I was browsing through some of the new stuff on the Blogger Dashboard and I found that I have written over 144 thousand words.
I guess that means my blog is not a Jehovah's Witness.
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"You waste fine words on such menial tasks. It is akin to using a samurai sword to chop wood."
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I'm still trying to figure out how to post at work on Pants-Down Fridays. Well, I've figured out how to do it, just not how to do it without getting fired.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
I said goodbye to Sky last night. (He's the one I'm butting heads with.) He's off to rock some socks in New York. I don't know when I'll see him again.
I didn't make it home from his going-away party until 4 am. It was surprisingly easy to get up for work at 7 am. I even woke up a little early.
I feel good. A wee bit melancholy, but still pretty good. I don't know what changed last night; I don't even know if whatever it is will last. But I have this nagging feeling that I'm not quite the same.
I think I put the old Guillermo to sleep. I think I understand that I've been having the time of my life being, in essence, a big kid. I think I'm ready to grow a little more. I'll still be able to play, just not all the time. I'll still be able to scale buildings in the middle of the night with Donovan, go rappelling with Danny, dance at the club with Lauren and Mai, and zip down to Mexico or Las Vegas or San Francisco or even New York.
Once I finish my homework, then I can go play.
Of course, I may just be ridiculously fatigued and gibbering nonsense. I guess I'll see.
I'm here at work. The computers are mostly down, but Blogger is mysteriously still functional. I'm listening to The Format. "Trying to find truth in words and rhymes and notes/ All the things I wish I wrote/"
Towards the end of her life, Ayn Rand told her close friend Leonard Peikoff, "I don't know how I survived yesterday not knowing what I did today."
I feel that way, too. It's not something that causes me too much worry. It just makes me want to wipe my brow and say "Whew, that was close."
I came home yesterday after work. I was exhausted. My cousins were over. The littlest one, Tamara, is finally learning how to walk. She toddled precariously over and put up her arms to be held. I picked her up. Nicole, the elder cousin (who has been able to walk for some time) also wanted to be picked up.
I was standing there, my satchel still slung over my shoulder, holding my two cousins, Luis was trying to tell me about the movie we rented, and my dog (the Noobers) was nipping at my heels to get my attention.
It was good to be home.
Hey, the computers are working! Now I can get back to work! Woo hoo.
Bring it on.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
I'm tired of all the scraps of paper around my bed. I'm going to throw some of them on here and then throw them away.
Lines of Dialogue
"Because you don't, right? I'm an almost complete stranger. There is absolutely no reason for you to trust me. The only thing I have on my side is that little voice inside your head telling you that I'm "The One". But that voice isn't enough because it's told you this before and been devastatingly wrong.
So, after all the analysis, all the calculations, all the agonizing deliberation, it still comes down to how much you want something against how much you're afraid you'll get it."
The nice thing about writing dialogue is that you can be a lot looser with the grammar, pauses, sentence structure, even word choice...as long as you know someone that actually talks like that.
In A Scrawl Usually Denoting Intoxication
It is likely that God had not a pen and paper next to him when he opened his eyes and saw next to him his sleeping world. It must have broken his heart to lean over and whisper softly "Awake." And when his tears he could hold back no longer, he wept and flooded this earth. For love. It was all because of love.
She has a very practical heartbeat.
The nice thing about writing while drunk is that you can be a lot looser with the grammar, pauses, sentence structure, even spelling and capitalization...as long as you know that nobody is actually going to read it.
The Sun Is Rising So Lighten Up
Teacher: Excuse me, Timmy, what did I just say?
Timmy: Huh? Oh, I think it was something about selling bags of crushed chalk to cocaine addicts to supplement your meager salary.
Teacher: Why you little...
This was inspired by my biology teacher in high school. She didn't like me because I would talk when she was talking. I only did it because she didn't like me. But, she would ask random questions of me seemingly with the intent to embarrass me. I usually knew the answer, which, instead of taking as a sign that she was doing a good job teaching, she took as a sign that I was trying to be a smart-ass.
She was right.
More Lines of Dialogue
"I did not mourn before I met her. Why should I mourn her now that she is gone?"
"That is foolishness. There is a time and place for grieving. What's more, you did mourn her before you met her. Or are you forgetting the pile of composition notebooks under your bed?"
"So, you did read them?"
"Only a few pages. So yes, essentially all of them."
Well, that takes care of a few of the notes. Although, at some point I'm going to have to start on the actual notebooks, since this blog is still where I store the majority of the stuff I've written. Stylish and functional, no?
Sunday, June 27, 2004
THE LAS VEGAS CAPER
Exhibit A: Security footage of the culprit (magnified by several drinks).
We had decided to go to Rum Jungle, one of the more popular clubs. I had been wearing my Bart Simpson shirt and was disappointed when I heard that there was a dress code. I relented, and Sky lent me one of his dress shirts.
The interior of the club was packed with well-dressed people, expensive drinks, dizzying light displays, and scantily-clad women dancing on small stages throughout.
After dancing for a bit to make it appear as if I was an average clubber, I glanced around to make sure I was alone. I wasn't of course; there were many, many people dancing all around me. But, I was drunk enough at the time that I figured that later, when I remembered it, I would think I had been drunk enough to think I was alone. Right...
I unbuttoned the dress shirt I was wearing to reveal the spiky hair of Bart Simpson. The rest of my time in the club I received several compliments and a few puzzled looks. Puzzled and jealous looks came from people who probably thought I knew the owner or something and didn't have to follow the dress code.
It was really hot in the club. At the end of the dance floor was a large sheet of glass that had water running down it. I reasoned that I wouldn't be so hot if the water were running on me as well, so I pressed my body against it. I was right.
So there was one more soaked, dancing fool in a Bart Simpson T-shirt at Rum Jungle that Friday night than there were on most nights.
Four frenzied hours later, we left. It was for the best, since I had been feverishly scheming to find a way to get up here:
Coming soon: Exhibit B.