Friday, December 15, 2017

Bit of a brain in my damage. Head hurts a bit. Maybe I slept dehydrated. Dehydration, my greatest weekends. I remember this one time in Basic Training where I slurred some random greeting to passing Lt. Colonel. At the time we all had an ingrained fear of officers. I was so dehydrated I felt no fear. I was drinking at a drinking fountain in the mess hall when he strode in through the door. I don't know what garbled nonsense I spouted at him but he was startled for a moment. Too puzzled to be angry, he quickly resumed his stride and was lost from my sight.

Maybe when I die I should be put into one of those Dune-style human juicers to extract all my water. For science?

The Star Wars movie is out. People are excited. I'm excited too, I think. I don't feel like I have to see it as soon as possible. As long as I see it in the next couple weeks I'll be happy.

There's going to be a Star Wars film every year forever or until they become unprofitable, it seems.

My head feels better now. Good, good.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Going back through my walking history, such as it is. February 2017 I averaged 3,827. April, May, and June I start hitting 12-13 thousand daily. Now I'm up to about 16,000 on average. Not bad.

It's not perfect, since I walk at an incline. I'm up to the full 12% my treadmill can do. I think I started around 6%. So whatever maths need to happen to factor in the same amount of steps at a steeper climb.

It feels good. I'm in a place where I can walk for quite a while, play my video games, and not be in too much pain. All injuries are currently manageable.

The other day I forgot how old I am. I was sure it was more than 33. I'm 35 years, 7 months, and 2 days old.

This blog began in 2003. Fourteen years ago. Fascinating.

I'll have to sit down and read through them. Maybe I'll do that while I'm recovering. Put it on the list of things to do.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

The alarm clock beeped and I passed out.

Cement Leaf Grotesque Blessing Grim Plant
-Random Word Generator.

I made the mistake of reading an article about an anti-abortion bill that specifically outlaws abortion after a diagnosis of Trisomy 21. It's an interesting strategy, certainly. I personally believe abortion is a human right. The motivation for the abortion are a separate consideration and do not over-ride the right itself. 

It's probably easiest, mentally, to argue with people who believe it isn't a human right at all. Pretty straightforward disagreement. 

The rest of the spectrum is exhausting. Sometimes okay, sometimes not, and when and for why. 

Exhausting and interesting, because every abortion discussion along this spectrum is in fact a deep dive into another human being. It's like a philosophical idea that's also a 7-course meal. Presentation, past experience, and how hungry a person is can change everything. 

But I read the article and my thoughts began branching out, surrounding, and prodding the arguments of the proponents and opponents. Wondering how to make a rational argument for what is fundamentally irrational because they don't share a common language. 

Maybe I should just learn to work cement. Build concrete things. It can be different colors too! What a material!

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Drinking stale chicory coffee and smoking an imaginary cigarette. The florescent strip lights overhead throw sepia shadows instead of sterile office white. Slouching under a crumpled brown trilby and reading telegrams that tell me all the things I don't want to know. I throw them into the wastebasket and toss in the imaginary cigarette. Flames shoot up with a "FOOM" and I sit back in my black rolling chair. The telegrams are full of unsaid things, and should burn forever. Or at least until the janitor puts it out. The rotary phone I use to prop up my cell phone rings loudly, like it always does this time of day. I never answer it; I'm pretty sure it's me on the other end. Probably calling in a favor, or maybe I've gotten into another jam. I strike a match against the rough surface of the desk and light another imaginary cigarette.

The phone stops ringing. Problem solved.

The copper mug on the desk still has some rum in it, I think. I reach for the glass and sniff its contents with my one good nostril. A sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, and I freeze, my nostril in mid-flare. The footsteps stop outside my office door. Silence.

I take my chances and gulp down whatever's in the mug. It burns my throat and kicks my lungs on the way down. One hop over the desk and I'm at the door, squinting at the shadow of the person on the other side. I straighten my tie, clear my throat, and knock.

Monday, December 11, 2017

This day feels like my shoes: a little too loose. It's possible that I'm an unknowing practitioner of the ancient art of foot-binding. I've always like my footwear to be almost painfully tight. There are dancer shoes, I think, that have what I'm looking for. Maybe not as armored.

Wonder where a guy can get a decent pair of combat boots around here?


Friday, December 08, 2017

Somebody in the office building ordered pizza at 10 am and they are my hero.

My savings have broken $20,000. This is uncharted territory for me. I try not to think about it. It's invested, after all, so another recession could wipe it out. It's a concern, but what other options are there? Start an off-shore tax haven? Bitcoin? Meh. The meat grinder keeps on grinding. I'm still in it, and maybe if I get lucky I'll be able to hop out before it's too late.

The TV I purchased is one of those listening TV's. Voice-activated, it says. I avoid saying anything incriminating around it. All my careful plotting and scheming to ensure that I avoid world domination are done in silence. Things are going well, very well. I'm in an optimal position to ensure that I never achieve real power and influence. What a nightmare that would be.

I remember Livejournal had a field to enter what music you were listening to while journaling. This makes me wonder if I should note it. For the last week, I've been listening to Tom Waits, New Orleans blues, Gogol Bordello, that sort of thing. If there's a theme to the music, I'd say it's like being dressed in a once-fine suit out in the frigid cold, cradling an ember in your arms and blowing gently to keep it alive.

And occasionally flipping off the fat-cats as they look down upon you from their penthouse suites. It changes nothing, but their look of indignation makes you chuckle.

Thursday, December 07, 2017

Random Word Generator.

Proof. House. Poetic. Sexless. Disturbance. Executive.

Hmm, that's a lot of random.

Proof makes me think of evidence, then alcohol. Also a little bit of the proofing oven at the bakery in which I once worked. Little croissants went in, and then big beautiful croissants came out.

House. Home. Close yet so far. Projects and opinions, grand aspirations and neglected details. My disorder.

Poetic. Not really.

Sexless. Without sex, like no sex chromosome? Bacteria-type living organisms, and inanimate objects in a language that doesn't engender them?

Disturbance. The current president. Ha-cha-cha. He's cracking.

Executive. The executive washroom, with golden fountains and marble sinks, with lush personal hand-towels and an aloof wandering peacock.

All stepped up.

Bonus word! DEFECTION

Where you say no, I won't be part of this world. And then magically transform into an aloof wandering peacock.