And all the children are insane.
The fact my roommate and a mutual friend of ours were totally juiced about some piece of cinematography in fucking Daredevil (of all things) would be why I don't leave my room when I'm at home. I've seen the two of them "work" on film things - the observed interaction comes close to my personal vision of hell. It's a small bit of happiness that they stopped pestering me to do storyboards - I'm about as interested in contributing anything to a movie about strippers as I am in pissing on exposed power cables for kicks.
32° outside. In late April. Shitty clammy lead-sky cold with no sign of the fucking sun and an endless icy drizzle oozing out of the sky like arctic pus. This could easily be any day between the beginning of October and the end of March in Pittsburgh, but it's not. We got a decent week, a nice week, and now that we're all off guard, wearing shorts, and bracing for the 80%+ humidity 80°+ septic tank sensation that is what we in these parts call "summer" (it's closer to "summa", what with buckets of shithick smogidity crawling into your lungs every time you take a breath), BLAMMO! it's Suddenly Siberia.
Most days the natives and the air* piss me off more than the weather, but today's been pretty exceptional.
Since last week was "nice", the roommate had the heat (which he pays for) OFF. Mid fifties in the house according to the thermostat, which is (you guessed it) the warmest room in the house when the circulation system is off.
Go to work to take care of a few details and the internal temperature is about fifty, with the vents BLASTING FREEZING COLD AIR.
Right on my neck, no less. They've been doing this since I took the desk I currently use, but it's usually heat in the FUCKING WINTER, so you don't notice. Only last week was nice, see, so buildings and grounds (the beacon of competence and proof positive that unions are a haven for mouthbreathers who can't find their own asses with both hands and a map) decided we needed cool air. And they're not in on the weekends, of course.
Oh, and the designer with flowthrough vents appears to have LEFT HER MOTHERFUCKING WINDOW OPEN AGAIN so there's a gale-force ARCTIC BLAST working its way in through there as well. One of the few doors I don't have keys to, naturally.
Oh, and it's only my office. It's 15° warmer in the hallway. >:|
Freezing at home, freezing at work, freezing outside.... and people wonder why I DRINK so fucking much.
It's warm in bars, that's why!
Update - bars are also full of assholes. The kind of assholes that think the country and western equivalent of ghonnorhea is something that actually belongs in a jukebox. The kind of shitforbrains genetic waste that thinks that said aural assgravy needs to be coming out of the fucking thing.
Funny. The rest of the week has been fine - I guess a Sunday full of fucked-in-the-fucking-ASS HATE is called for in order to balance it out.
So. I spent about sixteen hours sans shower either freezing my ass off and shivering like an epileptic or freezing my ass off and getting sleet all over me.... so now that I'm actually home and the heating system has taken the requisite ten hours to bring the temperature up to a tolerable sixty five, my back and neck muscles are screaming at me and I have all the symptoms of massive blood sugar problems - only without the AWAKE or the headbees.
On the upside, line art for the next page of ATC is done and my teeth feel really, really clean for some reason.
* I quit smoking and promptly got sick. For several years, I was filtering the diesel-flavored filth that is Pittsburgh air... and my lungs were so surprised to be sucking the shit-smelling carcinogenic waste that after I got over the OMFG THIS AIR IS WORSE THAN THE CIGARETTES cold, I was left with a "defensive" cough for a few weeks while I slowly came to terms with the fact that the air wasn't only just as thick and foul as cigarette smoke (especially during rush hour), it actually tasted worse. Nothing like a curtain of mucous to keep out the grit. The EPA forgets to mention that Pittsburgh is of interest for air quality study because anywhere worth being in town is in the valley - and in the summer, that valley traps a soupy mix of diesel fumes and sewage brewing at 70-90% humidity. You'll be gasping for breath just walking to your car from the Taco Fucking Bell and wondering why you don't move to Mexico City - their winters aren't nearly as nasty, after all- and their natives don't speak english either.
Epson printers can suck a fart out of my ass.
Prosumer printers suck. Even the good ones, amongst which I'd definitely include the Epson 1270 and 1280. Not their drivers- these printers MAGICALLY LOST the ability to CENTER a print on a page when they transitioned from OS 9 to OS X, but the image quality itself is damned nice when the printer is behaving.
When it isn't, you get stupid shit like this:
Yes, there's scanthrough. That's assgasmic HP laser paper run through Epson print cleaning four times- top and bottom for each side.
And that's a good sample- usually it's black that stays clogged and spreads its shittiness all over the test prints. Has something to do with how the heads are cleaned- a sponge assembly. Think about this for a minute- a sponge. In a really hard-to-get-to place. And it's a wee sponge, mind you. The above sample is typical in that there's one spot that Will Not Clean No Matter What. I'm certain it would have been there if I'd bothered with a 5th, 6th, or 7th pass... but I didn't. I've been there before and what happens is the mess the thing cleaned up (the black problem) usually creeps back in with a vengeance. Because that sponge is soaked and ain't doing shit for cleaning.
These things retail for 315$ (Amazon price), they DRINK ink (20.99$ for black, 22.99 for color and you need a matched set to print anything, even a resume.... so figure 43.98 for ink that lasts a week if you do heavy printing, a month if you're moderate but steady), and under normal operating conditions they last roughly a year. If that. Cleaning problems crop up about six to eight months into their lifespans (in my experience) and get progressively worse throughout.
