failure to thrive

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 16:34:31 GMT

I have a sore throat. Baby Doe’s has ice cream. I need ice cream for my sore throat. I thought about this a bit and came up with a plan in which I would go to Baby Doe's and get some ice cream. It was quite a clever plan if I do say so myself.

So I go to Baby Doe's to get some ice cream, some nice plain, preferably vanilla ice cream. I do not want things in my ice cream. I do not want candy in it. I do not want cookies in it. I do not want cake dough in it, or kiwi fruit, or sausage, or automobile parts, I want some plain, ordinary, normal ice cream that has nothing in it except ice cream. And of this, of ice cream that is ice cream and nothing else, they have none. They do not carry ice cream for the sake of ice cream, in fact they seemed rather befuddled that I could possibly want such a thing. What I actually wanted was to start shouting at people but I refrained from doing so because a) even if I am rapidly becoming a grouchy old lady I can still try to hide it, and more importantly b) my throat’s sore. See above.

WoW fic, again: Rain of Frogs

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 19:25:26 GMT

Rain of Frogs

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The mage dodged a slow leak from the ceiling, straight into a faster one. "Drat it," he said.

"Shh," said the warlock. He didn't bother to whisper, and the sound echoed off the damp walls. Hundreds, or perhaps only dozens, of feet above them the weight of Coilfang Reservoir pressed upon the ceiling. Drip. Drip. Drip. The mage looked up nervously and wished, as he did every month, that he was somewhere else. "It's not here again," he said. "Let's go home."

"We've hardly started."

"It's the wrong day," the mage said, knowing the gambit would fail.

The warlock shook his head. "You know the demon comes out on the full moon."

"Which moon? I've seen as many as six here in Outland, and at least once five of them full at the same time. Are you sure--"

"I'm the warlock," said the warlock. "I think I know what demons do, thank you. They come out at the full moon. And it was a full moon a year ago when it attacked me."

"Two full moons actually."

"And it will be out tonight, and this month we're going to find it and kill it and lay it to rest once and for all."

Drip. Drip. Drip. Cold water ran down the back of the mage's neck. He shook his head, and caught sight of something moving along the wall. "There," he said. "There it is!"

The warlock turned and looked. A small green frog hopped past them.

"Here's your chance," the mage said. "Kill it."

The warlock turned away. "That's not it."

"That's the frog, I'm sure of it."

"That is not the demon frog," the warlock said firmly. "The one that attacked me. The one that, this month, we're going to get for sure if you would just shut up and do your job."

The mage did not roll his eyes. Eleven previous full-moon expeditions into the naga camps under Coilfang had taught him, if nothing else, that to display any frivolity toward the demon frog would just stretch the pain out longer. "It's not going to be here again this month," he said. "How long do frogs live, anyway? It's probably dead by now."

"It's not dead. If it were dead I'd know it." The warlock walked around a puddle, holding the edge of his sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim carefully above the water. "Haven't I seen it in my nightmares every night for a year now?"

"You don't even remember the fight, how can you see the frog in your nightmares?"

"How can I not when it marked me like that? It was an epic battle. Epic, I tell you."

"I was the one who told you the details, as I remember."

"Demons wipe memories." The warlock waved away the objection with one perfectly manicured hand. "But I do remember how I woke up the next morning and found the beast had totally ruined my best boots." He pointed to his right foot, where a charred black gouge scarred the pink brocade. "And I was mortally wounded--"

"No you weren't, it was a first-degree burn at worst."

"Mortally wounded in my foot," said the warlock, pointing, "and my leg," he continued, pointing, "and up here all the way to my--"

"I was there," the mage said rather quickly, "I know where you got burned, you don't need to show me. Okay, so the demon frog attacked you, can't you just let it go?"

"You see that," said the warlock, indicating the faint scar, "and you want to tell me to let it go?"

"I see that and I want to wash my eyes out with essence of pain."

"And the night elf priestesses that were with us haven't spoken to me since. Probably because I failed in my warlockish duty and didn't defeat the demon."

"You can't blame the frog for that."

"They wanted me," said the warlock. "Before this happened."

"Didn't I say you don't need to show me? Twice?"

"They were twins. Twin night elf priestesses and they were completely hot for me. I could tell."

"Could you cover that up again, please?"

"That frog," said the warlock, readjusting his clothes, "cost me pain, humiliation, and night elf twins, and it will pay. Oh, how it's gonna pay."

"Every month you say that, and every month we get cold, wet, beaten up by nagas, pinched by bogstroks, and we never see so much as half a demon frog footprint. It's been a year. Let it go."

