| 08:20pm 16/08/2004 | |||
| I am not a self-starter. I can do anything at all that needs doing, but not a whole hell of a lot unless it NEEDS doing. Really. It's frustrating as hell, sometimes. I can move heaven and earth if there's a good reason, like a friend wants them moved. But I often forget to eat until someone reminds me. Getting my lazy ass out of bed takes an act of congress, and cleaning up the house.... you're kidding, right? This is an issue, I think, that ought to be addressed, but I'll be damned if I know how. Actually, I have gotten better at it, but progress is VERY slow, and I'm getting impatient. Anybody else grock this condition, and/or know of any ways to handle it in something like a short time? | |||
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| Tired. | |||
| 05:59am 13/08/2004 | |||
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I'm tired of waiting; tired of playing it safe, and most of all, I'm tired of being the person I'm expected to be. Fuck that. Fuck what's "appropriate". Fuck what's "practical". Fuck what's "safe". Above all, Fuck what's "normal". Income taxes, divorce, and death are the normalcy of this day and age, and those things all suck. Happiness, Love, and acceptance are rare things indeed. Apparently, normalcy leaves much to be desired. Since normalcy sucks so bad, I think I'll forsake it. This body is mine. (all of it) This time is mine. (all of it) In other words, this life is mine. (all of it) I'm not waiting any longer. There is only one course of action that makes any sense to me, and this is it: I will make my heaven in this world, even should that making burn all my years, and leave me only moments; I will make my heaven in this world. Perhaps I'm a fool. Perhaps I'll fail. Perhaps I'll make a fool of myself in so failing. Perhaps I don't give a fuck. Someday, I will die. I accept that, and all the mysteries therein concealed. But on the day I die, I'll be damned if I look back on my life and recall what might have been if I'd only had the courage of my convictions. There's a reason they say cowards die a thousand deaths. - It's because they fucking deserve to. I am fully aware that I could be wrong, that I might fail, that I might "bite off more than I can chew", and so not overcome all that stands in my way and make my heaven here. But I know this: If I should fall; if I should prove unworthy of all that which I desire, it will not be because I held back. It will not be because I gave up. It will not be because I yielded to pain. Nothing can stop me. Only that. And since I don't see it here, I think it's time to kick this pig. |
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| Thoughts.... | |||
| 05:51am 11/08/2004 | |||
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Been thinking again... The fact that one exists is one of the most basic of all concepts. If there is anything that can be taken for granted, that is it. Just the fact that you're wondering means that you're here to wonder, right? Questioning one's own existence has got to be the silliest thing since helmets on skydivers. So why am I questioning it, then? I know it's silly, but I'm not sure of my own existence, or why that uncertainty bothers me. Hell, I'm not even sure if I should bother thinking along this vein. ... but I know damn well that I will, so I guess I might as well do it right, eh? To be continued, I think ... |
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| Angels | |||
| 05:45am 11/08/2004 | |||
| I hate angels. They're cold, unfeeling, and otherwise soulless. Fucking machines, the whole lot of them. Never evolving, never growing, never seeking to improve themselves or anyone else. They're monsters, and would deserve to be wiped out, if anything so empty and meaningless could deserve anything at all. Predictable to a fault, even the bad ones. They're puppets, only seeming real when they're in motion. The rest of the time, they might as well not exist. They're the pinnacle of falsehood, the soulless fucks. What good is perfection if you've got no means to appreciate it? | |||
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| Hrmmm ... | |||
| 06:57am 06/08/2004 | |||
| Just got in from Respect's... And I found a barstool in the bed of my truck... It slooks like one of the barstools from Respect's, but I have no idea what it's doing in the back of my truck. Either someone's having a joke on me, or I somehow procured it from Respect's last night... interesting. | |||
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| Not ... dead .... yet | |||
| 06:59pm 01/08/2004 | |||
| As I've decided to go insane for a few weeks, this seems the appropriate place to do so. WHeeeeEEEEeeeeEEEEE!!! | |||
| selling out | |||
| 11:07pm 15/04/2003 | |||
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I hate to do it, but I've gone over to livejournal. nothing against this one, squeak. I do like this journal, but i've been beaten into submission by spring. the url of my new journal is: http://livejournal.com/users/kires |
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| No good deed goes unpunished. | ||||
| 04:40am 03/03/2003 | ||||