When I get a home printer, I'll be getting one of these on the grounds that consumer inkjets suck month-dead buffalo cock- while this thing, at its worst, is sucking cock that's still on the autopsy slab. Which is almost - dare I say it- fresh.
I find it depressing that it's 2005 and non-shitty, quality hardware is still up around the same price point as student loans and organ transplants... and even though it's high quality gear, you're lucky to have the thing paid off before it dies or fucks itself into expensive repairs, re: iBooks.
Me, I'm waiting for what is obviously disposable hardware to creep a little bit closer to disposable price points.
Alternatively, gimme one hell of a pay raise and I'll move on to the next neurosis on my checklist.
Another Fucking Holiday Weekend
I hate these. A lot. I've been Kringled and Happy Holidayed to the point where my asshole is bleeding and it isn't even thanksgiving yet. I'm not down with the verbal equivalent of family bukake, and I'm not down with raising a drumstick to genocide. We shit on the Nazis for gas chambers while celebrating years of death by smallpox, alcoholism and muskets. No thanks.
Since the rest of the world decided to run off and spend time out of town, I'm holding the (de)Activation bag for work on Friday. In by eight.
And I have keys to the place, for a change.
So what are my holiday plans?
A couple of ATC pages, and finishing off my workload for the current project. I can't go a single workday without my supervisors and superiors vigorously skullfucking me with their word-cocks. They thrust endless, useless minutae into my overclogged underpaid cerebellum, interrupting on the drop of a hat, fucking my ears until the spark of motivation is thoroughly extinguished by buckets of manegerial verb-semen. The spunking and grunting is getting on my nerves, and I finally have TWO WHOLE DAYS where NONE OF THESE PEOPLE ARE HERE. Which means I can FINALLY get some fucking work done.
I work while the rest of the world parties. And I work while the rest of the world works, because if I don't, I'm some kind of fucking slacker.
At least I get paid for it.
Fuck Apple, Adobe Sucks, etc.
12:23 < solios> Dear Photoshop:
12:23 < solios> You've been in swap for FIVE FUCKING MINUTES. SHIT OR GET OFF THE POT.
12:23 < solios> love,
12:23 < solios> solios
12:24 < solios> Also, I haven't even touched the fucking file. I opened it and did other shit. I get back to it, HORKs.
12:24 <@bda> So? needed the memory for the other shit.
12:24 <@bda> blah blah blah.
12:24 < solios> (then freezes the entire gui for a moment before focusing itself, spazzing the fuck out, and throwing me back to Terminal.app)
12:24 < solios> see, that's why I still like OS 9.
12:24 < solios> I could give photoshop a gig of ram and nothing else could have it.
12:24 < solios> At all.
12:24 < solios> EVER.
12:24 < solios> for ANY REASON.
12:25 <@bda> wahwah.
12:25 < solios> That app is the highest fucking priority on this system and the reason it was purchased. I don't fucking want or need the FINDER shoving photoshop into SWAP because I opened a WINDOW.
12:25 <@bda> waaaah.
12:25 <@bda> :)
12:25 <@bda> <3 &
12:26 < solios> hey, your apps haven't taken the performance equivalent of a gangrape concrete SHIT in the last three years. :P
I've gone on. I'll keep going on. Apparently, two gigs of RAM isn't enough for OS X to stay the fuck out of photoshop's way. And it probably wouldn't be an issue if Photoshop CS were something other than an unoptimized sluggish piece of SHIT with a whole shitload of "features" I don't need and type handling that makes my job impossible to do. Etceteras, etceteras.
23:45 < solios_afk> GODS.
23:45 < solios_afk> FUCK.
23:45 < solios_afk> ASS.
23:45 -!- You're now known as solios
23:45 < solios> FUCK.
23:45 < solios> k.
23:45 < solios> fagbot: doot
23:45 < fagbot> looks like another SHITTY DAY to me...guess i'll BEAT OFF and go to WORK
BUT WE GO ANYWAY BECAUSE EVERY OTHER BAR EVERY NIGHT OF THE WEEK SUCKS EVEN MORE. YEAH. FUCK.
Gods. The only thing that sucks MORE is the special, rarified insanity that is NOT going out. No bar scum at the goth club. Instead, there's a completely different kind of scum. The scum you tolerate and even, on some level, look forward to. Because as much as they suck, as white trash as they are, they're still in a similar subcultural bracket. They're still, on some level, tolerable. Barely. They're as pissed about the DJ having the taste to not play the assleavings they like as you are about being within earshot of them whining about it, and there's solace in the fact that all the fratshit out on the street has never heard of anything EITHER of you listen to, regarldess of quality.
On the upside, I've never had sex with anybody I've met at this godsforsaken place. That would cause more annoyance than I can envision. The Pittsburgh goth scene is about as incestuous and inbred as your average backwoods West Virginia trailer park, with no signs of improvement. I'm not even going to think about hitting on somebody when I know between two and four of their ex boyfriends- and I'm even less likely to go there if any of those two to four happen to either suck or hang out with people who do. Snap judgement superficiality has afforded me the luxury of a fucktard-free social circle, and happens to have kept mister futon's occupants in the single digits.
