Thought of the day: The Ewoks are the Care Bears after two light bears.

Thank you, Patrick Tyson, and good night!

Three rodents of impaired ocular perception
Observe the manner in which they perambulate.
They all pursued the agricultural person's spouse,
Who forcibly detached their rear appendage with a sharp implement.
Did you ever observe such an occurance in your existence,
As three rodents of impaired ocular perception.

"Due to the collapse of the USSR, the Black Market was flooded with cheap nuclear weapons. At some unspecified time in the near future, for uncertain reasons, the Pepsi Corporation will acquire an unknown quantity of these. Due to CIA prompting, the United States will clandestinely fund the Coca-Cola Corporation acquisition of nuclear warheads so that parity is achieved. This will lead to what historians in the future will refer to as the 'Cola War'." ~ J^e

As a sort of amusingly relevant postscript to the below entry about my definitive religious type, I noticed today that Mallory was talking about some sort of religious test, and being the ever-curious one, I took it. I was given a score of 100% on Unitarian Universalist, which strikes me as being an entirely cop-out definition of faith. Every point has "diverse beliefs" next to it, and if that isn't just pansy-assed, I don't know what is. I also got 96% on Neo-Pagan but I say that's just a weak attempt to redeem themselves from their first selection, but I see through their paltry schemes. Oh yesss...

Even I want to conform, to belong, to have a name that I can call my own. I'm sick of saying, when people ask me what religion I do follow since I'm frequently vehemently anti-Christian: "Well, I sort of have my own blend of beliefs drawn from various different faiths, but I don't entirely believe in the narrow-mindedness of a system. I think it limits your relationship with the Divine, don't you?"

At this point, without fail, my conversational partner either edges away, avoiding eye-contact, or bursts into self-righteous flames.

Now, however, I can state firmly: "I am a syncretist."

I looked at a whole heap of places that talked about this sort of thing, but the definition that made me go: "Hell yeah, that's me" comes from Foucault's Pendulum (the book that is slowly changing my life and the way I view the world) where the incomparable Signor Eco writes: "But in its loftiest sense syncretism is the acknowledgement that a single Tradition runs through and nurtures all religion, all learning, all philosophy. The wise man does not discriminate; he gathers together all the shreds of light, from wherever they may come..."

Of course, I still have to explain my newly declared syncretism to aforemention conversational partners, so I still get all the fun of frightening conservative agnostics or duelling with the rampantly fanatic. Goody.

So You've Decided to be Evil, and now you need some advice. After all, there's those pesky do-gooders who are always going to get in your way and you simply have to dress to fit the part. You need some advice from the people who know. Don't accept any substitutes.

I particularly recommend the "Make your own Evil Plan" tool. Very useful in turning around a slow weekend.

PS: Here's my Evil Plan^TM!

Your objective is simple: Murder Countless Innocents

Your motive is a little bit more complex: Sadistic pleasure

Stage One:

To begin your plan, you must first Seduce a Pope. This will cause the world to sit up and take notice, stunned by your arrival. Who is this Despoiler of all that is Good and Nice and True? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in Classic Black?

Stage Two:

Next, you will Contaminate/poison the Pyramids of Giza. This will cause countless hordes of Mean English Teachers to flock to you, begging to do your every bidding. Your name will become synonymous with Fuzzy bunnies, as lesser men whisper your name in terror.

Stage Three:

Finally, you will Demonstrate your Horsemen of the Apocalypse, bringing about Something That's Really Metal. This will all be done from a Abandoned Church, an excellent choice if we might say. These three deeds will herald the end, and the citizens of this planet will have no choice but to elect you their new god.

Trust us, it'll all come together in the end.

(Because I need to write something even remotely interesting and artistique (or something) in here this weekend...)

When I was very little, I was known as the "Early Bird" (my best friend of the time being the "Night Owl", as we were opposite in all things). I would wake up and toddle (that's why they're called toddlers, after all) out to him as he ate his breakfast and read one of his shipping magazines. And I would hop up into his lap and eat half his cereal. One spoonful for me, two for him. He ate cornflakes, out of a big bowl - a fruit bowl - and he used to chop up a banana to put on top. Some days I wouldn't wake up in time, and when I came out he would be finished. Then he had to eat another bowl, just for me, and he would be full, and running late for work. But he always did it, because he was the most wonderful father in the world.

He's retired now, and no longer goes to work at 7am. He eats his cornflakes with muesli now, because health (and my mother) is catching up with him. I eat cornflakes too, after going through a rice bubbles phase, and a weetbix stage. I'm too big to fit in his lap now, and I rarely get up before seven. He's still the most wonderful father in the world, and I would do anything for him, just because he asked.

I'm purging my webrings. I feel weighed down. I feel cheapened. (I'm bored.) I'm also not sure that I like these rings at all, so they're going. Some of them. I'm sure no one cares about this, but I'm telling you anyway.