For answer the warlock whirled the sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim dramatically about his shoulders and walked off. The mage sighed and followed.

They passed the side corridor where eight months ago a group of naga children had thrown clam shells at them and laughed at the sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim, and the now-empty group of slave cages where nine months ago the naga guard had run screaming from the warlock's succubus ("He must be gay," the warlock had said. "Or it could be that he doesn't like her whipping him with that painlash," the mage had said. "No," the warlock had said, "definitely gay.") They edged cautiously into the room where three months ago they had walked in on two naga aquamancers, a Broken slave, and a large pot of whipped cream (the slave had been the angriest) and, finding it unoccupied, passed through. The hall beyond, where two months ago they had been set upon by a pack of bogstroks in the dark, was now brightly-lit by naga torches. Perhaps they hadn't been the only ones to run afoul of the bogstroks.

The warlock paused. "Look," he said. There was a passage in one wall, a small natural tunnel close to the floor. It was little more than shoulder-width wide, and water seeped along its edges. "Never saw that before."

"Interesting." The mage waved his hand in front of the cleft. "There's a bit of a draft coming through. I wonder where it goes."

"Let's find out." The warlock dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the opening.

After a moment spent suspending all his better judgments, the mage followed. The passage was pitch-dark, cramped, and far too narrow in places for his liking. "I don't like this," he said.

"Keep going."

"I really, really do not like this."

"Stop whining, you pansy. The draft's getting stronger, I think we're getting closer to the other end. If you don't get your fat ass stuck back there, you can--Illidan's left hoof, what the HELL is that?"

The mage jumped at the sudden shout, cracking his head against the passage's roof. "Ow! What the hell is what, what's going on?"

"Shh! Get in here, quickly!"

Drip. Drip. Drip. There was water in the mage's eyes and the passage was too narrow for him to reach up and wipe it away. He plowed forward, half-blind, and suddenly tumbled out of the crack into a small cave. It was far from spacious but large enough to stand up , and an opening, maybe six feet across and half that high, let in both light and air. The warlock stood before the cave mouth, transfixed by something the mage could not yet see. "I found it," he said.

"Found what?"

"I found the demon frog."

"But that's impossible," said the mage without thinking.

"Come here, look."

The cave opened onto a ledge near the ceiling of a huge cavern. Phosphorescent lichen clung to hundreds of stalactites hanging from the ceiling, their glow lighting the area. Below the mage could see clusters of mushrooms along the walls and floor, some twenty feet below them. A bogstrok moved among the fungi, grazing. A bogstrok the size of a devilsaur.

"There it is!" the warlock said gleefully. "The demon frog!"

In this cave, too, the ceiling dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip. "That's not a frog," said the mage.

"It's in its demon lobster form."

"Since when do demon frogs have demon lobster forms?"

"I know a demon when I see one," said the warlock. "I'm a professional. I say that's the demon frog, and I say we go down and kill it."

"I say I open a portal to Ironforge and we get the hell out of here."

"Oh no. He's not going to escape my wrath. Not after all this time." The bogstrok clattered aimlessly about the floor, pausing to eat a dozen mushrooms in a single gulp. "He's going to die."

"We're going to die."

"I don't care."

"I do," said the mage.

"I've got to face the demon." The warlock wrapped the sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim tightly about his shoulders and assumed a pose he obviously thought looked grim and dangerous. "Only one of us will walk away from here tonight. And it's going to be me, because frogs don't walk, so if it was the frog he'd be hopping."

"But--"

"Screw 'but'. A whole year I've been obsessed with tracking this evil beast down, and now with victory within my grasp you want to leave. Go ahead, then, leave. I'll do it myself."

"It'll kill you."

"I'll take it with me," said the warlock, and now he looked both slightly demented and totally serious.

The mage took a deep breath. "Look," he said. "I need to tell you something."

"Can't it wait?"

"No, I need to tell you now."

The warlock eyed him suspiciously. "You're not going to get all weird on me, are you?" he said. "Because I'm kind of busy right now and I have enough to deal with, so if you're going to get all weird on me because we're facing certain death and everything can you please save it for--"

"There is no demon frog."

"That's because it's shapeshifted into a demon lobster," the warlock said in that tone of voice that was usually reserved for explaining things to five-year olds or hunters.

"There isn't any demon frog," said the mage, "there never was any demon frog, and that demon lobster has nothing to do with any of it. You were never attacked by a demon frog."

"Excuse me? What about my epic battle with the demon frog, the one you were at? What about my good boots? Look at my boots! What about my foot? Look at my foot! What about my--"

"Elune's garter, would you put your pants back on?! There was a frog, but it wasn't a demon. It was just an ordinary frog. You were drunk and you cast a shadowbolt at it and missed."