It's Goth Night, and I'd sooner cut off my testicles with a spoon than go home with anyone I've met there. Nevermind the fact that black hair and black clothing and shit lighting works in their favor. Nevermind the fact that sororisluts and teenyboppers and female yuppies and all the other shescum out there is about as magnetic as a pile of cow shit- the non-goth girls have shit for aesthetic and music- and what the goth girls have in aesthetic and music, they shit all over in terms of personality, mentality, psychology and social attitude. Goth girls are, in short, the psychological equivalent of genital warts- you had to do something cool to get them, but having them is probably one of the single worst things a man can endure.
In my experience, anyway. But I have a really high batting average on meeting peole that spin my bullshit detector into the redline- the kind of people with vocal chords that do naught but whine, who exist to suck the life right out of me. Goth or not. They are legion, and there are very few exceptions.
The non goth girls are worse. So much worse.
Even worse, Ceremony is the only game in town.
Which puts it near the top of the short list of why I need to get the fuck out of Pittsburgh while I still can. After the Beehive contaminated itself and became useless, after the Roman Room fucked itself over, after the top couple of floors of the Strand Theater closed, the Upstage and Ceremony are all that's left in terms of anything- and it's a piss poor substitute for what has been lost over the last five years.
Piss poor, but better than nothing.
All this, of course, because the bullshit on the radio- everthing since (and including) Beck, actually- induces discomfort varying from mild irritation (Beck) to extreme agony (Spears, Blink182, Radiohead). I'd sooner have sex with a Republican than with someone whose musical life hinges around Clearchannel- I can argue a political agony and discuss a religious agony, but musical agony is its own special hell.... you either know exactly where I'm coming from, or you never, ever will- there's no middle ground with this kind of thing. This genetic allergy to treble, breathy voals, whining, etceteras- extends across genres and mediums and includes absolutely everything within a specific hertz range that Industrial, Experimental, IDM, etceteras very rarely hit.... largely (I hope) because they know better. Dating somebody who listens to Clearchannel is about as comfortable as dating a serial murderer or rapist- you never know when the aural acid is going to be sprayed into your ears, across your mind, and into your memory. It is a torture to be avoided at all costs.
Some of those costs happen to come in the form of Goth Night Annoyance. :P
The shit I put myself through for a favorable tonal range and sound structure.
I suppose it balances out, really. If I were as easy to please as everyone else, I probably wouldn't be pissed enough to take it out on photoshop.
(or, the Sugar Shock memos, part $something.2)
21:55 < solios> omfg I feel like someone is BARFING IN MY HEAD.
21:55 < solios> MAKE IT STOP
(or, the Sugar Shock memos, part $something)
Unlike previous editions of headsludge, I'm not actually bitching about anybody. So I'm leaving this one up. The others have all been turned off and are sitting in the database, unpublished. o_o
==| >_< |==
Clean long enough to sink back into the sluggish hell of inertia. Walked home tonight for the first time in a week, found myself getting progressively pissed off at the universe and my current position in it- the molten kind of rage that causes MacOS to crash at ten paces, makes routers pingout, and levitates every drunken assFUCK IN A TEN MILE RADIUS to that magic spot SIX INCHES IN FRONT OF YOU. Hence you walk in the street in order to proceed at anything resembling a normal walking pace. Which is apparently four to six times the walking speed of anyone else.
Ragey kind of night. The speakeasy router up and died with no warning, coming back up after roughly ten minutes of HATE and screaming and yelling over a dialup on IRC while a shitload of terminal windows froze up. Came back without the nameserver. Quick edit, back online and back to watching my iMac periodically lose its network connction.
Disconnecting: Corrupted MAC on input.
I'm sure you've seen that one before. OS X was fine on the system- Debian sarge with a 2.6 kernel didn't know what the fuck to do with the ethernet card, though a 2.4 woody install on a beige g3 autorecognized and configured everything without incident.
I. FUCKING. HATE. COMPUTERS.
It's never one thing at a time- it's always whole ton of shit at once. It's like the physical process of sex translated into massive software/hardware failure fucking me in the brain and ejaculating RAGE all over the inside of my skull. Difference is that afterwards, I'm just kind of irritated and go back to what I was doing- whereas with sex I'm so completely drained I feel like I've run twenty-six miles on an empty stomach with pockets full of cinderblocks and a colon full of lead.
Easy to hate when you'd rather be elsewhere doing elsethings. Easy to get tripped up and bitchy when you know you're barely getting paid enough to give an illusion of value to the amount of time you're wasting doing things that aren't your things for other people.
Critical mistake of ingesting a hell of a lot of caffeine and an extremely sugary energy drink in close proximity around five. Combine with the fact I'm hormonal and hate it (seeing as how if I masturbate, I go mentally comatose for the rest of that day and all of the day after and I actually USE my brain for STUFF sometimes) with the fact my brain feels like it's sloshing around with warm sand, and.... yeah. Rage is easy. Clarity isn't. Finding some point to getting out of bed and going to work when I'd sooner be skee-shooting hard drive platters with an AK-47 out in the woods isn't, either.
