06 November 2010 - NaNoDieMo.

Do you ever get the feeling that your subconscious mind has nothing better to do than stalk you around and record bits of your life for the sole purpose of replaying them back to you when you least need to see them?

I hate that.

I remember a conversation which occurred about six months ago, when a very dear friend of mine had expressed a distinct and compelling urge to impale himself bodily upon his computer. He was in the thick of the end-of-semester angstbugs, having something like five million billion papers to write and relative analysis of Gravity's Rainbow as interpreted by the Mexican Gila monster to complete. He'd often received the more cynical end of my merciless taunting because he was an English major, and I often neglected the fact that he doubled it up masochistically with psychology just so that I could tease him about it and make myself feel better, as a math major, about the fact that the only friends I have are derivative.

Ha, ha.

Anyway, all this culminated into me pointing and laughing at him because I didn't have to write stuff very often and he did. A lot. The end of the semester was apparently very difficult because the last thing he wanted to do was write. He wanted to do fun stuff like play guitar and come get drunk at my apartment. (This did happen, but much later.)

Now, we're in November, and as I still have about two months before I start on the classes I really need for my degree, I decided to do something "enriching" and "creative," two words which when applied to me are usually utilised to describe baking flour or swearing, respectively.



I'm pretty sure there will be blood.

It follows that the way I typically avoid writing something is to write about my complaints about writing something, which is hilarious if you think about it. So that's what this blog post is about. I signed up for National Novel Writing Month only to hit about 6,500 words and go "halp." The way it happened in 2006 was, I did about 25,000 words up to the last week of November, whereafter I failed entirely as a human being and spent the following four days locked in my room, subsisting off Macaroni Grill chianti, cheddar cheese, and my own self-loathing until I hit 50,015 words by 11:58pm on November 30th.

But look! I got a prize!



It was completely ridiculous.

I worry about myself.

04 November 2010 - Patty Murray is an Anchovy.

The fact that Patty Murray won a fourth term to the US Senate causes me no small amount of mental anguish. I'm pretty sure that she's the reason the dinosaurs died, thus preventing me from having a procompsognathus as a pet. She's responsible for the crater in the Yucatán Peninsula, therefore it follows as a postulate that she should be banished to there for the rest of forever.

The Senate is a pizza that has to contain a balanced amount of cheese and tomato sauce. Adding anchovies to this pizza is a recipe for doom; the pizza is ruined, and the entire house smells like fish now. You can't get rid of the smell no matter what.

This is what will happen since Patty Murray has been elected to a fourth term: continual massive federal debt, unnecessary bailouts, and your house will constantly smell of fish.

TAX CUTS

First of all, I'm pretty sure that the entire body of the compromise goes something like this:

Republican: I have lots and lots of money.

Obama: I want to take your money away.

Republican: I challenge you to a Pac-Man standoff.

Obama: I still want to take away your money, but I'm down.

Republican: But it's my Pac-Man machine.

Obama: Oh, snap.

If you earned the money legitimately, then it should be your money. End of story. We are not responsible for the ridiculous spending habits of the US government. However, if you are in cahoots (I love that word, by the way. Cahoots! I could say it all day and never get tired of it. Cahoots, cahoots, cahoots.) with the government itself, or rely on it for any purpose, then you should give your fair percentage and help to decrease the deficit.

Unless you're Patty Murray. If you're Patty Murray, you spend your fair percentage on bitter "I Hate Rossi" adverts and steal everyone's Pac-Man machine and stink up the Senate with your anchovy-ness from the Yucatán.

Telegraphic Holograms

I want one. Like, instead of my brother calling me while I'm at the grocery store because he's stuck on an algebra problem - he would record his pleading expression and puppy eyes and then send it to me, and thirty seconds later his image would appear over the collard greens in the front of the cart. "Domain is the x part, right? RIGHT?!" And he would commence flailing over the tomatoes.

But it would have to be in the grocery store. Right next to the automatic sliding doors, which were also taken from Star Trek.

(Source: http://www.informationweek.com/news/software/server_virtualization/showArticle.jhtml?articleID=228200194&cid=RSSfeed_IWK_All)

My Life

It's progressing normally. I'm really behind on my NaNo, but I'll freak out about that in the next post. Because I could probably write more about how I can't possibly finish this thing on time than I can write the actual novel. I obviously win at everything.

Now it's time to watch Jon Pertwee be awesome, and to laugh at women who try to run away from evil aliens and antimatter in high-heeled boots and miniskirts. WHUT.