"I never miss."

"And you tried again and shot yourself in the foot."

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Finally the warlock said, "But you told me--"

"You were so drunk you didn't remember any of it, so we decided not to tell you what really happened because we didn't want you to be embarrassed. Well, some of us didn't." Drip. Drip. "Well...I didn't."

The warlock was silent for a long moment. "So. The twins..."

"They were kind of--" The mage coughed. "Uh, amused."

"Amused."

"Yes, and they kind of--"

"What?"

"Told."

"Who?" said the warlock in rather a small voice.

"Uh. Everyone."

"Really," said the warlock. "Well," said the warlock. "Wait," said the warlock. "You mean to tell me--You stand there and tell me--Everyone, you say? And my boots, and every full moon, and, and--Everyone?"

"No frog," said the mage. "No epic battle. No reason for us not to turn around and go home and maybe get drunk in front of a nice warm fire. What do you say?"

What the warlock said, for a few seconds, was nothing. He gaped, his mouth working but no words coming out, looking -- the mage realized with some surprise--quite a bit like a frog. "But my foot," the warlock said finally. "My leg. My--" He stepped backwards onto the edge of the sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim. He teetered for a moment, said, "Oh, fuck," and fell off the ledge.

The mage decided to give himself credit for only thinking about the portal to Ironforge once. He whispered the words of a slow-fall spell, rolled up his sleeves, and jumped down after the warlock.

-----

"A demon lobster," said the warlock. He sat in the softest chair before the fire, his bandaged foot propped up on the table, a glass of wine in one hand. "I hunted it for a year. Every full moon, despite the great personal danger, because I could not let such a menace stalk freely in Outland..."

"'We'," said the mage, pouring himself another glass of wine. "'We' couldn't."

"I and my trusty sidekick who was completely not in charge, tracked the path of the foul beast through the endless caverns far beneath the innocent, unsuspecting crowds. Some of whom were night elves, just like you," the warlock added to the night elf priestesses who were watching him raptly. There were six of them, newly dispatched from Darnassus, and had not yet wandered past the safety of Sid's hearth.

"Tell them the part where you were mortally wounded," said the mage.

The priestesses exclaimed in alarm and talked rapidly among themselves in Darnassian. "Girls, girls, don't worry," said the warlock. "Though it was a great struggle I pulled through, though I'll always wear the scars. I'll show you later, if you're nice...Why yes, my foot does hurt a bit, it could use a renew or two, thank you." He made a great show of suppressing a wince as one of the priestesses took the bandaged foot into her lap.

The mage supposed that, being a healer, the priestess would be able to tell that the bandage covered nothing dangerous or even painful. But it wasn't really any of his business. He passed the wine to the quietest of the other priestesses, who bowed her head gracefully in acknowledgement.

"It was an epic battle," the warlock said. "No, no, I shan't tell you the details, I shouldn't want you to have the nightmares I do."

The warlock's part in the fight had consisted mostly of rolling about on the floor swearing at his sprained ankle, but he had offered considerable moral support and unsolicited advice about the efficacy of fireballs against shellfish. The bogstrok, for its part, had seemed too bewildered by a world in which warlocks could fall onto its head out of nowhere to offer any resistance to the mage's attack. They'd sold the large chunks of bogstrok tail to a restaurant in Shatt and the mushrooms to a troll vendor in Lower City who wanted to make some kind of salve from them ("If it make bogstrok dat big it make other t'ings dat big, you bet. I be makin' a fortune from dem gnome boys now") and, in the most satisfying outcome of all, the sequined cloak with the gnoll-fur trim had been thoroughly ruined. True, the warlock had promptly replaced it with one made of orange panne velvet with a bright green satin lining and a beaded edging made from pieces of the bogstrok's shell, but you could not, the mage supposed, win them all.

The quiet priestess smiled at him. It was true you could not win them all, the mage considered, but sometimes you could win one. He raised his glass to her and smiled back, and the warlock leaned back in his chair and said, "Next full moon, I will destroy that demon...demon trout. Yes, I remember, the one in the hot springs in Nagrand. The demon trout that haunts my nightmares...perhaps you girls would like to come with me?"

drawing from random photos on the internet ftl

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 14:43:05 GMT

Pencil man.

Ink man.

Mad man. He wasn't that mad in the original photo but he sure got mad later on.

livejournal.com/users/kaelthas01

Fri, 16 May 2008 15:15:36 GMT

livejournal.com/users/kaelthas01

Tuesday
My dad is SO GAY.