1. How in the heck can I remotivate myself into getting the fuck out of this town? I keep drinking my fucking paycheck because despite the shittiness of hangovers, being drunk makes this shithole suck that much less for a little bit. That's a pretty serious drain on cash that could go into ejecting me... but to save, I have to be sober. And being sober in Pittsburgh is about as tolerable as being stark naked in Siberia. Flag as an issue.
2. Where the FUCK did my energy go? I've been about as peppy as a slug for the past week. Caffeine doesn't kick me up. Sugar doesn't kick me up. Exercise doesn't kick me up. I've tried everything legal and am about to resort to methamphetamines and jumper cables on my fucking testicles in the HOPE that the jolt will make me feel AWAKE for more than TEN SECONDS.
And hey- if it sterilizes me in the process, that's one less piece of Doom I have hanging over my head. :) I hope I'm sterile- the possiblity that I'm not makes sex (on the rare occasions that it happens) almost totally unenjoyable due to the white hot fear that the act could quite easily send me straight to hell- no money down, no payments for nine months but CHECK OUT THAT INTEREST RATE.
Oh, and it's 2:50 am and there is a fucking ghetto blaster BWOM BWOM BRAAAAAAWOOMfing away. Right outside.
My day is complete.
I FUCKING HATE ALLERGIES
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Can't breathe, yo.
Woke up to itching eyeballs and a six hundred pound decaying bat carcass lodged in my nose, which gave way to a subconscious itch, heavy eyelids, and the numb stupidity of a brain wrapped in sixteen layers of hot wet cotton DUMB. When I CAN breathe I'm sneezing like a fucking machine gun. The rest of the time, I'm expending massive amounts of energy sucking air into the half-milllimeter passage that's still open in my left nostril, and I'm feeling bitchy and very, very STUPID because my BRAIN does NOT HAVE ENOUGH OXYGEN TO FUNCTION on account of said oxygen being forced out by FUCKING ALLERGIES.
It's Two Thousand And Fucking Four and linux takes longer to boot than OS 9 on my powerbook. Which takes more time to boot than OS X. Which says something.
I like how there's config shit for Sony VIAO laptops cluttered in menus on a PPC disto. I like how it's 2004 and EVERY MOTHERFUCKING MACINTOSH THAT HAS SHIPPED IN THE LAST TWENTY FUCKING YEARS HAS ONE FUCKING MOUSE BUTTON AND LINUX STILL DOES NOT COMPENSATE FOR THIS ON POWERBOOKS. Or desktops. But I have a three button Sun mouse plugged into my iMac and I'm not bitching about the desktop. I'm bitching about powerbooks. And the fact I'm fucking stuck running OS X on hardware that's way too slow for the task because apparently everyone ever who uses linux on a powerbook runs console and doesn't use X11. Ever. For anything.
By the way, Apple portables are the only things out there that still use ADB keyboards. Check the goddamned Gestalt ID, check the goddamned hardware config, and spit out a goddamned message that says control-click is right-click and option-click is middle-click or some shit.
Twenty fucking YEARS of one-button mice, one-button trackpads, one-button trackballs (early powerbooks), and The Buzzword Free If Your Time Is Worthless OS still can't tell a goddamned pismo from a VIAO. Or make sound work. I've done two Debian (sarge, kernel 2.6) installs in the last month (iMac, powerbook), and neither one of them came with working sound. The iMac gave me a short list of options I didn't understand- the powerbook skipped that step. Out of the four machines I've booted the installer on (g4, blue g3, iMac, powerbook), one horked on SCSI and two couldn't determine the ethernet card. The powerbook was the first one to get it. See the bit about the fucking one-button mouse, folks. Apple hardware doesn't exactly change drastically five years after it's been released. Oh, AND the powerbook hung during the boot process repeatedly- until I detatched the firewire disk I'd thrown the "OH SHIT!" backup of MacOS onto.
At least X works, thanks to mdxi. No thanks to the four NON-WORKING x configs I found and the numerous references that "pismo xfree configs are easy to find!". Sound doesn't work (no surprise), and the trackpad, naturally, doesn't even pretend to be useable.
I like how just about the only thing I NEED in a desktop OS is long filename support, tabbed browsing, an email client and an SSH client, and OS 9 is missing one of those. Most of the other OS X shit is handy, but I don't exactly need it to do what I do. I should not be seething fucking PISSED about a MASSIVE FAILURE OF DEVELOPERS TO NOTICE THE FUCKING OBVIOUS just so I can run a current fucking web browser on four year old hardware. 'cuz, yanno, unlike most consumer geekthings, I can't just go out and buy a fucking new laptop because I feel like it. I have to make do. Which presently means making do with OS X because I seriously lack the skill/patience/savantism to figure out a few "simple" things like sound and RIGHT FUCKING CLICK.
In OTHER bitchy news:
The Spirit of Keith Moon
23:58 < solios> fagbot: doot for Arthas the Asshat
23:58 < fagbot> CHOKING ON MY OWN LAMENESS
I really can't understate just how much ASS the single player version of Warcraft III sucks.
