I'm in love with Terry Pratchett

I think that about says it all. It's a love I've stolen, or borrowed, or have contracted from Miyuki. I can't help it. He's just so funny, and clever, and and and... See, with the whole sounding like a love-sick adoring high school girl. I'm sure he's old enough to be my father, but his books give me tingles. Ooooooooh.

Round and round and round she goes...

I'm in that rut again. The one where I have an essay to finish, but instead I spend lots of time reading other books, and playing Suikoden 3 (which is pointless because I don't have saved copies of the first two games to carry over right now...) even though I know I have more important things to do. Then I get stressed because I'm too self-indulgent and I'm not focused enough. Then I worry that I'll fail, and I'll have to work at this job forever. At this point I usually have a little daydream about winning the lottery so that I can quit, and just go to school and travel and play all the games I want (in addition to everything else you think about when you imagine winning $30 million). Then I realize that I don't buy lottery tickets, so unless I find a winning ticket on the ground, in Surrey, on my walk home, I'm never going to win the lottery. Which brings back the stress, and the unfinished essay. But by this point my head is so cluttered that I couldn't concentrate even if I wanted to. So, I go to make some tea. Peppermint tea, or maybe green tea. I turn on the Playstation while I wait for the water to boil... Three hours, and five cups of regular caffeinated tea later, I'm now twitching like a crack-whore, and completely unable to type. Luckily, by this time, even if they're twitching, my hands are now almost permanently attached to the controller (it's a symbiotic relationship). Hours later, well past my bedtime, I fall asleep with the dim half-thought that there was something really important I needed to do. All the way to work the next morning I worry about the essay. I worry because I know that I'll want to play again when I get home. My Playstation is insidious. But just think, if I won the lottery...

Or a Reasonable Facsimile

I am excited by the way that the un-jaguar portion of society has created a niche for people who may not have created anything really noteworthy themselves but who are really really good at pretending to be people that have. (Maybe there's hope for me yet).

I was at The Pink Floyd Experience last night where I was amazed to find that they can actually sing, and, believe it or not, they put on pretty good show. This is not the type of concert I would ever buy tickets to myself (actually I don't buy any tickets, poor people like me can't buy tickets to go to middle class concerts), but I'm glad my dad took me along. I find that as I get older, the more I appreciate some of the older bands and groups (the ones my parents (father) listened to when I was young.. egad!) that were making music when there was still a way to be genuinely controversial in the music industry. But then, don't listen to me. What the hell do I know about music anyway? (I still like The Pet Shop Boys and Madonna)

On other fronts, the government still hates me and thinks that I owe them a lot of money. Hopefully it's just a mater of them processing their paperwork...

Starfish

It isn't really a word. Now they're called sea stars because they're not fish.

There are many words I rather like. Starfish is one of them. Viridian is another. I don't remember when I picked up the habit of attaching myself to particular words. I do remember feeling a remarkable affinity with Gaman's "Delirium" when she talks about the words she likes (along with mango juice and little chocolate people filled with raspberry cream).

I know I started out with a point. At least I had one about 5 minutes ago, then I started writing. Things fall apart.

Last weekend was good even though it was bad. Brett, Kim and my nephew were in town so we went and did a bunch of stuff. Sheldon was in Calgary with his sister. The man who maybe could have been my brother in law someday got shot and killed outside of the neighborhood pub he owned.

How do you speak of a death you don't understand? Dying is shitty (for the selfish bastards you leave behind it is anyway), but murder is worse. This has been a week of coming to terms with my failings. I can't force my mind to grasp the concept of intentional killing much in the same way I can not seem to learn the standard rules of English Grammar (I dropped that course like a hot potato). I keep trying to add logic to something that exists only in the marked absence of reason, and more importantly, of restraint. We may have two words for a small sea dwelling creature, but we have no accurate name for the unfathomable void that exists in some people.

Long lost and found

I'm at work crazy early (an event that is becoming a nasty habit) but the tea hasn't sunk in yet, so I figure I've got a good 10 minutes before I feel jittery enough to screw with people's pension plans.

Christmas was quiet. New Years was quiet. The holidays in general were relaxing, if not a bit dull.

December itself was madness to the point of insanity. Too much work, stress, overtime and mayhem in all places. I still have people I haven't bought presents for. Baaaad Kim.

Other than that, I've begun to think that I'm starting to take everything a bit too seriously again. I'm getting to the nasty phase where I procrastinate in every part of my life and then panic and hyperventalate about how things aren't the way they should be and how I don't have time to fix them. I believe I may be a fledgling drama-queen. I don't like it.

Also, when puppies yawn they make noises like small dinosaurs. It's funny.

(I need a pet) :(