|
|
Akbar, Lord of the Unseen
|
|
|
| A special message from Rupert |
[13 Jan 2004|03:38am] |
This journal is seldom updated.
There are reasons for this. A few of them center on the fact that I'm sort of afraid to spill out my thoughts and feelings to the internet at large. Or even my friends at large. Those of you who know who my feelings are for, are probably too well aware of how I feel.
Other reasons that this journal doesn't get updated probably have to do with me being lazy and unreliable. I've had a lot of problems in my life with reliability. Nobody thinks that they can depend on me anymore, I believe, so they just don't. The worst thing is that they're probably right, if this journal is the litmus test.
What do you do when you're not sure of anything anymore? When you've been in the water so long that you can't tell whether you're sinking, swimming, treading water, or drowning?
I guess it's find out what it is you're doing, and kick hard. Use a steady scissors motion with the legs and circles with the arms, keep your head above water, and don't give up.
I won't ever give up.
|
|
| *poke* |
[18 Dec 2003|01:33am] |
I'm alive.
But just barely.
It's early AM and I don't know where I left the keys to my heart.
|
|
| An evil overlord's work is never done... |
[20 Nov 2003|05:32am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
sleepy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Tortoise - Seneca |
] |
"This kind of crap always happens. Just before you're ready to start your engine of death, and get into some really hardcore evil overlording, something breaks. Something always freaking breaks."
A man hops down from his luxurious real-naugahide overlording seat and trudges over to a wall of erratically bleating lights. A lever is snapped, sneering at him from the floor. Obviously a reader of the more well-respected villain publications, he casts aside his fall-collection Black World Domination cloak and takes the newly-liberated lever from the floor.
He flings it at a monkey.
He misses.
"I had to go with the vintage model. Cripes. 'Just as much power as this year's model death laser', he says! 'Enough wattage to write your name on the moon', he says! This should teach me to listen to the damned salesman. Vacuum tubes. Levers. Dials and useless banks of ticker-tape! I don't even know what this ticker-tape says!"
The would-be overlord snatches at a handful of paper tape spewing from a slot located conveniently near the broken lever. On it is a neatly printed dotted-line, not readily pertaining to much of anything.
"Great, I bought a big fancy dotted-line printer. 'Quaint', my ass."
Undaunted, our villain retrieves the manual.
"There's got to be something to help in this. I paid an extra quid for this manual at Akbar's Secondhand Juggernaut Emporium, and I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth of it."
Rummaging.
"Ah, here it is, Dotted Line Tickertape."
SEC 23.221B DOTTED LINE TICKERTAPE
THE PRINTING OF A DOTTED LINE ON THE MAIN TICKER SIGNIFIES THAT THE DOTTED-LINE PRINTING UNIT IS ON-LINE AND OPERATIONAL.
"Jesus."
---
Where should this go?
|
|
| head.. hurts.. uuuuurngh |
[22 Oct 2003|01:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
confused |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Cornelius - Another View Point |
] |
I'm convinced that there is a set amount of learning that one can do in a single night. That amount generally changes from person to person, but it hovers somewhere around the amount of learning that you missed between the last test and the night in question.
No one can pass that threshold and survive.
No one.
As you get closer and closer to that point, your brain begins to fill up. Like a gas tank, only it's your brain, and most healthy people don't put gasoline in their brains. The pressure builds and builds, as if your brain is going "dude, stop. seriously." Only two things can happen if you continue down this dangerous path: either your head explodes, or you start squeezing out important information. Like how to breathe. Or, god forbid, how to learn. Then you'd be really fucked.
At any rate, I'm at the point where it feels like there are fourteen billion chimpanzees taking turns beating me over the head with sticks covered in feces. Yeah, that point. The one that makes you wish that you were, say, a rock, and not a person, since rocks generally live wonderfully peaceful and uncluttered lives.
When was the last time you saw a rock studying?
|
|
|
[20 Oct 2003|03:30pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
annoyed |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Closet Monster - Romanticism And The Fat Man |
] |
Rawr.
I downloaded a LiveJournal client in an attempt to motivate myself into posting more in it. Since Liz was nice enough to give me one of her codes, I hardly think it should go to waste on my slack ass. My worthless suitemate Mike went through my stuff this weekend moved my turntable around in ways that turntables don't like to be moved around. Now, all I get is the right channel through my speakers. Grr. Arrrgh.
::breaks out soldering iron::
::pulls curtain closed::
::burning smell, occasional scream::
|
|
| Singin' the holy crap it's nearly 8am and I'm not nearly prepared for my finals as I should be blues |
[07 Aug 2003|07:32am] |
In the interests of, well, nothing in particular, I have decided to post here an hourly breakdown of what I will be doing today, in case one of you is struck with the unreasonable urge to get in touch with me. Or touch me. Or something like that.
700-750am Wake up, get dressed, shower. Begin dread.
800-1100am ECE220 final. Continued dread with scattered panic through lunchtime.
1100am-1250pm Lunch.
100-400pm ECE211 final. Dread returns with his buddies Guilt, Dismay, and Severe Diarrhea.
500-730pm This time is set aside for sobbing into my pillow.
740-820pm Dinner.
830pm- More sobbing.
|
|
| Honeybuns... of DOOM! |
[30 Jul 2003|10:53am] |
Math hates me. Math hates the world. Beavis and Butthead, to wit: "I'm like, mad at numbers." "Yeah, there's like, too many of em and stuff. heh."
In honor of today being Wednesday, I've devised a list of things that I am absolutely sure are trying to kill me. Some may be trying harder than others, but they all want me dead. I've yet to come up with any specific defense against all this death.
Cloverhill Bakery of Chicago, IL.
Yes, the purveyors of tasty goodies from your local vending machine is trying to kill you. How, you say? Take a look at the back panel on the wrapping of that delicious morsel of baked honeybun goodness you just finished. It's got 630 calories. 40 grams of fat. 10 grams of saturated fat. These things have enough fat and calories in them to feed an entire family of Somalis for a week! Luckily, I spotted this little sixty-five cent double bypass for what it was before I sank my teeth into its seductive sweet pastryness. HA HA! I WIN, CLOVERHILL BAKERY OF CHICAGO, IL!
France
A Frenchman threw a spoon at me the other day. No, I'm not kidding. I think I pissed France off somewhere along the line and then forgot about it.
Suite 802E Metcalf Hall
I'm quite hazy on the details of this as well, but Rick informs me that my suitemates are bloodthirsty scoundrels bent on seeing me in free-fall for a couple seconds, just before I hit the ground. They seem like nice enough people, if a bit loud.
|
|
| It's here. |
[24 Jul 2003|02:29am] |
And it doesn't look bad.
All of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
koolatron's journal