He's telling me again he's going to cut off my allowance if I don't get a job, but I know he's not going to and anyway when I take over Outland I'm not gonna need an allowance any more, so there. Besides if I need money my friends can get jobs. Sanguinar can paint houses or something, and Telonicus knows how to fix roto-copters, and Thaladred's too gay to do anything like that but he could go work at Subway or whatever. I don't think Capernian has ever had a job but she totally wants me and I don't blame her. I might be nice to her and give her some just for the hell of it. But in any case mostly they don't work, they hang around and tell me how cool I am while I figure out how to take over Outland.

I got a good start on taking over, I hired some army guys and got a giant robot. My dad didn't want to spend the money but I told him I need them because the Naaru are totally gay and keep sending people here to take me out, but they're always too gay to do it. A bunch of them actually broke my giant robot tonight and I was like fuck them. Thaladred was crying because he was all scared and he's a pussy so we all laughed at him, but the army guys killed the guys from Shatt and Sanguinar can fix up the robot when he has time, so it all turned out all right.

-----

Wednesday
I have the most pimp ride ever. Me and my friends went to Shatt and everyone was totally envying my phoenix and pointing and shouting. Pimpest ride EVER. A few people got burned up when I landed which was fucking cool. We all went to the mall and hung around and security was following us but they can't do anything to me and they know it. I got some new shirts and a totally hot pair of pants. Capernian wanted a new skirt so I bought one for her, but the rest of them had to buy their own stuff and Thaladred didn't have enough money for the Orange Julius and we all laughed at him. Security was hanging around us in the food court but they know my dad will sue them, plus there were so many people there who wanted to see me and get my autograph and stuff it wasn't even funny. And when I got my phoenix out they were all oohing and ahing, a bunch more of them were burned up but totally THE most pimp ride ever. So when the mall closed we went back to TK, and I said to Capernian did she want to come see how I looked in my new pants, but she said she had a headache from the Orange Julius and was going to bed early, and Telonicus did too. So Sanguinar and me played pool for a while with Thaladred and totally beat his punk ass and he cried. He's so gay.

-----

Thursday
OMG some fucker STOLE my phoenix! It wasn't in the garage this evening and Sanguinar and Capernian and Thaladred are all here so they didn't borrow it, not that they would without asking me. I called the cops and told them if they didn't find it I would get their asses fired, and my dad will sue too and they know it. So I want to know who the fucker was becuase I'm going to totally fuck that gay fucker up the ass like you would not believe.

The guys from Shatt were back today and they beat the crap out of Thaladred and we all laughed our asses off at him. What a fucking pansy. I killed them all with my weapons and I told Capernian I had another epic weapon I could show her and she was all like really? and I was like Yeah. She's totally hot for me. I gotta get rid of the guys this weekend so I can have some fun with her alone, you know what I mean. But I have to get the cleaning lady in here now before I can do that, there's bits of shatt guys everywhere and even in the carpet.

-----

Friday
I'm going to have a big party tomorrow night and I'm inviting all of my friends and I'm NOT inviting that fucker Vorenthal and his asskissing friends, so there. And I'm not inviting the Naaru because they don't have any hot chicks. Telonicus and Capernian went down to Cosmowrench to buy the beer and I was working on the invitations and then Thaladred was all being a pussy because the guys from Shatt were back, and I let them beat the crap out of him just to see if they could make him cry. Which he did. He's totally fucking gay. It took like forever for Telonicus and Capernian to get back for some reason so it was just me and Sanguinar, and I had to actually go down there and cast flamestrikes on people myself and it was completely gay. Telonicus and Capernian said their dragonhawks wouldn't fly for some reason and they had to wait for a vet to show up to get them started again, which sounds like a phony excuse to me but what else could they have been doing in Cosmowrench for two hours anyway? I'm totally pissed off at like everybody right now, and I wasn't going to let them come to my party but I decided I would just because I'm cool like that. Besides I figure Capernian is gonna be really sorry now and she'll want to make it up to me, and I figure I'll let her, you know what I mean.

-----

Saturday
The party was fucking great. Everyone had a great time and Thaladred had one drink and was puking for like hours. How gay is that? We were all laughing our asses off at him. Sanguinar did this really funny imitation of the guys from Shatt and how they all run away from me and had everyone laughing. I haven't seen Capernian for the past couple hours, I hope she's not sick or something. I don't see Telonicus either but whatever, if he wants to be antisocial that's his problem. I'm going to go to Capernian's room and see if she's all right, I can comfort her if she's not feeling well if you know what I mean. As long as she's not puking, of course. I'm wearing my hot new pants and I don't want puke stains on them.