Maybe it's the emphasis on Story over gameplay. Maybe it's the fact I'm welded to some insane shitfuck asswipe Fabio wannabe that I'd sooner punch than piss on for at least the first eight sections of the game. Maybe it's the fact that I failed section five twice and had to use cheat codes to make it less annoying. Maybe it's the fact that it's everything I hate about RPGs dropped onto everything I hate about RTS. Maybe it's the absolute worst contrived mission-driven crapfest I've seen in my entire life. Maybe the fucking 3d engine needs to LOOK like 1152x870 at 1152x870, as opposed to looking like 640x480 at 1152x870. Maybe it's the fact that after Starcraft, Blizzard went and devolved the Genre by taking more of the same old "this board has NO influence on the next" gameplay and adding really shitty RPG elements to it. Oh, and putting even MORE emphasis on "HERO MUST NOT DIE!" to the point where there's a special structure just to REVIVE the bastard.
Maybe Blizzard is having the same problem as Square, whereby they were MUCH better off being horribly hamstrung by the shitty technology of the time than they are with the resources of the present.
Dear gods. Such ASS.
They say it's worth it for the cutscenes.
The units are cool, but the singleplayer is such tripe that if that's all you have access to.... don't even bother.
The Olympics went to shit the second a bitchy little white trash wannabe skater decided to get a leg up with a lugwrench. Now the corporate oligarchy is pulling the same shit. I find it amusing that McDonalds makes my ass bleed and Coke causes my hips to seize up, and that these side effects predate their sponsorship of the 2004 Summer Advertising Season.
I for one hope that our new corporate overlords fuck off and die horribly.
Remember that other invasion?
You know, the one before Gulf War Two : Clone of the Attack? The one we've fucked up just as badly? The one Bush has forgotten about and Kerry hasn't noticed? The one that, much like Iraq, is another cold-war cleanup? The invasion the soviets already fought (and sucked at)?
Yeah, that invasion.
My friend Barry's over there, thanks to whatever shitface decided that sending National Guard troops (you know, the guys that protect us from Canada, Mexico, New Jersey, Japan, and NK ICBMS) in as de-facto reservists was a good idea.
Afghanistan : historically fucked.
Turn your head and cough.
Vote with your torso. (src=bda)
The Extended Entry is all sorts of reasons why people like me should never be given the little box and the launch codes. Nevermind the fact that I'm just as pissed about my ethics preventing me from bitchsmacking fucktards as I am about the continued existance of the fucktards themselves.
During the hellish blast of agony that was yesterdays hangover, I managed to pull and/or strain the heck out of all of the major muscles in my thighs and shoulders. Don't ask. I am, in fact, still hung over. I know this from the very distinct depressovibe that I've been surfing on since I woke up and felt my legs nearly fall out from under me.
The UPS on the server keeps popping.
I'd be working on ATC or the threatened SAB redesign, but for the aforementioned shitlike-feeling.
Always around holidays. Always and forever.
I stopped Using in the spring of 2003 because Using costs money, Using makes me feel like shit for weeks afterwards, and continuing to Use would, I realized, get in the way of ATC. Using apparently seems to have expanded into alcohol and caffeine.
Fucking Whee, that one.
Small comfort in that I've Stopped. Unlike Some People, my bills are paid, my utilities are still armed and operational, nothing I own has been repossessed. The whole "Rats leaving a sinking ship" vibe extends out of education and into Reality.
On the verge.
I feel spring loaded and sprung. It being a Fucking Holiday, nothing of use will be open for the next two days, and the busses will not be running properly. And pretty much everyone has plans. I don't. I'll think about celebrating the fourth when Bush is out of office- maybe then we'll have something to celebrate.
In the meantime, anything that makes me feel better than shit for a few hours makes me feel worse than shit for a few days, what busses that are running are running out of time, and I've realized there's some particular thing that needs to be done that I'm overlooking and can't seem to remember.
It's on the tip of my mind.
Inverted variables are a glitch in the matrix.
I got stuck something fierce in Neverwinter Nights last night. Turns out everyone else gets stuck where I'm stuck as well, due to a specific variable being set wrong in the game itself. There is, fortunately, a fix.
Exposition for you, link for me. Beats printing it off.
Looks like the military is a bit overextended (src=bda) at the moment. Bush wants to increase the number of troops in Iraq, Kerry wants to increase the size of the armed forces. Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe we ought to scale back on our deployment and let the UN and/or NATO deal with things on their own for a change? There's only so many National Guard troops to pull up- and despite my incredibly low opinion of dubya, I doubt he'd be stupid enough to commit political suicide by reinstituting the draft.
Nothing like abusing the troops through political screwups to make one fisty and irrational.
It's not vitamin b. I've somehow managed to overdose on B6. Too much of the shit and your legs feel like they're pumping acid, your arteries feel like they're going to explode, and random muscle huaghuaghua. Doom.
That's Red Bull for you - 250% of your daily recommended dose of B6. Times three a day (give or take) times a few months.
I switched to Amp and the V8 energy drink and the vein-explody stopped.
I've consumed so much red bull that I've poisoned myself. Go me!
This one ain't pretty, and intentionally so. I think.