First to bite the dust: blog girls and elite domains. Both of them because I really don't want to be associated with most of the other sites on them. Call me elitist. Go on, I dares ya! (For the record, it is a sort of elitism. A lot of them are the sort of teen silliness I'd prefer not to exist. Well, maybe that's a bit harsh. I'd prefer not to have to encounter. At all. They can do it, as long as they do it somewhere I can't see them.)

Second to go: Thought Transmission. I did like most of the other sites on this ring, but the ring wasn't really me. I joined it when Bloody Proust shut down, but I've changed since then.

Teetering on the brink: girl design, which I know I just joined, but I'm already questioning that. I'll surf it tomorrow and decide. Basically, I've become a content snob, and frankly I don't care about being linked to 101 girlies who know how to manipulate images and type HTML. I want expression. Which explains...

Definitely staying: bruised and circuit because these two are about being fantastically talented in the matter of content, not necessarily in design (but it certainly helps). I love these rings.

"Never complain and never explain." ~ Benjamin Disraeli

Jumping castles are far more fun than people my age should be having.

Last night was the college Ball, which I didn't attend because of the aforementioned nuptuals. I'm quite glad about this now, because every report thus far has confirmed my suspicion. That being: $60 is too much money to be paying for an evening as pathetically ordinary as those people are likely to organise. Especially for "alcohol" limited to beer and goon. Especially when the Asian Studies Ball on Friday cost half as much and had an open bar. I'm a good college girl - my life revolves around alcohol.

However, today was the recovery. Always a lazy and illness inducing event, even if you weren't tanked to the eyeballs last night. This year there was a jumping castle, hence the opening line. Much precious German study time was wasted leaping gleefully. And, once J² joined the festitivites, dodging getting tackled every two minutes. Honestly, that boy is testosterone on legs. Nice legs, though.

I am cordially invited to the wedding of the Pineapples Man and his dearly beloved. And you aren't so NER!

Translation: One of my dear friends is getting hitched today. I am attending, and hence cannot be blogging. I'm sure you'll miss me terribly, but try not to trash the place in my absence. Good childrens.

I'll bring you back a bit of cake if you're good. :-)

So, I just went on a late-night, spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. We purchased walkie-talkies (2), colouring books (2) and crayons (24). If you want me, I'll be playing. :-)

What did you do at university, Diana?

Pay special attention to the constitution (which I co-wrote), particularly divisions nine, and five-and-three-quarters.

What does Dee need more? (Answers on the back of a postcard.)

1. Sleep
   
2. More links in this damn blog!
   
3. Page-searing angst
   
4. Exercise
   
5. A stiff drink
   
6. A message board
   
7. Some old-fashioned lovin'
   
8. To graduate

Him: I thought it was a good movie. I especially liked the way it subtly communicated his ongoing struggle with his own latent homosexuality.
Me: What latent homosexuality? He was a raving hetero!
Him: I can't believe you didn't see it.
Me: Not everyone is gay, you know.
Him: They're just in denial.

Apparently there are new Thai laws regarding the illegality of killing a domestic animal or pet (cat, dog, usw) with intention to consume said animal. General assumption is that this is pointed towards the highly unpleasant practice of certain caterers in using said animals as the main course. Being the cynical wench I am, I can't help wondering if this will spawn a suitable black market to get around the obvious loophole in this law. After all, it doesn't say you can't eat doggies that aren't already dead. And it doesn't say you can't kill doggies just because you want to. So whaddya think? Could I make my living in Thailand as an animal killer for hire? Much easier than being a real assassin, I imagine. You wouldn't have to make the deaths look accidental if the evidence was going to be eaten in any case...

So this isn't exactly an example of moronic behaviour, but it's not too clever either. Power Bloggers (that status-meter of the blogging world) goes down in a whimpering heap, and apparently I am the only person to actually email Andre about it. Everyone and her cat blogs it though. Yes, let's report it to the entire world, but not check to make sure the guy who's running it knows about it. What are people thinking with?

Oh yes, of course - their blog neuron.

In the meantime, I realised while checking this phenomenon just how recycled the news is around most of these blogs. If I hear about that pitbull one more time, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions.

Why, why, why, why why???

PS: I forgot to mention in the angst-ridden depths of my previous posts that I added Emily (puckish) to my "I love" list, because she's incredibly wonderfully brilliant and if I can't host her, the least I can do is publicly and permanently display my respect for her.

Don't worry about me, ladies and jellyfish. I just needed to discharge some extra angst in the bloggy bit below. I am increasingly annoyed with myself, but don't know what I can do about it, since this is, in its deepest extraction, not a matter of personal choice, but rather a matter of what comes natural. Everyone always says: "Just be yourself and everything will be fine." and maybe it will, but I really won't like where I end up, even if it is fine.

