especially wrinkled in all the wrong places; they were still legs, but yet not quite functional, for today.
What struck me hardest was how big and how reflective his sharp grey eyes were. Staring up at me, I could almost see my reflection in them. As he sat there sucking in his pacifier, and every so often panicking and starting to breathe even heavier (panic? maybe just sleepiness?), the baby would just keep staring at me. Those portentous eyes (well, not portentous. A three week old child cannot possibly communicate anything beyond the basics: I am hungry. I am tired. I have soiled myself. Love me.) almost tried to promise to show me the future. Then, the baby spit out the pacifier and started on the verge of tears.
I only held the baby for five minutes before C.E. took him away and put him to bed. Still, holding that barely-there weight in my arms, it was surprising just how light a bundled mass of potential really is. Thinking about the possibility in that kid, it's very frightening.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Excess Travel, part five
The most notable thing at dinnertime was the bananas foster. Really, any ammount of fire is good. I even went up to the chef to watch the process, and she threw some ru into the pan and ignited it, just for me. I are speshul.
Then, it was time to head back to the casino for the gambling. For some reason, this run created a lot more luck than before, and over the span of a couple of hours, I won around five hundred dollars. Although, really, it would have been smarter to not be a complete idiot and keep on betting money. Still, there's something about the rush of gambling.
At one point, we break to go smoke cigars. I have such awful control over the fire and puffing on it to ignite it, i slobber all over the cigar, so after five minutes, it is dissolving and flaking apart. Really nasty, and the cigar smoke isn't doing much for my voice. So much for the karaoke.
At some point in here, we go to the bar and sit around and watch the dancers. It is about this time that I realize that Foxwoods is different from any other casino I've been to. In Atlantic City and Las Vegas, you can wander to other casinos, but at Foxwoods, you're more or less stuck there. So much for other bars and strip clubs.
Then, it was time to head back to the casino for the gambling. For some reason, this run created a lot more luck than before, and over the span of a couple of hours, I won around five hundred dollars. Although, really, it would have been smarter to not be a complete idiot and keep on betting money. Still, there's something about the rush of gambling.
At one point, we break to go smoke cigars. I have such awful control over the fire and puffing on it to ignite it, i slobber all over the cigar, so after five minutes, it is dissolving and flaking apart. Really nasty, and the cigar smoke isn't doing much for my voice. So much for the karaoke.
At some point in here, we go to the bar and sit around and watch the dancers. It is about this time that I realize that Foxwoods is different from any other casino I've been to. In Atlantic City and Las Vegas, you can wander to other casinos, but at Foxwoods, you're more or less stuck there. So much for other bars and strip clubs.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Excess Travel, part four
D.C. garnered a promotion at the meeting, a surprise to him. This now means we have to genuflect in his presence, those of us that are T.S. employees. We also cannot look directly at his enterprise content management goodness, for he glows so bright it would sear the retinae to gaze directly upon his glory.
I tried taking notes for the rest of the meeting, truly, really, honestly, I did. But I did not. This would potentially come back to haunt me during the trivia session, which asked questions based on the information given during the meeting. Poor A.A. had to leave early, and his name came up three times during the meeting. Given the nature of the questions, that was a guaranteed prize, if only he'd stayed a little longer. I actually ended up indirectly the answer to a question: "How many lawyers does [T.S.] employ?" Really, this question had two correct answers, "1" and "too many."
The meeting proper concluded, I made haste to the craps table. This part of trip gets somewhat hazy, but as I recall, I proceeded to lose three hundred dollars in twenty minutes. (Did I mention I have a borderline gambling problem?) It was around this time when I realized that someone else was going to have to hold my credit cards for the remainder of this trip, as happens every time I go a casino for more than a few hours. My hands were starting to shake and sweat, and I could feel myself ready to blow off dinner, stay at the tables, and make my fortune.
Oh, I had a crazy fantasy that I'd win three-point-seven million dollars, put it all in an interest bearing account, and live off of the interest for the rest of my life. All this starting from the five hundred dollars in my pocket. (Did I mention I have a gambling problem?)