Mirror of a rant posted to Deviantart (in the extended entry). My brain feels like shit. I continue to experiment with elliminating things from my diet. I call it experimentation because I dropped Ramen and had exactly the same problems at exactly the same times and I now have brainsludgy headbees of PISS-ASS DOOM raging through MY FUCKING HEAD AND I FUCKING HATE IT AND IT WON'T STOP WHY DOESN'T IT STOP and I figured I'd fucking log this and maybe someone who specializes in stopping this kind of biological FUCKING TORTURE will read it and respond with something along the lines of "dude, you need more vitamin B."
I'm extremely certain that it's that simple. :|
I get to play with Moveable Type at work now- rebuilding a kiosk. One of my supervisor's hasn't realized this yet, and gave me a buttload of video work to do on top of it, and expects it done, you guessed it, yesterday. :P The MT thing is naturally a priority- not that it has a deadline, but my mindset about projects is such that when I get into them, it takes tactical force to get me out- when I'm focused, the entirety of existance is a violent annoyance if I'm neck deep in trying to fix something or figure something out. I suppose that's why they call it "work" and pay me- it's not for what I'm actually doing, it's for the sheer volume of totally unrelated CRAP that gets piled on me while I'm doing it.
In classic Newtonian fashion, the deeper I immerse myself in the project and the more focused I am on it, the more violent, grating, and frequent the interruptions. Such is the case with any project- which is why I'm careful about distraction control and the presence sentient life when I'm working on ATC. But hey, part of the joy of work is coworkers- I get the majority of mission critical things that can not tolerate distraction worked on after five. I'm cool that way.
This is, coincidentally, why I don't answer my phone at home (it's not even in a room I can hear from the batcave), and don't go out much. If I'm going to tolerate distractions, I am going to be PAID for them, dammit- and I'm on the clock a fixed number of hours and days a week. I respect the fact that people want to get ahold of me- I just wish people would respect the fact that I have hours of availability, and that contacting me outside of them will most likely not get you what you're looking for- especially if I'm working on something.
There have been occasions where I'm all caught up and bored out of my skull. Those are few and far between- see the Newtonian reference above. You only get pushed back if you're pushing. Working on Something is Pushing, so you're going to get smacked around by whatever can concievably manifest (re: Murphy's Law), be it the office manager, coworkers, equipment failure, badly timed phone calls, etceteras. This would be why cube farmers envy the offices with the doors and the locks and the windows- it ain't the view.
Fun? Probably. Angsty, oddly- I've been feeling positively human lately, as opposed to the month dead corpse in a manure pit thing that I'm usually stuck with in body, mind, or both. o_O
OpenOffice vs. IRIX
I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of a negative feedback loop. If not, you're about to read about mine.
< solios> fagbot: doot for blogging The Bitchy McBitchbitch Bitchloop
< fagbot> Try new Alleve Orgasm Tabs: keeps working for twelve hours!
Originally blogged in my deviantart account, which seems to have merrily eaten the post:
This is rumor control. Here are the facts:
1. My housemate has amazingly loud, fixture-shaking Fight Club Sex between three and seven nights a week. By loud, I mean my stereo doesn't cover it up without a noise ordinance violation. And I live behind a bar.
2. I haven't had sex since March of 2003. It's almost self inflicted- there's a short list of girls that treat me in a fashion that borders on sexual harassment. Having incredibly negative experiences along similar lines, the instinct is brain shutdown and isolation. A couple of girls who can't take a hint are angsting me at the entire gender. Whee.
3. Loud, unending Fight Club Sex + a person who's excruciatingly pissed at the presence of hormones and a libido in his body = @#$%#$%%@#$!!!1
Since I'm feeling both irrational and the Angry Cloud of Bees is NOT eating my brain (much), I'll expand. Just for you.
I've been hermitting hardcore for going on two months now, with a few exceptions. The bars have nothing to offer but fucktards and hangovers, or, if it's a really bad night, a couple of rogue skirts who try to get into my pants. They're like guys in that they can't seem to take a hint. :P The beehive is full of sucks, and the Oakland coffee houses aren't fit to be seen in. It's not that I want to be lonely- I'm either incredibly busy or incredibly depressed, and the whole problem with relationships is that they always seem to cycle into The Other demaning more and more and more of my time as I'm willing to give up less and less and less of it because I Need To Get Shit Done- my last relationship ended instantly and spectacularly for just this reason. The person in question demanded to see more of me and failed to make the engagements worth my time- when given The Ultimatum, I told her "Okay, you're not riding backseat to a webcomic. Be seeing you!" and cauterized it on the spot.
Time spent listening to incessant whining about dogs, roommates and work is not time spent well, especially when you have shit to do. Chalk it up to a serious personality conflict- unrewarding demands on my time form the basis of why I've isolated myself thoroughly from many of the people that I know socially. I'd rather be alone with IRC and photoshop. Swap space and /ignore might not be the most exciting things in the world, but they fill time and they don't wear perfume. Or make horribly unrealistic demands that they think are perfectly justified. They're where life has been lately.
Which is fine, until you run out of shit to do. Boredom isn't a lack of options or stimulation- it's a mental state of complete, all-encompasing BLAH that sucks the life out of you. And while you're bored, physical people still piss you off to no end, so you're bored AND isolated, because being alone is orders of magnitude better than being around sucks. Or so you think.