-----

Sunday
OMG OMG OMG I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS. I went to Capernian's room last night and she was there doing it with Telonicus. TELONICUS. They've been going at it right behind my back this whole fucking time. She said something about she really likes his toys, or whatever. What a fucking BITCH. This is SO GAY I can't BELIEVE it. When I'm ruler of Outland she'll be SO fucking sorry. I took both of them off my FL and I'm gonna have my dad kick them out of TK too. On top of that those guys from Shatt are downstairs again. I'm calling the cops on them this time, see if I don't, but first I am going downstairs and I am gonna kick their FUCKING. GAY. ASSES because I am REALLY pissed right now and they are SO GAY.

-----

Monday
WTF. W.T.F..

-----

Tuesday
OMG my parents are SO GAY.

The Spirit Healer was all like "Your dad wants to talk to you" and I was all like "No way" but he and my mom showed up anyway and they're giving me the fucking lecture like they OWN me or something. Bad enough those guys from Shatt beat the crap out of me but now my dad is all like "see that shows you can't be ruler of Outland" and my mom is just all agreeing with him. And when I asked if Capernian and Telonicus got killed too which serves them fucking right my dad said they were going to move to Silvermoon, and apparently Sanguinar's mom is totally pissed at him and making him move back home and the cops still haven't found my phoenix. Thaladred came to pick me up from the Spirit Healer and he is totally gay because he was asking if I was all right and everything, and I told him he was an asshole and he cried but at least he's not leaving TK like the rest of those pansies. I'm going back to TK and I'm going to get my giant robot fixed and I'm going to take over Outland. And Capernian and Telonicus and Sanguinar and the guys from Shatt and the Naaru and my parents, they are ALL gonna be sorry. TOTALLY. Because they are all SO. GAY.

Post of generalized bitching

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 15:19:58 GMT

"In Spotlight this week:
thinkpositive30
Every day for at least 30 days, come post a positive thought."

There is pretty much nothing I can say about this that could be any worse than the community description in and of itself.

II.
It has a Hunter's Mark on it. It is not yours. It is mine. That's my mark, that's my mob. MINE. NOT YOURS. Let’s go over this. It's marked, it's not yours. It's sheeped, it's not yours. It's slept or banished or trapped or shackled, NOT YOURS. DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU. DO NOT TOUCH IT. What part of this are you failing to understand here? Is there some sort of visual aid that would help explain it to you? Such as me coming over to your house with a rolling pin and smashing your keyboard into sixteen different pieces? Would that do it? Because I’d be perfectly happy to help you out with this. More than willing.

III.
I do not know the status of your application. I do not know what the admissions committee is doing this year, but "deciding on applications" is not high on its list. I could ask the committee chair but for some reason when I dial his number I get a reception desk at some hotel in Cabo San Lucas. So no, I am not deliberately playing keepaway with your admissions decision, no, I am not making you dance like a puppet by not telling you. I do not know. And I will not know in the next half an hour when you call me again. I do not know the status of your application.

IV.
My boss goes through my trash. She goes through my trash and says "No. Recycle this. No, don't throw this out here, take it to the can outside the north door because it might attract mice. No, why are you throwing out that folder that is torn almost in half, put tape on it". What are you, practicing to be a bag lady? MY TRASH. STAY OUT. Here, I've put a Hunter's Mark on it. MINE. NOT YOURS.

NEED MOAR KITTEH

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 15:59:56 GMT

Tabby kitten
Originally uploaded by insufficiently leet

Tabby kitten
Watercolor, 3.5" x 2.5"

rotten worthless demanding little gits

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 21:07:07 GMT

As in, the campus is full of them today. It is possible I do not have a good attitude about the beginning of the semester any more.

I seem to have forgotten to schedule making any New Year's Resolutions, having only some vague notions like sleep and remember to watch tv before DVR fills up. I did have one goal of doing a daily painting blog and, while I am doing daily paintings and learning a lot, they are not postable. So I have no proof and you probably don't believe me.

Kitty cat cards for an iATCs swap:

Small cat, large dog
Two blue cats think you should sleep on the couch tonight
Three blue cats do not want to pose for their picture
Five blue cats want you to give them their dinner now

harassed by dead singing guys

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 15:41:36 GMT

who sing harassing things at me. John Lennon on the bus, And so this is Christmas, And what have you done? *dead guy smirk* and at home Frank Sinatra mocking me on a commercial, If other people do it why can't you?

SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU WRETCHED TOADS YOU'RE DEAD YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING THIS YEAR EITHER YOU CAN'T TALK OR FOR THAT MATTER SING

Ahem.

Anyway,

Untitled, since any title would basically be something like "Untitled picture of untitled guy"

----

Green Man
Pen and ink in Moleskine, as above. This one crossposted to moleskine_users

My Epic Poem About AV

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 15:46:36 GMT

or "Why I'll Need To Make Another Journal For the 50 Things Community Because Now They'll Never Let This One In"

We queued for the battle at quarter to three
Two pallies, three hunters, a shammy and me,
We filled most of the last spots but number forty
Was Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

"I top the HK list in every AV,"
He told us in yells that rang through the BG,
"All others fade into obscurity
Next to Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree."

I wore my best shield and I tanked NPCs,
The pallies buffed everyone that they could see.
"We'd get more honor if you all weren't newbies,"
Said Archmage Giuseppe Maconald Macree.

The hunters killed off the Horde scouting parties
The shammy capped Iceblood along with the pallies.
"The success of this battle is all due to me,"
Said Archmage Giuseppe Maconald Macree.

We fought our way into the Keep steadily,
The pallies, the hunters, the shammy and me,
"Now this is where you must defer finally,"
Ordered Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

"I don't want you to talk back to my strategy
I need a meat shield and a totem or three
Now admire my damage and all heals on me,"
Said Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

I looked at the pallies, and they looked at me,
The hunters they nodded, as did the shammy,
And we headed north, one hundred eighty degrees
From Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

"Alliance in my keep? This thing can not be!
I'll kill them all!" Drek vowed passionately.
He charged from his lair but all who he could see
Was Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

The graveyard spewed forth bitter profanity
We died on the bridge but we smiled secretly
The Horde won the battle but we'd won ourselves free
Of Archmage Giuseppe Macdonald Macree.

Hypocrisy = survival

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 15:46:35 GMT

I'm a Red Sox fan. I live in Metro Denver. I am smugly happy but I have to do a very very good job pretending I'm not. hypocrisy ftw

Well, I'm convinced

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 15:41:11 GMT

She is indeed God and must be worshipped appropriately.

Donkeylock

Thu, 11 Oct 2007 14:18:28 GMT

Donkeylock
Originally uploaded by insufficiently leet

Donkey warlock. Pen and ink [Lamy Safari M, Noodler's blue-black] in Moleskine, 5" x 8".

Trivia

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 14:08:10 GMT

It's Columbus Day but we don't have it off cause that would be silly.

I saw pigeons soaring on thermals over the stadium this morning. Pretending they are crows, I thought, working up a mental LJ post, then no not crows, vultures. Vultures? Screw vultures, hawks. Pigeons pretending they are hawks... and then I thought This is pretentious bullshits. They're just being fucking pigeons. My thought patterns are rather prosaic these days, which prevents a lot of bad poetry.

I've signed up for NaNoWriMo this year but I am dubious, as the community seems to consist entirely of bouncy bouncy twenty-year olds who introduce themselves in posts full of "*giggles*". I'm still not sure what the type "my kind of people" consists of but it's definitely NOT that one.

Who is your anti-muse?

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 22:45:26 GMT

A field guide to the Anti-muses

Notebook a gogo

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 16:23:04 GMT

On the bus

Mechanic

Man on bench

Two women at a bar

"Bust-a-bility, bust-a-bility, com-bust-a-bil..." "QUIET!!"

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 16:35:27 GMT

Lighting the Way to the Literary Underground

From the article:

In recent years a very hard-edged underground literary movement has emerged on both English-speaking sides of the Atlantic. Writers as geographically distant and stylistically diverse as Canada's Matthew Firth, New Jersey's Mark SaFranko, London's Lee Rourke and Tony O'Neill have found a common ground based around an honest, no nonsense kind of writing and a philosophy that largely rejects both mainstream publishers and the academic world in an attempt to create a vital literature that exists entirely on its own terms. Though the individuals who make up this movement claim many different influences and certainly acknowledge no leader, the work of Dan Fante seems to have had a significant effect on all of them...To summarise it briefly, Dan Fante's universe is one in which frustration, impotence, alcohol, sex, and the search for an artistic dream freed from the massive falsehoods of contemporary American culture fuse into a highly combustible whole that at times threatens to engulf both reader and author alike...

Mike curled miserably around his peppermint mocha latte and would not speak.

"Come on," Henry coaxed. "It's not that bad."

"It is," said Mike. His iPod lay on the table between them, inert.

"Everyone can't be dysfunctional, Mike."