I am, however, definitely PMSing. This is how it is with me. I develop this unbelievable ability to wallow in the mire of my own self-pity. I'm off to mope now. I'll be back in two days when I'm feeling more like me.

I do nothing.
I feel nothing.
And I say nothing.
Just hoping it will resolve itself.
I despise this nothing.
It's unravelling my life one microcosm at a time.
And I'm going to lose him.
I'm going to lose me.
If I ever was anything anyway.
And I wish for nothing.
Nothing to bother about.
Nothing to be pestered with.
Nothing to change.
Nothing to feel.
Nothing to be.
He won't let me be.

I believe every Wednesday blog will be accompanied by at least one discussion of the antics of my Diplomacy tute, at least until I get jack of it and change into a different tute. There is something odd about this group dynamic. Everyone seems aggressively eloquent, but at the same time, oddly uneducated.

Conversation reconstruction:
Him: I don't understand why people in the seventeenth century were so enamoured of religion. I mean, you can't prove anything! Science is so much better.
Us: There's no difference. Science can't prove anything either.
Him: But things can be proven. Two plus two equals four.
Us: Why?
Him: Because it does!
Us: Why?
Him: Look: (holds up fingers) One-two-three-four.
Us: All you've shown us is that four is four. What is four?
Him: But it's different! Religion is just... you believe those things because you're told them.
Us: You only believe the maxims of science because you're told them.
Him: But everyone knows it!
Us: Because everyone is told it. In the seventeenth century, everyone knew just as definitely as you know what the sum of two and two is that God existed and was on their side. You are not born with the innate knowledge that two plus two equals four. You learn this. You are told.
Him: Yeah but... ah, never mind.
Us: (thinking) You still don't understand, do you...

You know, I honestly thought I was past the age where I had to worry about putting my underwear on inside out.

Too much information? Sorry...

Thanks be to Letters to Cleo, without whom I would be a saner person.

Parody of yourself in colour,
giving it to everybody but your mother.
You've got much to think about.
Soaring higher with every treason.
Never justify, never reason.
You've got much to think about.
And it might be...
The comfort of a knowledge
of a rise above the sky above
could never parallel the challenge
of an acquisition in the
Here and Now

State: Dee finds (yet another) empty bottle of Diet Coke in K^y's car:
D: You live on the stuff! You and C! You're both cyborgs!
K^y: What's a cyborg?
D: (disbelieving) A cybernetic organism. You know, like Arnie in Terminator.
K^y: Oh right. I broke that evil habit anyway. Now during my undergrad years, then it was true.
D: So you're a cyborg with delusions of humanity then...

Search: delusions of humanity

Results: http://www.buildfreedom.com/tl/origin/introduction.shtml Amidst a slew of journal, poetry and Toy Story links, I find something called "THE ORIGIN of SOCIAL DYSFUNCTION" so of course I choose that one. "As we approach the dawn of a new millennium..." blah... blah... blah... "the masses, on one side, largely controlled and manipulated by authoritarian social systems..." blah... blah... blah... "magic, non-rational and arbitrary universe..." blah... blah... blah... "a unified, universal, alternative system for addressing particle physics..." blah... "Reach out and touch the screen and you will be healed!!!"

Sorry, wrong channel.

So basically, only the title was interesting about that link. Still, it was an interesting search.

I wrote this already, but blogger stuffed up and annoyed me, so I went and played netball and now I'm back and everything seems to be working. Fingers crossed.

Mallory is talking about reality TV, which thankfully I have not seen a lot of. Of course, Aussie television could be riddled with the stuff, but since I haven't watched more than about two hours in the last year, I'm blissfully unaware of this fact. This, however, is secondary to my main point.

The specific program in question is one called Wanted, which involves Mr (or Ms) Contestant being tracked by bounty hunters. At least, that's the impression I got. This reminded me of something someone once told me about a Russian reality TV program. In this show, Mr (or Ms) Contestant had to steal a car. If they then evaded arrest for half an hour (or maybe an hour) they got to keep the car. The police, it should be noted, were not forewarned of this escapade. The potential for casualties is huge. The potential for the car - should Mr Contestant survive and manage to talk his way out of the 34 charges of speeding, 19 charges of reckless driving and 7 counts of resisting arrest - to be completely trashed is also quite high. These factors lead me to believe that this one might just be an urban legend.

So I'm lonely. *sniff* Now that I've got comfy in viscerate, I want someone to share this with. Yes, I want a hostee. So pass the word around.

Of course, I don't just want anyone. They have to measure up to the requirements. And they have to have their own teapot. Photo of teapot required.

Dee's Lessons for Life - #3: How to eat soup without a spoon.

1. Find alternative piece of cutlery. I recommend a fork, but I understand a knife adds that bit of danger for those extreme types.
   