I tried taking notes for the rest of the meeting, truly, really, honestly, I did. But I did not. This would potentially come back to haunt me during the trivia session, which asked questions based on the information given during the meeting. Poor A.A. had to leave early, and his name came up three times during the meeting. Given the nature of the questions, that was a guaranteed prize, if only he'd stayed a little longer. I actually ended up indirectly the answer to a question: "How many lawyers does [T.S.] employ?" Really, this question had two correct answers, "1" and "too many."
The meeting proper concluded, I made haste to the craps table. This part of trip gets somewhat hazy, but as I recall, I proceeded to lose three hundred dollars in twenty minutes. (Did I mention I have a borderline gambling problem?) It was around this time when I realized that someone else was going to have to hold my credit cards for the remainder of this trip, as happens every time I go a casino for more than a few hours. My hands were starting to shake and sweat, and I could feel myself ready to blow off dinner, stay at the tables, and make my fortune.
Oh, I had a crazy fantasy that I'd win three-point-seven million dollars, put it all in an interest bearing account, and live off of the interest for the rest of my life. All this starting from the five hundred dollars in my pocket. (Did I mention I have a gambling problem?)
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Excess Travel, part three
Walking through the front door, D.R. met D.C. and myself with wonderful name tags, our first name emblazoned on them in bold, bold print. While better than serial numbers (no, I will not answer to “Big 1600.” Boy howdy, did I love high school.), I jot a mental note (in effect, thinking obsessively until it blends into the continuous background thoughts that plague me) to remove the label if I venture beyond the TS conference rooms or the bathroom.
I believe it was law school that conditioned me to take, take, take. At least in the realm of free food. Lunch was a nice spread of various sandwich breads, lunchmeats, salads, vegetable sandwich toppings, sandwich spreads (raspberry horseradish, really?), and those ever-loveable potato chips. Even though I wasn’t that particularly hungry, I still piled on the food, believing that the meeting would start at any second. Kaiser roll, eight slices of ham and turkey, thin onion slices, fresh green lettuce leaves, and a healthy dollop of that raspberry horseradish. Delectable, and served to distend my gut. Also lots and lots of caffeine. I want to get wired for the gambling, because there are borderline mental problems, and I need every aid I can find to combat the serial madness.
We broke and re-assembled in the meeting room. G.H., R.P. and I took a seat off to the far left, about as far away from the main entrance as you could manage. We were all provided by the casino a notepad, pen, and free individually wrapped Tic Tac Slivers. Yes, individually wrapped. I do not know if you have ever had any of them, but they are about the width of my pinky nail all around, and a tremendous waste of wrapping. Bronzed for the orange inside. I ate about fifteen in five minutes and accumulated an unkempt pile to my right. G.H. had one, left the wrapper neatly at his hand. R.P. did eat a fair amount, though he spread out his consumption over the course of the meeting, and the bowl was also right in front of him.
Now, let’s be honest. The main reason for holding a company meeting inside a casino/hotel is to gamble. J.F. was the first speaker, and probably the first to inform us that T.S. did not advocate gambling in any fashion (an airtight legal disclaimer if ever I had the opportunity to state one). Didn’t know what to expect, but I figured it would be straightforward and full of useful information that I would forget within ten minutes of leaving the room.
After a few more introductory statements, they named all of the experience employees hired over the course of the half year. Then, C.:. told all of us we were to introduce ourselves to the group.
Jigga what?
I was fourth on the list, and so three other people spoke before me. All very accomplished, comprehensive introductions. These people belonged, or at least made a good show of faking it. Meanwhile, I can feel my heart slamming against my ribs, and my palms soaking through the tablecloth, as I’m desperately trying not to fly out of there, or vomit, or fly out of there while vomiting. I believe they term such an action the “vomit comet”?