The self-riteous prick then got on the phone, and called up my supervisor, crying that I wasn't following SOP's. Guess I interrupted his MUD'ing or something. So naturally, the powers that be remind me ever-so-gently that procedures must be followed, even when they interfere with getting the problem fixed. Fine. Whatever. Fuck 'em. I'm all done trying to get the job done. From now on, I'm gonna follow their little rules, and let the goals those rules are supposed to support fall away. Here's a motto for you: "Fuck the customer. Fuck operations." Just follow the rules and take home your paycheck. Try not to give a damn about getting the job done, or you'll burn out. |
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bitchy| The sleeping dragon in my Nissan | ||||
| 04:35am 25/02/2003 | ||||
It's quite simple and elegant, really. Nothing more than pressure switches in the seats, wired to a regular 'ole solenoid mounted on a cannister of ouchee-spray, aka tear gas. When the safety is off and the SD is armed, any weight in the seats will close a switch, which will in turn activate the solenoid, which will fill the car with tear gas. So when our friendly neighborhood thief gets into my car seeking to get something from it, like the stereo or the speakers, there will be a hissing noise from the car, followed by a screaming noise from the thief. At that point, I'm pretty sure the only thing he'll want to "get" will be "away". |
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creative| How to handle pcycho chicks that stalk you at night clubs. | ||||
| 07:11am 16/02/2003 | ||||
Sit down next to her and introduce yourself in a loud and happy voice, then poke her in the arm saying in the style of a 3-yr-old, "Hey! what's your name? ::poke poke:: Why do you keep following me around? ::poke poke:: Huh? ::poke:: Hey, lady! Can you hear me? Heeeeloooooo! ::poke poke:: I thought you wanted to talk to me. ::poke poke:: Gee whiz, lady, you're rude! (as she _finally_ gets embarrassed and leaves.) Hrmph! The long answer is that a few months ago, this chick approached me on the dance floor, and started lightly kicking me in the shins. WTF!? I didn't know her from Adam's cat, and she starts kicking me? So I moved away. Then this bitch (she graduated from "chick" to "bitch" here) follows me, and starts doing it again. So I ask politely (ok, not politely), "What!". She just grins at me, and walks off. Since then, she's been stalking me at Reject's. When ever I go out back, she's never been more than 45 seconds behind me. Grinning at me like a fucking Cheshire cat. That is, until I make a show of pointing her out to whomever I'm talking to. Then she goes away. Inside, it's not as bad, but I still turn around to find her within like 5-10 feet of me at least 4 or 5 times a night. And always with that grin that just begs to be knocked down her throat. So I finally got tired of it, and called her bluff. I guess she didn't have anything to say, after all. :-) |
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satisfied| New Home, and how I could be spending more time there soon. | ||||
| 06:24am 10/02/2003 | ||||
Work, however, is a horse of a different color. A horse thats looking me with love in it's eye, right about now. See, I made a typo in a canned response, and as a result, I could be cast out from my cubicle in disgrace. lol. As it should be. It was a one-character typo, but the consequences could be far-reaching, as this canned response was sent to over 300 clients. It should be noted, that 299 of them didn't bat an eye, but one did, and that goody-goody felt that it was his civic duty to contact the maligned, and report the mislaying of blame. See, I said "mysql" where I should have said "mssql", and now Mr. MySql himself is irate that Vertigo is blaming him for the shagging of the internet which took place a few days ago. ::sigh:: Personally, I don't think that a one-character typo is just cause to can someone, but hey, maybe that's why I'll never be management. All I hope is that should I get cock-slapped into the unemployment line by HR, that I have some warning. Just one shift with our clients, knowing that I'm not coming back. Just one night on the phones, with nothing to lose. That's all I want. That's not a lot to ask, is it? |
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drained| Priorities | |||
| 12:43pm 22/01/2003 | |||
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Well, I burned up a sick day this past Sunday night, out getting burned, scratched, frozen and drunk. All in all, the night was much better spent than it would have been contributing to Vertigo's SLAs for technical support. I had something a lot more important to do than technical support. I had a party to attend. Not just any party, either. When I was growing up in the middle of nowhere, aka Clewiston, FL, the only thing to do for recreation was to head out to the middle of the everglades, build a bonfire, and get schnockerd. Then we'd do the things that schnockerd teenagers do in the middle of the woods. We'd play war games, armed with paintball guns, flaming oranges wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags, and the sticks. We went skiing, which basically meant wearing off the bottoms of our boots and shoes (and occasionally pants) hanging on to the back bumper of a car, being dragged along one of the dirt roads. Sometime's a game warden or sheriff's deputy would come out and "bust" us, but I don't recall them ever making us go home. They'd just tell us to keep it down, and then "confiscate" our booze. Sometimes they were cool and left us some. As we got older, the trips out to cannon hammock got fewer and further between, and