2. Make soup. I use cup-a-soup because that way if all else fails I can just drink it. Yes, I'm a wuss.
   
3. Procure bread. If this requires a trip of more than a few metres, you might want to move this step to number 1. The type of bread is, of course, entirely your choice. We are a pro-choice organisation, after all.
   
4. Right, now this is where it gets tricky, so pay attention.
   
5. Peel the crusts off the bread and eat or discard to preference.
   
6. Break bread into small bite-sized chunks (about 1 inch square or so, for you pedants).
   
7. Drop bread gleefully into soup. Yes, you must do it gleefully.
   
8. When bread has reached saturation point, use your cutlery item of choice to lever it out of the soup and into your mouth.
   
9. Wipe up the bits you spilt.
   
10. Alternatively, realise that you're going to do this with every mouthful, and live with the spills.
    
11. Use more bread as required.

Alright, link of the week, because you've been good: Billionaires for Bush (or Gore). Came in courtesy of R, as do all the truly classy links. This just made me laugh so hard, and I'm not even an American. Maybe that's why I laughed so hard...

You know, I'm getting a whole heap of referrals from Pétur Rúnar (An Icelandic Tale, I think it's called) but I have no idea what the paragraph involved with the link to me says. Anyone who can enlighten me will earn my undying gratitude.

State: Maybe it's just because I'm reading Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco - in fact, it's precisely because I'm reading that book - that I'm suddenly very interested in the Knight's Templar. So here we go...

Search: Templar

Results: A History and Mythos of the Knights Templar looks very promising for anyone hoping desperately in her their little soul to find a hint of magic and fantastic mystery surrounding this long-defunct (or is it?) order. Head straight for the "Myths" section and read about how the galloping moronic extremist Christians (extremists of any kind deserve short shrift) believe that the Templars were "one of the most deeply Satanic secret society in history". When you've finished boggling at the depths of human stupidity, go back to "Mysteries" which promises to be much more interesting. Spend some time suspending disbelief in various sections like "Do the Templar still exist?" and "Did The Templars Have The Holy Grail?" Conspiracy theories for the classically educated. Oh yeah.

Rampant Optimism alert: *riotHERO (and I'm sure he's not the only one who believes this, he's just the one I've spotted airing his views) believes that the G8 summit should cancel Third World Debt.

Now, I was handed a petition about this last year. I think it was called Jubilee 2000 or something like that. I laughed at them and handed it back. I steadfastly refused to sign. Why? Because it is a ludicrous idea. That is my belief. It is ludicrous to suggest that cancelling Third World Debt will solve the problem. It is ludicrous to suggest that it will not have an adverse effect on the world economy. Hence it is ludicrous to suggest that countries will actually do it, no matter how much pressure is put on them by the little people.

The alternate point of view: I'm not saying I agree with this, but this is a commonly held belief amongst the economists and politicians that matter. The most commonly used metaphor is one of a liferaft after a shipwreck (most usually the Wreck of the Medusa). The boat can only hold so many people, and if you try to help everyone, the boat will sink and you will all drown.

This doesn't apply to world economics, the Rampant Optimists declare passionately. It's just justification for the selfish ways of the West. Well maybe, or maybe not. The theory goes to to suggest that all the help the West could give the Third World would still not be enough. And with this I sometimes do agree. It would take huge amounts of money, time and other aid to bring the entire Third World to a reasonable level of living. And it would suck so much out of the First World that before the raising of the Third World was accomplished, the First World would sink.

Even before that happened, there's a larger problem. The drain of so many Western resources for the aid of another country would lead to a huge rise in xenophobia and fascism. It would gain more and more popular support. The West would flood with right-wing pressure groups and eventually governments, and the aid would stop, brutally I imagine, as political and economic survivalism took over. There goes the political enlightenment and liberal democracy so treasured by the average American. The world sinks, like an overburdened liferaft.

But honestly, what are you supposed to do about the foreign Third World when you can't do anything about the Third World inside your own country? And anyone who says it doesn't exist in America, or even Australia, is more blind than the average Rampant Optimist.

The world is full of problems. That is its nature. And taking any course of action will just bring about more problems. Taking no course of action is still a course of action. No matter which was you turn, someone will jump on you, demand change, call you communist/fascist/irresponsible. Not even Rampant Optimism can save you from that. Not even the intention to do good means that you will. These issues are not simple and the sooner people stop believing that they are, the sooner something meaningful can be done.

Dr M says the computer generation has a short attention span. Then Atley says he's "fazy". There is no such thing as a coincidence in Dee-land. Has our live-quick society delegated us to a life of fast thrills soon fading? Do we not have the mental equipment to dedicate ourselves for the long haul? Are we, so to speak, burning the candle at both ends, creating twice the light but for half the time? I suffer from it myself, leaping onto a project with the burning fervour of a true fanatic, but soon becoming bored, seeing greener grass, letting things slide. Atley calls it being fazy. Dr M calls it a product of our generation. I call it a character flaw that is becoming predominant in society.