"You don't understand." Mike gave a despairing glance at his ultralight laptop, its brushed chrome case gleaming faintly in the light from the espresso bar. "My work has no value, Henry. I'm not combustible."

"Who said you had to be combustible?"

"Everybody. The reviewers. The publishers. The Guardian's book blog." Mike hid his face in his hands. "You know what, Henry? I've never been homeless. I've never had a drinking problem. And, God help me --" He looked around for a moment, as if fearing literary ninjas in the shadows -- "Henry, I've never, not once, shot off heroin. How the hell am I ever going to get tenure if I never shot off heroin?"

"I think it's 'shot up'."

"Whatever. Listen, Henry, my entire life is futile. I have a good job and a loving family. I'm mentally and emotionally stable. I've got to face it. I'm never going to be a writer."

There was nothing to say to this. They sat in silence for five minutes before Mike lifted his head and gazed at Henry's biscotti. "You gonna eat that?" he said.

It's funny because it's TRUE

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 23:51:09 GMT

BEST USE OF WEB PAGE EVER: The Postmodern Paper Generator. Refresh it a couple times too. Go ahead, do it.

-----

Amy was always the most equitable of them in facing the new semester, the most patient, the most affectionate towards the most impossible of undergraduates, and was as a consequence always assigned the freshman overview courses. All seemed fine with this arrangement until that fall term when she barricaded herself in her office and refused to come out.

"Amy," said Henry, tapping gently on the door. "Amy, your class started half an hour ago. They're wondering if they should leave."

"They're all postmodernists," she said. "They don't need my permission to leave. They don't need anything."

"They're just kids."

"They turned in their first essays last week." Amy's voice started to climb steadily, like a trapeze artist ascending to the wire. "Did you know, Henry, that there was actually no such thing as the Civil War? Did you know that it only exists because we acknowledge it happened?" Henry heard scratching sounds behind the door. "Did you know that there is no such thing as history? Did you know, Henry, that it's all a conspiracy?"

"It can't be that bad," Henry lied.

"They're everywhere, Henry! They're in my classes! They're on the faculty! They run the journals! Even my own CAT has gone pomo on me!" Her voice rose to an impressive shriek. "He catches mice and he chews the heads off them and lines them up on the kitchen floor. He's DECONTEXTUALIZING them!"

Miles hurriedly arranged for the rest of the term to serve as an emergency "research semester" for Amy, which she spent in the Botany department looking at pictures of orchids. Save for one bad setback (she had run across a team of psychology grad students in the department greenhouse doing a project based on the theory plants did not grow if people did not look at them), the time away calmed her enough to return to her job in the spring. Henry adopted her cat who, deprived of his mice, settled down to a theory-free existence of naps and cuddling in front of the television. He did make one attempt at deconstructing the arm of the sofa by choosing to believe it was his scratching-post, but Henry's counter-example of "spray bottle with water in it" overrode that theory. It worked so well that Henry seriously considered using the same argument on his students.

I love the Guardian's book section

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 19:43:16 GMT

no really, I do.

The digested Booker shortlist

No sir, I didn't like it

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 20:46:20 GMT

So I was up half the night scratching my arm and my neck where I was mugged by wasps yesterday morning (little bastards moved into a hole directly over my front door and then had the temerity to get offended that I used said door) and the places where I got stung were red and swollen and itchy and it made me more surly than usual, which as you are no doubt aware is quite a lot to begin with.

So since I couldn't sleep I read a book about the Lindow man that was written by two people who seemed to have archeological cred in the beginning but turns out they were fucking high or something when they wrote it because they kept spinning off speculations that half a paragraph later they'd be asserting were facts, and I would have thrown the book across room but I had to keep putting it down to scratch my arm instead. The "D" word should have tipped me off right from the beginning. What we truly know about the Druids can be written on one side of a 3x5 card with enough room left over to draw a pony in the margin. Or, of course, we can write an entire book and make shit up. Did I mention I was a little surly?

The Unsuggester told me to go read some Salinger instead, or a cereal box. Either would be more historically accurate.

Drat insomnia anyway

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 17:43:03 GMT

I got up way too early this morning and, while on most days I can play WoW for a little bit until either I fall back asleep or it's time to actually get up, on maintenance days I can't. So I spent the early morning hours hanging with my homies on the forum and making fun of locks.

Lifetap
Instant cast
The warlock gets all emo and superficially cuts itself, producing an AOE Whine for Attention of "HAEL ME" that puts a ten-minute Mood Debuff on all healers within a fifteen-yard range.

Improved Lifetap
Lifetap will now automatically post screenshots of the warlock's self-injury to its LiveJournal.