they nearly stopped when we all graduated and moved on to bigger better things, and were too grown-up to go get drunk on cheap booze in the middle of nowhere, around a bonfire. I got married and moved to Minnesota (no, I don't know what the hell I was thinking.) Eric went on to do far too many cool things to be listed here. Kevin went to college, becoming a teacher. Ed became a PI, I became well ... a geek. There's other people, and other stories, but no one of those stories are my point, which I'll get to, promise. What matters is that our little group remained friends, although we fell out of touch for years at a time. Then we started to die off. First Ard, who no-one really liked, went out like a hero, and surprised us all. When a power line fell on his cousin during the cleanup of Hurricane Andrew, he pulled if off without hesitation. Yeah, he was the one we just "let" tag along, but still... Then Eric went, a motorcycle accident on a rainy night. Fitting, if you knew him. It was a shock, but I don't really think that anyone expected Eric to live too long, least of all him. He had too much fun, and burned too bright to last long, you know? Eric's death taught us what Ard's should have, that we weren't immortal after all. So we started getting together again, in the middle of the woods, once a year, after Christmas with trees to burn and stories to tell. Wives have come and gone for some of us, jobs and homes likewise. But every year we get together, those of us that are in the state at the time, anyway. We're not old, but we've lost a few, and chance is sure to take more, sooner or later. Next year, I might be dead, run over by a drunk, or hit by lightning, or Kevin, or Stoker, or Dave, or Ed, or any of us. This world isn't getting any safer. So it's important to me to see my friends when I can, because I know that it's not unlikely that one or more of them won't be able to make it next year, due to being dead. Let's say for instance that (god forbid) something happens to one of them, and I hadn't gone out there that night. Then I'd get to spend the rest of my life remembering that the last chance I had to see so-and-so, I decided that it was more important to go in to my job, ensuring the SLA of some big faceless foreign-owned corporation. heh, riiiight. I don't fucking think so. |
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| This is the move that doesn't end. It just goes on and ... | |||
| 12:01pm 17/01/2003 | |||
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The move continues. It's 10:30 A-fucking-M, I'm awake, hung over, tweaking all to hell, and the brakes on the Truck are grinding like cheap coffee beans. I tell you what, there's really nothing like moving 3 households of stuff out of a 2nd-floor apt in the middle of the day when you're hung over and tweaking like Beevis, still exhausted from the previous night's revelry, and wondering exactly when the brakes are going to give out. Good times! Good times. Fun Fact: Did you know that Das Ich is pronounced Das-each! for some damned reason. Don't those Germans know how to speak English? The new house is tres cool, pre-wired with redundant (that means 2 lines per room, for all the illiterate folks reading this) cat5e lines to all the bedrooms, which meet up in a A/C'd server closet! (the cat-5, not the bedrooms) Even the internal phone lines are done in 5e, just because it's inherently cooler than rj-14 or whatever the hell regular 'ole phone line is called. We moved some schtuff in a few days ago, after breaking in to the new place with a push-knife. Truly an omen if ever there was one; should I be afraid? As it should be. The house has electric and water, but no phone service yet 'cause the oh-so-cool cat-5e phone lines are just hanging out the side of the house all sad and lonely, instead of being nicely nestled into cozy new BellSouth j-box. OK, time to get back to work. ... But first, the whores! |
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| 11:57pm 23/12/2002 | |||
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Well, I finally went to the Coral Castle this past Saturday. It is easily one of the coolest things ever done by one of us humans. One tiny little (five-foot-nothing and a hundred lbs.) guy built the place, with only hand tools and no help. That means he quarried the stone in blocks of 2-30 tons each, carved them, moved them, and set them in place, all by himself. What he built will stand as long as there is ground beneath it. There have been some repairs made, and it's obvious to me, anyway, that the people that made the repairs do not have the skill of 'ole Ed. You've got to have one hell of a lot of skill to make a stone rocking chair that weighs a couple 'a tons, and works just as smoothly as any grandma could hope for. Not to mention the stone lazy-boy that damned near put me to sleep. My compatriot that day accused me of going to sleep, but I maintain that I was just really relaxed. :~) At least until she started kicking me ... There's a gate there that weighs nine tons. It works just like any other revolving door, and just as easily. The bearings he used in it's construction worked for 60 years with no lubrication. When they finally gave out, it took six guys and a crane to repair what this one man had built. Now _that's_ cool. And the cherry on the sundae is that he did it all because some chick dumped him. Oh by the way, the place has a website. www.coralcastle.com |