So this is weird: Both of these sites are in my referral logs. I could figure out one (since it's the homepage of a ring I below to), but not the other one. So I visit. I double-take. You will too. #1: http://www.pretention.net/elite/ and #2: http://cyberviolet.com/seksay/. Spot the difference?

Update: Now cyberviolet.com doesn't appear to exist any more. The bizarrity deepens. I feel like I've dropped through some sort of virtual looking-glass. Follow that rabbit!

Mundane changes for a mundane world:

• Retro Hippy has finally received its due recognition instead of being hidden behind "Gallia". All hail Lizz.
  
• While boylog/girlog continues to be an interesting delve into the gendered psyche, I'm afraid my interest seems to have drifted away from Bionicomm. Told you I was fickle.
  
• I have discovered a new love (the owner of which will get a return email from me one of these days) in evade.net.

I just love this. Crosswords I can do online! Now if they were only decent crosswords, not requiring an encyclopedic knowledge of American television (which surprisingly, I don't have) I'd be a very happy little moppet indeed...

Intent to produce intelligent thought: high.

Ability to produce aforementioned intelligent thought: low.

Hypothesised reasons:

Brain-drain from actually making an effort and scraping together all those snippets of HTML into a major site update (oh yeah, the personalised section has a new design too) means that I'm completely out of thoughts, intelligent or otherwise.

The fact that I finished my most recent problem with regards to the amorphous novel entity means that my brain has declared a half-holiday in celebration and hasn't left a forwarding address.

I'm just far too lazy and getting more so.

thecounter.com has pissed me around enough. Time to try out something else. Say hello to Mr Newcounter. He's from sitemeter.com. You all make him feel welcome now.

The rules of drunken pub chess (courtesy of J²):

1. If you can take a piece, you should.
   
2. If you can make a move, do it.
   
3. If you can put the opposition in check, you must.
   
4. Testosterone and macho-bullshit is a prerequisite.
   
5. Thou shalt not care.

Fresh off the viscerate press: a new section called visibleEGO, dedicated to expression, in various forms.

PS: The Lost mail archive has been trashed since I don't have time to keep it up. Sorry.

I know exactly what you mean there, Lizz. I can quite easily put my finger on the precise causes of my cockroach phobia. It has to do with growing up in Queensland, where the cockroachs grow big and dark. It has to do with waking up in the middle of the night with one running over your face. It has to do with sitting at the breakfast table at college (in a city in which you think you are safe from the horrible beasties) and having one crawl up between the tables barely an inch from your hand.

You have never seen anyone move so fast.

So my phobia is heavily cemented into my personality. I can't even get close enough to them to kill them. Just thinking about them gives me the shivers. Bleurgh!!

Is this just going a little bit too far? Sometimes, even I can't do anything more than shake my head in some sort of wondrous half-denial.

Thought for the day: Gin and tonic underneath UV lights looks like a mystic potion designed to render the imbiber young and beautiful.

I don't like stereotyping. In fact, I hate it. Not just witnessing it, but doing it. I exult when someone shatters all the preconceived notions about how they must appear or behave. A find it a moment of smug satisfaction, like I'm witnessing everything that's unpleasant being thwarted.

Today I finally had a class with a person I have observed for nigh on a year and a half now. She has a certain image, and consequently, her behaviour from no acquaintance could be pigeon-holed in a certain way. Stridently feminist, she is probably anti-traditional-domination in other ways as well, like anti-Western-superiority and so forth. She would probably read cyberpunk, possibly even role-play it. She would state her views loudly, firmly and probably take provocative bait if it was waved in front of her.

I had high hopes of seeing these standardised conceptions shattered. I (metaphorically) rubbed my hands together in gleeful anticipation. The reality was annoying and depressing. She was all those things. In spades. I feel small, bitter and twisted, and I don't really understand why. I just know that when people (in my mind, at least) simply sit on the behavioural laurels of stereotypes, it makes me quite angry.

Born of a typo, cold fingers and a tired mind, I wonder if there is a riotherpes.com...

Funnily enough, there isn't.

Don't you just want a url like http://quickriotherpes.com? Go on, you know you do.

Note: The entry below is dedicated to Dr M, sometime personal guru and hopefully future supervisor, who believes that the computer generation cannot understand subtle irony. You can decide whether I'm proving or disproving his theory.