In hindsight, though not as accomplished as the other speakers, my journey from undergraduate to TS is definitely far from ordinary, and I should’ve just rolled with that, giving the entirety of my mad journey. Or, I could’ve made up a new life story, had I not been freaking out. Off the top of my head, I failed to graduate from undergraduate with a degree in math, coming up two classes short. Instead, I went to work as a garbageman in Baltimore City for several years, before I realized the error of my ways, and transferred into the actuarial division of an insurance company. After tiring of the grind of guessing when people were going to die, I finished off the degree and decided to start at TS. Instead, it came out something like this:
K.T.: Hi, I’m [K.T.], I’m boring, I have black hair. If you have any questions, I’m going to defer to [D.C.].
Then, C.L. let’s loose the bomb, that I’ve been to law school. Well, there ain’t no way I can dodge it now, much as I’d love to. Tarnation. “They” tell me there will come a day when I can stand tall and proud of my postgraduate degree, and I won’t attempt to hide it from people. Until then, I do what I can to avoid telling people, even if it means telling them I’m [short], dark and boring.
I believe it was law school that conditioned me to take, take, take. At least in the realm of free food. Lunch was a nice spread of various sandwich breads, lunchmeats, salads, vegetable sandwich toppings, sandwich spreads (raspberry horseradish, really?), and those ever-loveable potato chips. Even though I wasn’t that particularly hungry, I still piled on the food, believing that the meeting would start at any second. Kaiser roll, eight slices of ham and turkey, thin onion slices, fresh green lettuce leaves, and a healthy dollop of that raspberry horseradish. Delectable, and served to distend my gut. Also lots and lots of caffeine. I want to get wired for the gambling, because there are borderline mental problems, and I need every aid I can find to combat the serial madness.
We broke and re-assembled in the meeting room. G.H., R.P. and I took a seat off to the far left, about as far away from the main entrance as you could manage. We were all provided by the casino a notepad, pen, and free individually wrapped Tic Tac Slivers. Yes, individually wrapped. I do not know if you have ever had any of them, but they are about the width of my pinky nail all around, and a tremendous waste of wrapping. Bronzed for the orange inside. I ate about fifteen in five minutes and accumulated an unkempt pile to my right. G.H. had one, left the wrapper neatly at his hand. R.P. did eat a fair amount, though he spread out his consumption over the course of the meeting, and the bowl was also right in front of him.
Now, let’s be honest. The main reason for holding a company meeting inside a casino/hotel is to gamble. J.F. was the first speaker, and probably the first to inform us that T.S. did not advocate gambling in any fashion (an airtight legal disclaimer if ever I had the opportunity to state one). Didn’t know what to expect, but I figured it would be straightforward and full of useful information that I would forget within ten minutes of leaving the room.
After a few more introductory statements, they named all of the experience employees hired over the course of the half year. Then, C.:. told all of us we were to introduce ourselves to the group.
Jigga what?
I was fourth on the list, and so three other people spoke before me. All very accomplished, comprehensive introductions. These people belonged, or at least made a good show of faking it. Meanwhile, I can feel my heart slamming against my ribs, and my palms soaking through the tablecloth, as I’m desperately trying not to fly out of there, or vomit, or fly out of there while vomiting. I believe they term such an action the “vomit comet”?
In hindsight, though not as accomplished as the other speakers, my journey from undergraduate to TS is definitely far from ordinary, and I should’ve just rolled with that, giving the entirety of my mad journey. Or, I could’ve made up a new life story, had I not been freaking out. Off the top of my head, I failed to graduate from undergraduate with a degree in math, coming up two classes short. Instead, I went to work as a garbageman in Baltimore City for several years, before I realized the error of my ways, and transferred into the actuarial division of an insurance company. After tiring of the grind of guessing when people were going to die, I finished off the degree and decided to start at TS. Instead, it came out something like this:
K.T.: Hi, I’m [K.T.], I’m boring, I have black hair. If you have any questions, I’m going to defer to [D.C.].
Then, C.L. let’s loose the bomb, that I’ve been to law school. Well, there ain’t no way I can dodge it now, much as I’d love to. Tarnation. “They” tell me there will come a day when I can stand tall and proud of my postgraduate degree, and I won’t attempt to hide it from people. Until then, I do what I can to avoid telling people, even if it means telling them I’m [short], dark and boring.
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