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| Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free. | |||
| 02:31am 18/12/2002 | |||
| Ya know, I think whoever said that just may have had a point there ... lol That's all for now. Film at 11. | |||
| Read 5 - Post | |||
| Goddamn seatbelts. | |||
| 07:19am 08/12/2002 | |||
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Yesterday, on the way to Ft Meyers, I passed a semi truck. When I passed him, I found that the reason he was going so slow was that there was a small, white car with govt tags directly in front of him, maintaining the posted speed. The fucker! So, having plenty of room, I passed him, too. A few seconds later I checked my rearview mirror, and saw the little whit car, as expected. However, it was about five feet above the road and upside-down, as was not expected. It rolled and tumbled a few times, and came to rest right-side up off the side of the road, pretty folded. So, I did the only thing I could think of to do. I cussed. Then I turned the truck around, and told the passengers to call 911 and find bandage material, then I cussed some more. They did, we got there, and the guy that was in the car was walking around, looking confused and repeating like a mantra that he didn't have any idea what had made him flip. He would have been pretty funny-looking, if not for the amount of blood coming from his head. The truck driver was telling him to sit down, and I joined in the chant. After a few seconds of this, we got him to sit down, and waited for the ambulance. He was taken away, and seemed to be ok. The end result of this is that I've got a new habit. Look, this guy was in a car that rolled 3 or 4 times, longways _and_ sideways, and was apparently more embarrassed than hurt. From the looks of the car, there were forces at work that would have dearly loved to turn him into a chunky-style paste. Yeah, I've seen wrecks and haven't worn a seat belt. But seeing in person what a seatbelt can do when you car goes ass-over-teakettle... Well, let's just say that I've decided to start strapping my happy ass in to the seat. |
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| 01:46am 05/12/2002 | |||
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Ok. Leslie's back in Jacksonville, I'm back in my own little hovel, and all is well. I guess stuffing 3 and a half people into my single passenger cave wasn't quite abrupt enough, so Leslie came to visit for a few days when Tynin & co. arrived, bringing the total mammal count to 5. Good times! Good times. A swell time was had by all, but the swelling went down, and life's back to normal. Heh, he said "normal" ... heh. Tynin and Lilith hung sheets from the ceiling to make their own little space, and if the cat can be convinced that the sheets are not emissaries of the DEVIL!! and must therefore be destroyed, their privacy will be assured. Tomorrow, I'm scheduled to attempt the resurrection of a pickup truck that Tynin tried to burn. Should be fun. Note to self: Get good and high before the excavation of the charred innards. In other news, that bitch of a muse has started pestering me again, so there may be another story in the works. It's a pretty fucked-up creation myth, involving a naive God, an innocent Satan, and a simple misunderstanding resulting in their mutual destruction and bringing about the world as we know it. It could be pretty cool if I don't fuck it up too badly. |
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| At least I'm not bored... | |||
| 02:49am 28/11/2002 | |||
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Well, Thanksgiving is rapidly approa... fuck! ::sigh:: Luckily, there's still plenty of time before Christmas, so I don't have to rush to get gifts or anything ... Can you say "foreshadowing", boys and girls? Well, the whole speed issue's done and done. Basically, it was just a matter of severely curtailing my usage, to let my tolerance rebuild. After a few weeks of that and getting some food and actual sleep all was well and well. I'm glad that I was over-reacting, and suffered nothing worse than semi-public embarrassment over it, lol. In other news, my home life is about to get interesting again. In preparation for my move into a nice big house with a friend of mine and his wife, that friend and said wife are coming to live with me. Oh joy! I live in an efficiency apt. with one big? room, a sorta-kinda kitchen, and a bathroom. It's perfect for a solitary troll like myself. Perfect! Due to some financial and legal details that combine like power rangers to form "super suck-o-tron" they have to leave their soon-to-be-former place of residence about a month before the promised land of the 30yr mortgage opens for them. The cherry on the sundae is that there is no other place for them to stay, so being the sadistic bastard that I am, I offered my humble abode to them. The fools accepted! They have already begun the invasion, their computers and the table resting on my carpet like highway barriers scattered by a drunken road crew. In a few days, they will return in force, bringing the rest of their stuff, themselves and, in the part of that proverbial straw, their cat. Any of us yet living when the house is finished will then move in and seek counseling. The new house is pretty cool, as it was built with input from us geeks. It's got a really large closet with plenty of power and it's own AC and redundant cat-5e running right along with the coax and phone lines. I will live there, provided that I survive four weeks in an efficiency apt the size of a fridge box with a married couple and their cat. |