Listen, you horrible little man, I am better than you. I am taller, stronger and prettier. Your face resembles the misformed hindquarters of a small yapping dog. Your so-called friends pity you and your dog likes you only for the food you provide. The oxygen you breathe cringes from touching your lungs and your blood is sluggish with its apathy regarding keeping you alive. Your clothes fasten with velcro because buttons are beyond your capability. You smell. Your mother smells. In fact, every member of your extended family including second cousins smells. You cause racism and third-world conflict. You sank the Titanic and crashed the Hindenburg. You were Adolf Hitler, Attila the Hun and Hannibal Lecter in your past lives. And what's more: you make spelling mistakes.

What inspires people to spew forth such tirades of vitriol? On the visage.cx boards Zoe told us all about some hateful messages she'd seen directed at those of a gothic persuasion, and the details of an email conversation she'd entered into with the attacker. It was an example of such blind, unreasoning and spiteful hatred that it literally took my breath away. There was no style, no finesse in these attacks, merely red-in-the-face-from-screaming effort and strings of furious expletives. I imagine someone with such a roiling centre of pure hate that it consumes them, and I wonder how these people can ever function in normal society, and I am saddened because I realise they can probably fit in (on a fickle level at least) than the so-called "freaks" they are waxing vitriolic about.

I am a rodent of the drowned variety. It is raining out there. It rained all over me in a highly democratic fashion. It rained all over J² as well, who gleefully told me (after assuring me that he was still a lesbian, but that he wasn't as big (or fat) a lesbian as my brother) that he had to change all his clothes down to and including his underwear after getting drenched riding home.

There is no point to this. Aren't you glad I told you, though?

Just added: Google search box. I search with Google, you should to. And if you do, please consider doing it from my site, because it may earn me money occasionally. And more money for me equals more carp for you. :-)

Today I went through the entire agony and ecstasy of writing. The day I decide to resume my writing, as something that has been longingly gazed at, coveted almost, for months now.

I sat down in front of Thomas Jefferson, the trusty (rusty) typewriter, and began to ponder in print. What is my main problem with the amorphous novel-entity at present? I brain-stormed as fast as two fingers could type (coming from a computer age I find it impossible to touch-type on old, old typewriters. You try it sometime). I racked my brain, I dredged the depths of my consciousness.

I could not find the answer to my problem. Riddled with self-righteous and suitably bosom-heaving angst, I paced to the window, stared disconsolately from it. It was all too difficult, I declared in the depths of my soul. I would never find the answer. I would never manage it. I would never ever ever in a million years see my name in gold leaf on a cover.

Yet I turned back to the stiff and unwieldy instrument. I tapped a few more letters. I thought a little. I engaged in conversations with half my brain while the other half gnawed away like a rabid hyena. I itched to leave polite society for the close corner containing my brain on paper.

It's like a drug, writing. It's habit-forming. And I'm hooked once again.

Thought for the day: What is it about wearing leather pants that simply requires you to strut?

Star of the East, give us kingly birth;
Star of the South, give us great love;
Star of the West, give us quiet age;
Star of the North, give us death.

Gaelic prayer

I find it interesting that there is no adjective, no modifer for death. Such a simple poem, this, with such intricacies built into its four easy lines that it instantly found a place in my poetry notebook. And yet it continues to amaze me how people dismiss it when they read through, skimming over this tiny poem and moving onwards to the longer and therefore naturally more eloquent pieces.

Emily says nice things about me and that gives me a warm fuzzy. :-) What's more, it's not just gratuitous nice comments. Sometimes I feel that people are just saying nice things... well, because they think it's nice. By considering and quoting and commenting on specific parts of my site, Emily lets me know that she's read it all, and really thought about it. And that is worth far far more than any nice comments. I don't need people to say that my site's good. I just need them to have read it and thought about it.

Thank you Emily for doing the above and still having nice things to say about the site. And I'm glad that she thought the hosting offer sounded tempting. I was hoping it would be to the right sort of people, and not tempting at all to the wrong sort. :-) That said, there's a place at viscerate.com for Emily any time she wants it. LOL.

Welcome to Bush Week, ladies and gentlemen, kind of like Orientation Week revisited, except everyone knows each other now, and we still have to go to lectures. Centre-stage feature of this event at college: Murder.

For those (un)fortunate enough never to have experienced this amusing pursuit, it goes a little something like this: You get a slip of paper with the floor, year, degree and eye colour of your victim. In order to 'kill' them, you have to get them alone (without any other college residents) and say, "You're dead". You can't kill someone through glass or in the toilet. And, of course, while you're trying to get someone alone, someone else is trying to get you alone.

It all makes for the most amusing behavioural gymnastics, manic chases, and elaborate stake-outs. I don't play any more, just sit back, watch and stoke other people's paranoia. Oh, and act as official bodyguard for those who don't trust their friends any more. Oh yes, paranoia is alive and well and living in Burgmann College.

The silence is deafening. :-) Nothing yesterday because the unpleasantly fascist ANU connection went down in a whimpering heap, denying me access to all incoming email and requiring serious first aid before even letting me into university websites. So I managed to get some sleep (still not enough, unfortunately), and catch up on my vegetation. Now, back to the blogging.