So, to sum up:
1. I am fucking sick of being horny. Biochemistry is clueless about things like prudishness and a general disinterest in sex. It wants that shit worse than Gollum wants the Ring, and it's Not. Going. To STOP. Imagine that internal force that makes you go o.O when you're looking at boobs and butts being permanently set to go >:| instead because, hey, you're looking at boobs and butts and that's a giant waste of time, right? Right.
2. That shit does not have an off switch. The "Switch" is pretty inconvenient, and it isn't a breaker or a relay. It's permanent. I'd like to think that my ragestate with regards to this issue may eventually turn out to be horribly misdirected, and would prefer to by capable of confirming my suspicions at this imaginary future date.
3. There are people who would be happy to render this a nonissue. QUITE happy, as they have repeatedly and insistently informed me. However, the people who would be happy to render this a nonissue and the people that would happily render this a nonissue are mutually exclusive concepts. The former exists, the latter seems to be extinct.
4. Not extinct so much as invisible, because I AM BEING A BITCHY LITTLE BITCHBITCH.
5. The mental interferrance caused by item one makes it impossible for me to think straight sometimes, which in turn makes me extremely angry (as opposed to adventuresome). This amplifies item three a bit. I'm sure if I actually liked being around people enough to be nice to them, life would be quite a bit different.
6. So basically, the fact that my hormones rage, with or without outlet, really FUCKING PISSES ME OFF a LOT. It's a distraction. The body wants to go do its thing, and has to be constantly and incessantly reined in, sometimes to the point of violence in the form of psychotic episodes. I suppress that shit so hard that when it finally does make it out of the gate, my brain snaps like a twig and rather than be congenial, charming, or something similar, I'm stark raving insane for hours, days, or sometimes weeks.
7. This is, as I'm sure you can imagine, a fairly irritating state of affairs. I have enough problems staying clearheaded (re: blood sugar) that lobbing the libido in on a weekly to monthly basis is adding insult to injury. Nothing like a head full of angry bees and the blind tension of testosterone to make you FALL IN LOVE WITH LIFE.
Meatspace associates joke that I'll be the first to get cyberjacks, that my brain runs java, that I think in assembly, etceteras. While I wouldn't get jacks, I will definitely be among the first in line for functional and effective hormone supressants and anything else that'll give me a clear head without the grinding tightness of a one-track ritalin attention span.
This has been your bitch for the evening. Had this been a blood sugar meltdown bitch, it would have been much less coherent and repeated itself in chunks at least three times. I will likely regret posting this at some point, even if it is an almost entirely accurate synposis of the psychosis that's been eating my brain off and on since 1998- progressively less off and more on of late, unfortunately.... or I'm sure I'd be telling you all about SWEETNESS AND LIGHT and other things that aren't a daily part of my existance.
I much prefer the very unevenly dispersed other eight months of the year when it's so totally not even an issue and I can actually Be Creative and Do Stuff without horrible acts of suck resulting.
Progressive Sorting Techniques
Okay. So, I've had alcohol in my system for at least the last five weeks straight. Maybe a hair less. No wonder waking up is such a pain in the ass- it's like the stuff turns into lead while I sleep, and sloshes around in my skull looking for an exit as I attempt to wake up. Treating this with energy drinks has a habit of attenuating my attention span, to the point where I behave in a fashion more becoming of a rabid lead-filled gerbil. Might explain the attention span I have with regards to ATC. :P
There are, of course, solutions. Many of which are very obvious, none of which are the sort of thing which I would file as easy to implement- hell, switching from eating at CoGos every night to actually buying sammich material twice a week (having now slipped to once a week) was an effort that would make Atlas blanche. Change doesn't come easily for me- but when it happens, it's violent and hypothetically permanent. We as humans have a fucked up habit of getting lazy and settling into patterns that require the least effort with the most benefit- when some effort will result in a much more useful distribution of resources. The nagging realization of this fact is a source of endless low grade frustration until the individual finally gets sick of his conscience shitting on his precious slack time and does something about it.
Hit that point, and if you're tactical about your slack, you already have a plotted road map ready to field test.
So. Walked home from work. Just got in, actually. Minus making a sammich and eating said sammich while checking gear and powering machinery up. I'm very cold and extremely wet. Moist, even. Walked home. In Isabel. Which is all of a light rain and moderate wind.
Yesterday, the weather report was OMFG WE'RE GONNA DIE!!!! predicting torrential downpour, rain of frogs, gale force winds, flying pigs and I thought we'd be dead or worse.
Instead, I get more blisters and a soaked sock. And slighlty more pissed at PAT for not bothering to show up. :P Whee overhyped nonevent- at least I got some pretty out of it and fixed some last-minute bugs in a render. AND remembered to tell After Effects to dump 30 minutes of video out while I'm at home drying off and using my swiss army knife to do blister-surgery.
Up early- thirsty, gotta piss. Showered. Bleed off the head start with Giant Eagle's world class incompetent customer service. Make it up on smokes- buy one get one @ crossroads. I'll take a carton. Thank you for calling. The clerk is cool. Thank the FUCKING gods. We talk about how shitty Giant Eagle customer service is while she rings me up.