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| I'll probably just flip a fucking coin. | |||
| 05:28am 08/11/2002 | |||
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A decision is called for, but the situation is rife with consequence and contradiction. Perfect! As it should be. I'd hate to be bored, or have some important choice be easy. That would take all the fun right out of it! But anyway, onward to the point. I've been taking Dexedrine for about 8 or nine years now. So far, it's held my head together for the most part, but lately, it's lost it's "oomph". My short term memory and attention to matters practical and repetitive is waning quickly, even with a "slightly" increased dosage. I think I've developed a pretty hard-core tolerance to it and stimulants in general. The most obvious clue came tonight, while I was flopping around like an idiot on Respect's dance floor. It was nearly closing time, and I yawned. For most people, there would be nothing odd in that. After all, being a wee bit piqued at 3 AM is socially acceptable and all. What lent significance and dire portent to this oxegen-gathering reflex was the fact that about 3 hours prior, I'd taken a day's worth of Dexedrine, a $75 kiss from tina, and washed them down with a bottle of Bawls, the "adult" version of Jolt cola. That belly-burner should have sent me ricocheting off the walls like some ill-conceived cartoon character, but there I was, in the customary stretch of one all set for a nap. In police work, they call that a clue. I'd be cooler to report that the message came as some great flash of insight, or in some hallucinated ultimatum from on high, but nothing so interesting happened. I just yawned, and realized that I was a trifle sleepy. A few seconds later I put 2 and 2 together, and came up with what I hope is 4, that it's time to lay off the speed. Seems simple and straightforward, don't it? Unfortunatley, there's the addiction factor to consider. Taking the same class 2 drug for just shy of a decade is bound to get a good jones going. Next, there's this whole depression thing to consider. Could that have had a hand in subduing the speed's effect? Also, is the midst of a depression really the best time to kick a habit like that? Lastly, there's my job to think of. It's very detail oriented, and I'm not. My brain goes, "Does it work now? Good. Then it's done. Next!" Unfortunately, there's a whole slew of nits to be picked, like remembering the thousand and one SOPs to be followed. Say the caller's name twice. Thank them for calling. Don't make that "Thank you" sound like "Choke on a fat cock and die". Tell them the truth, but don't make the company look bad. (catch-22, anyone?) Remember which company you're working for on that call, etcetera, etcetera, et nauseam. While I don't need the uppers for the actual resolution of the issues (read: Fucking problems), I'm afraid that I'm none too good at the minutiae unless I'm backed by a couple orange triangles. When I started this gig 3 years ago, this was not a big deal, but times have changed. Then, it mattered that you got the job done, and it works now. Now, it maters that you get the job done by the "proper" means, and fuck the end result. Care to guess which one of those will get really fucking hard if resign my post as one of Dexie's Midnight Runners? I'll give you a hint: it's the one my corporate masters care the most about. But on the another hand, perhaps the dexies are responsible, at least in part, for this depression, which arrived in the same parcel as this tolerance to chemicals invigorating. Hmmmm. So do I kick the speed and risk the ire of my corporate daddies? Or do I wait until this depression passes, to ensure that I've got the mental clarity to make such a call? But if this depression is the culmination of years of daily amping, will it pass without stopping the flow of pep pills? Or will it worsen as I go? Ignoring depression is all well and good when it's just in motivation you're working on a deficit. But depression also takes a toll on the higher cognitive functions. You know, the ones that come in really handy for shite like this? Ha! As it should be. Hmmmmmm. Decisions, decisions. And here I am without my magic 8-ball! Not the good boy scout today, am I? Tsk tsk. Oh well, I'm nearly asleep in my chair, so I'm off to the land of nod. Maybe this issue will be clearer seen when slumber's fog has lifted. Yeah, right. |
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| Read 2 - Post | |||
| Editing and stuff | |||
| 05:22am 07/11/2002 | |||
| Re-reading the story I just posted, I see changes that need to be made. Maybe cutting out paragraphs 2-4 entirely would be good, the background information there may not be necessary, but I was trying to illustrate the mindset that would not consider a random beating to be such an unusual occurrance. But perhaps I overdid it. hmmm, the line between clarity and distraction is a fine one, or maybe I'm just not skilled enough. One or the other, maybe. | |||
| Read 2 - Post | |||
| kires | ||
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Friends Info Calendar The Ghoster's Machine |
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