WARNING: The following bloggie bit contains a spoiler for those who may not have seen the director's cut of Blade Runner and wish to do so with a pure, virgin and uncontaminated viewpoint. Since it's been out for almost ten years now, you're slack to the extreme.

Now that those unworthy have hidden, let's continue. I have only ever seen the director's cut of Blade Runner. I have seen it twice now. It was clear to me the first time I saw it that something was deeply uncertain here. The second time I saw it, it was so glaringly obvious that I nearly slapped myself. Deckard was a replicant. It adds that bit of poignancy to the storyline, and makes everything a lot more smugly screwed up. Hence my confusion when I came across an article declaiming: "Blade Runner riddle solved". Riddle? There was a riddle? Oops.

I didn't count the replicants, or anything like that. I didn't even register that there was one missing from the count, and I never thought Deckard had come with the other four (although that really adds that bit extra to it... have to see it again now). It was the unicorn that did it for me.

On a minorly related note, the other "movie mysteries" listed in the article amused me a lot. Especially the one from The Italian Job. Quirky movie. Odd ending. [Thanks to billyjoebob for pointing me in the way of this article.]

State: Tired because I was woken up at one in the morning, barely an hour of beauty-sleep behind me, by A and drunken friends. Poor little me. In an effort to amuse a bored and sheepish J² I let him choose the search for the day.

Search: cats and unusual places

Result: Would still stink like cat piss! I mean honestly, what are you supposed to do when confronted by a link entitled with that catchy phrase? You click, of course. And even though I suspect the person/s behind this site may actually be serious in their assertions, it is very difficult to take seriously a page that continually declares cats are "randomly viscous" and that dogs never or rarely lick their owners (buh?).

All ready was I to settle down to a comfortable (if not particularly profitable) afternoon blogging. However, no sooner did I sit down at my trusty (rusty) computer, than the muse started beating me over the head with a lump of 4x2. So I am afraid I am writing, not for your edification and amusement, but so that I can get the damn thing to shut up and shove off. The piece in question will be submitted to Emily's Glimpses most likely. And here, just for you, dear reader, is the first paragraph:

Abandoned suitcases received less than a warm reception in Paris. The incident of terrorism being unacceptably high, the police response to unowned luggage was nothing short of panicked. It involved cordons, bomb squads, and the eventual execution by shooting of the offending suitcase.

Mwah! Ciao!

I've had three people today email me, expressing an urgent and earnest desire to assist me in earning lots and lots of money. Spam is really getting much more endearing. But it's still spam. I can't help wondering, as I hit the delete key with giggling glee, whether these people get a good result from their spamification techniques. Does anyone, out there in the cold hard world that is the internet, actually read these emails? Even if they contains sentences like: "Remember our conversation about how you could triple your earnings this year?" Even if they start with: "Hi there! How have you been?" How much extraneous gumph must be floating (zipping might be a better verb there) around in cyberspace? How can we move for the junk?

I just spent twenty minutes cruising the internet looking for anime. I'm going to a night where the theme is "Legend of the Ubergoth" (bastardised from "Legend of the Uberfiend" of course). Now, I think this sounds like a lot of fun, but I find myself stumped on the concept of anime costumes. Thus far some sort of schoolgirl look is appearing the most likely. If anyone has any pictures/suggestions they think might be helpful, please don't hesitate to send them to me. I will be eternally grateful.

Does anyone else find it amusingly ironic that the label on my glue bottle doesn't seem to be stuck on very well?

Stereo wars: Lunachicks vs. aforementioned crap dance music. It's a close one, actually, because of the reverberating base involved in all techno-crap. So I think it's time to pull out the big guns - Kittie. And if that doesn't work, I'll Metallica him to death. And leave the room.

I didn't understand my neighbour's sudden inconsiderateness, since he's usually been so pleasant. Then I met him in the hall with someone else, who is obviously staying with him. This, I sense, is the perpetrator. Bastard.

I give up. The porn sites I understand. The warez sites I understand. But what on earth is The Works of Men at Work doing in my referrer logs?

(exit stage left humming "Land Downunder")

How to explain the magic I see in everyday occurences? I caught a bus ten minutes ago from the pub where I was having drinks with A and friends. I waited at the stop with A, speaking inconsequentially. I got on the bus and bought a ticket. I was on the bus for two minutes. There was one other passenger; a man with groceries who got off one stop before me. Then I was alone on the bus. I got off at my stop and thanked the driver. He told me to have a good night, then he drove off, closing the doors.

Mundane. Boring. Simple. But something about it was magical. Something about it fired me to come up here and blog it. And if I could put my finger on it, pin it down and describe it, I would be both more and less of a person for it.

