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quivering with technolust - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
robling_t
robling_t
quivering with technolust
Nnnnnnh. Waaaaaaaant. {looks around plaintively for a sugardaddy} The only quibble I can see with this design is the same flaw that the old Apple IIc had, which is that side-mounted drive openings require clearance; this one's at least higher off the desk than the IIc's daft design, but it'd still be an issue on a desk-setup like mine, which happens to have a stanchion in the way of where I'd theoretically be reaching. (Not to mention what about leftys?) Meh. Gotta get cracking on that synopsis; I think I've gotten a handle on what the shape of it needs to be, now it's a matter of stalking it patiently through the mental veldt until it pauses at a watering hole.


Accidentally left the tv on a channel that turned into the RNC while I wasn't exactly paying attention and was subjected to bits and pieces of the speeches. My, what a vitriolic bunch. Debating whether to grit my teeth and watch Himself's speech, or try to get it together to tag along with polyfrog's movie expedition; given that the film in question is The Manchurian Candidate, it's kind of a tossup whether staying home to see if somebody tries to blow Dubya away might be cheaper anyway. (Although actually my money's on "nervous breakdown on stump and begins to speak in tongues", not that anybody would be able to score that one.) 20 more hours until I get my television back from these boobs...

[Note to Justice Department: the above remarks are a joke. I know it's tough having to work under a boss who needs a humor transplant, so I thought I had better clarify that for y'all, just in case he gets his knickers in a twist over it and wants to kick my door in for "threatening the Resident". {hmph}]


The key-lime pie experiment left me with surplus egg whites, or would have if I hadn't broken one yolk in the separating and rendered them useless for meringue, so I made myself scrambled eggs yesterday morning; between that and the pie, it's more cooking than I've ever done at once in this miniscule hellhole of a kitchen I've been stuck with for the last seven years. And it is seven years yesterday: the day that was supposed to have been the day of our move, if a pesticide-wielding pinhead hadn't sent me to the emergency room the morning before, I woke up in a hotel room where I had fled from our contaminated apartment and staggered out into the lobby, smack into a bank of newsboxes blaring the headline that Princess Diana had been hurt in a car crash. It wasn't till Mum came to fetch me more than an hour later that I learned the crash had been fatal. Not, really, that I had any feelings one way or the other about Diana, but it was the capper to a hallucinatory couple of days, and in some ways the fitting ending to the Exile. (Which, believe it or not, we had embarked upon on the night of the L.A. riots -- perfect bookends to the whole sorry experience.) I remember watching the funeral sitting on the floor because none of the furniture was sorted yet...



(...Key-lime pie, Princess Diana, and threats against the president? I think I must be in the DT's stage of speedo withdrawal...)

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feeling: melancholy melancholy

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