I hear that a guy killed a lock once and won the game.

For the sake of clarification to my entire friendslist which has no idea what I'm talking about -- no, I don't play a lock. And you better not either.

Campus stabbing. No, I'm not kidding

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 17:38:59 GMT

There was a stabbing on campus this morning. Right outside our building, at the UMC. There was blood. There were bomb threats. There were text messages to the students. There was nothing said to faculty and staff. NOTHING. Didn't find out until one of our faculty couldn't get in the building and asked why there were so many cops everywhere. RIGHT. OUTSIDE.

http://www.dailycamera.com/news/2007/aug/27/cu-student-stabbed-umc-first-day-classes

Yeah, that's me in the comments there, saying the same thing I just said here except in a sort of indoors voice.

If I hear that Viagra commercial ONE MORE TIME

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 15:29:23 GMT

I'm serious. I was watching the NFL network all last night and that asinine commercial with its asinine music was on EVERY SINGLE BREAK. I swear. Oh yeah, I really don't know why I get so bent out of shape over it, I mean men need Viagra so they can have all the sex they want, right? It's only fair, after all we women see ads all the time about birth control methods so we can get all the sex WE want, right? It's not like when men want to have more sex everyone is fine with that and when women want to have more sex information is withheld from them and pharmacists refuse to let them have anything to help and if you talk about it on tv, much less in a commercial, you get a wave of screaming protest from people who think women should never have sex unless they are married and producing babies. It's not like that's the way it is, right?

OH WAIT

Filksinger's Ode To Last Night's Somewhat Flawed Kara Run

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 20:13:25 GMT

Not that I'm bitter or anything, as my Vent phonetic says.

I'd like to get this raid to stop
Worshipping pallies
I'd like to pour myself a Coke
And fix my talent trees

I'd like to get this raid to stop
Mocking my distress
I'd rather have another Coke
Than continue with this mess

I'd like to teach this raid to learn
To pull in twos and threes
I'd like to fear bomb fifteen mobs
And drink my Coke in peace

I'd like to see this raid confront
The boss and call for me
While I pour out yet one more Coke
And pretend that I've d/ced.

What Would Jesus Blog?

Mon, 20 Aug 2007 15:25:43 GMT

Day 15,094,343^56
Had lunch with Peter. Reading the new Harry Potter though I already know how it ends. Stupid omniscence. Peter ordered the tuna salad and I said "I knew you would order the tuna salad" and he said, "Yeah, You're omniscent" but he always orders the tuna salad. Shame about Snape but he had it coming.

Tuesday
Made a hurricane and aimed it at Florida. It bounced though. Will try again next week.

14:35 pm
Long interesting IM conversation with Krishna last night, must type it up, mostly shop talk but there's some good stuff there I could use for a post or two. He didn't like the new Harry Potter so much but then he isn't into fantasy. I made a cat macro about it, will put it up tomorrow.

August 3567th
There’s another thread about Me on Metafilter and I made a couple of sockpuppets and trolled it, had lots of fun. You'd think with all this free publicity I get on the Net I could make some money off it but there's too much competition for My name. I knew I should have invented trademarks and gotten Myself properly registered before I started My own business way back in the beginning but I didn’t. What good's ominiscence if you don't listen to it? My mother always said I didn't plan ahead, I guess she was right.

Day 15,094,352^56
Had lunch with Peter. He had the tuna salad. Again.

Wizard on bus

Wed, 15 Aug 2007 11:56:16 GMT

Wizard on bus
Originally uploaded by insufficiently leet

Yes, I spend too much time drawing while commuting.

Despite the recent acquisition of a new pen (and another pen and another pen and a box of pens and another pen and...) my handwriting remains illegible. You look up "illegible" in the dictionary and there is a picture of me there, except it's all blurry and indistinct because, you know, illegible. What's worse is the bad habit, or symptom of approaching senility, I've developed lately in my typing where I inetrspose lettrs or leave tehm out o r do stupid thingswit ht he psace bar, has somehow transplanted itself wholesale to my longhand. Who the hell ever heard of transposing letters in handwriting? Why is my brain apparently now convinced that they are spelled teh and yuor and sonmolent? And why do I keep asking myself so many rhetorical questions?

In breaking Karen news, which is totally skippable and you can go to the kitchen and get a beer while we report it, I put the Unshelved feed back on my friendslist because even though I hate the way they include the banner ad in their posts I really want more people to read the strip.

And as a warning for people who made the mistake of once upon a time giving me their IM handles, I am reading a very upsetting book and there may be subsequent whining. Just be ready on that "block sender" key.