Remember I gotta do Cranberry.
South Side smells like shitloaded diapers, and the bus driver has a mullet.
Somehow, it's 11am. It should be closer to noon Five hours of sleep if a minute and it's a dark, wet day. Dethstomp the South Side and wonder how much a Mossberg pup shotgun would cost. Need a walking stick. If it goes BOOM!, so much the better. Fucking bums. No, you can NOT HAVE A CIGARETTE STOP LOOKING AT MY CROTCH. Think about keeping the pack out of sight.
This is not Tuesday. This is the miscomplected afterbirth of Monday, crushed and smeared over an otherwise useful second day of the week. It's a short week, but we'll be damned if you're going to notice.
It's a week that demands Japanese rock music. My neighborhood smells like a fucking sphincter exploded, and I blame you. Go go godzilla. I'm coming out of this on top if I have to fucking find where you sleep and shit on your face.
Realize the last entry was drunk and this one is, in fact, stone cold sober.
Cribbed out of notebook notes, embellished and expanded. Good morning Pittburgh. You smell like SHIT PLEASE TAKE A SHOWER.
Wonder why I'm still loaded with what feels like bruises and looks like skin. Had to have come from somewhere. Hypothesize the army of lesbian viking ninja midgets I've seen running around disguised as Oakland. Realize I'm at work and should probably do some.
Bruised right arm. Bruise above right hip. Both hip joints are about to fall off. Buzzed. Drunkish, but it's no pain-killer. Still sore. Blasting music. Hear it. Feel it. Fail to weld both sensations together- bed is vibrating and lyrics are clear. I fail to be awash in aural Joy. Par for the course. The sky fails to be clear. The sky, in fact, is orange. Halogen. City. !clear.
This is wrong.
Summation of my view of the universe: your problems bore the shit out of me, take them elsewhere. You'd probably expect that from someone who spends his workdays with metal/industrial bleeding from his headphones.
Experience line noise and peripheral static on the status of the webcomic. I'll be reimplementing what I've done so far at a higher level of quality. This is important. With three weeks until the self imposed Deadline by which Page One needs to be done and up, I have a smallish amount of time to correct a few of the problems I have right out of the gate. Go me.
I've poured over a few online tutorials on the principals of cel shading, which I've decided to use for The Dualist. This'll be interesting, seeing as how I quite seriously suck ass in this department- it'll take some time to figure it all out and get decent with it. Hence redoing the first five pages. And probably part of the next-to-current. :P
In other news, all of my muscles are still killing me, I've developed an amazingly nasty inability to sleep (it's called "summer"), and I've been pissed for the past three weeks. Straight.
Something to be said for a staight of perpetually wanting to put your fist through a monitor. I'm getting shit DONE. Which will feel vaguely satisfying 'round the time the people in my life catch up to me, tackle my bitchass and either gimme drugs or hump my leg and whine until I tell them what I've been up to. Hopefully both.
In the meantime.
Funker Vogt! Funker Vogt! You are a warrior! Do it! Perfect! For your fatherland!
Don't look at me, I just work here.
22:14 <@solios> whoah.
22:14 <@solios> I got an email from some clients who dicked me.
22:14 < homeslice> ?
22:14 < homeslice> No lube?
22:14 <@solios> They want me to finish the site and finally gave me the
information I'd been waiting for for the last four months.
22:15 <@solios> In the meantime, they've cancelled the only two nights at that
bar that I bothered with.
22:15 < homeslice> Charge them triple.
22:15 <@solios> Fortunately, I was flagged as spam.
22:15 <@solios> So I'm going to leave it there. :D
22:15 <@solios> Fuck 'em.
22:15 < homeslice> Is it money?
22:15 <@solios> No.
22:15 < homeslice> ok
22:15 <@solios> So it's a major waste of my time.
22:15 <@solios> :D
22:15 < homeslice> Then fuck 'em.
22:15 <@solios> I think I will do just that.
22:16 <@solios> They dropped the only reasons I was there at all, scared off
the cool people and replaced them with asswipes, and now they
want the site finished for "free".
22:17 <@solios> They haven't seen me in four months. I think that's Clue
22:17 < homeslice> Reply with a kiddie porn site in the body of the email.
22:17 < homeslice> Nothing else.
22:18 * Xenothaulus listens to Depeche Mode
22:19 <@solios> I think I'll take a pass on that one.
22:20 <@solios> Mainly because if I replied, it would imply that I put some
value in talking to them.
22:20 <@solios> Which is most assuredly not the case.
A good lesson in business practice is to not expect a guy who's doing your site for free drinks to finish the site after you've ignored him for four months and cancelled both of the nights that he attends. No nights, no incentive to come and drink. No incentive to come and drink, no incentive to webmaster. No money? Even less incentive.
Why would I want to waste my time doing work in exchange for drinks at a bar filled with hostile patrons and staff with business savvy weaker than the drinks?
I can't think of an answer for that one, either.
I swore off clients awhile ago, and I'm still working off the short list of people that haven't dicked me over. I'm done with freelance for bartering or for "a good cause"- unless I've known you for years and trust you implicitly, it's about money or nothing.
Friends are, of course, exempt- mainly because they're very patient people who ask little of me. :)