State: Relieved that the holiday and its associated work is behind me. Cheerful with the new semester. Cold because it's suddenly realised it's supposed to be winter. Odd because the phrase "I am not your nubile chicken" appears to be stuck in my head.

Search: nubile chicken

Result: I bet you've always wanted to know how to Increase system uptime with Satanic Rituals. I know I have.

This meshes surprisingly well with what a one-time acquaintance recommended for a persistently crashing computer - he declared that my computer was clearly suffering from demonic possession, although it was difficult to tell, what with Windows and all. However, the evil spirit would only be appeased by a virgin sacrifice. I suggested that perhaps the drying blood might cause more problems than it solved, but he dismissed this as a minor concern beyond the possession of my computer by evil forces. There was also the problem that, as I am in college, a virgin is a rare and prized commodity, and one would not be cheap to obtain. Faced with these obstacles (not to mention how cliche the whole thing would be - simply ruin my image), I decided instead to commune with the spirit and see if we couldn't come to some sort of mutually-beneficial agreement.

It turned out to be Abraham Lincoln in my computer. Naturally, Bill Gates was no match for our combined intellects, and the esteemed President and I have been happily co-existing ever since. I notice a certain possessive jealousy, but Abe has at least become accommodating towards A since then. Thank goodness.

"Don't touch me; I'm super important." ~ Random NPC in Baldur's Gate.

Ooooh, the new boyLOG/girLOG is finally formally up and running. I'm very curious to see what happens with this project.

In other webjunk, Mallory has redesigned (in some sort of contra-desire slip that was almost "resigned". Don't do that!). I like it a lot, making a small break, as it does, with the typical left-and-top type layout so commonly employed. As always, her words are finely textured. They smell nice too.

Internet Conspiracy Theory #243: Drioux and Maura are involved in counter-espionage in the Congo. This can, of course, be reasoned from a two-paragraph article in the Sydney Morning Herald this morning about experimental monkeys in Sweden. (Come on, people, the connection is obvious! Use your brains!) It would also explain why neither of them has produced works for public consumption in the last five days or so.

But seriously, I'm not trying to exert peer publishing pressure or anything. I fully respect their right to work for the government if they so choose. I'm just registering that I miss their words.

My room is practically vibrating because someone on the floor below me is listening to crap dance music at full volume. I don't have to put up with this. I'm going to have a shower. And if he's still going when I come back, it's going to be Rammstein at full blast for him. (Oh yeah.)

I went out to my first lecture at eight this morning. I paused before opening the door to put on my gloves, and I looked at the glass. There was a bit of grass stuck to it, looking maybe like a small figure, limbs splayed. Surrounded by crystalline frost, it looked like a Brian Froud creation. When I returned at eleven, the frost, the grass and the magic was gone.

Something Drew said in a conversation is curdling in my brain with the movie I just watched - The End of the Affair (review coming soon, I'm sure) - to create a melange of thoughts that I suspect will morph into a long-awaited exx page some time in the next week. However, there is an immediate point I would like to mention here:

Whenever you see the letter A representing a person in this blog, that stands for Anthony. Anthony is the man I have angsted over for the entire two years my personal website has been in existence. He is a fixed point in my life. I keep secrets from him, I flaunt myself for him, I cry tears over him and I revel in his warmth. He is my boyfriend, my best friend, and sometimes I suspect my soulmate.

That's all I really wanted to say. World, meet Anthony.

"Damn broccoli," he muttered, biting the stem off viciously.

Back to the mediocrity I enjoy so much. Tripped gaily into town today with K^r and J². Purchased new music to satisfy the craving I have to listen to something new I can obsess about. New (old) Rammstein CD and something from a group called "Lunachicks". Looks like fun and sounds alright too.

I was walking along against the tide of traffic and, as sometimes happened, I suddenly realised that all these people were that: people. I realised that I was looking out of my head, existing in my universe, and they were all doing the same thing. We were all isolated incidents, brushing past each other. I wondered how I looked through their eyes. I wondered if they wondered about me.

Window shopping, we passed a window display of torsos displaying their backs. Their wrists were brought together behind their backs. I thought they looked like they'd been tied up, although there were no restraints on those plastic wrists. I wondered if this was some sort of fetishist subliminal advertising, or if I was just strange.

All things considered, probably the latter.

For anyone expecting what I promised this morning (ie: gems of wit and wisdom), I extend my most heartfelt apologies. I am, however, off to have a life. Yes, one of those things I've almost forgotten exist in the past week and a half. I'm off to have a drink with A and his mate. Don't trash the place while I'm gone.

Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I'm free at last!

The ordeal is over. The paychecks will be arriving soon. (And I have to do my tax return soon. Damn.)

Americans amuse me (stay thy wrath for two minutes, will you?). Some came into the bar last night, had a whinge about the price of beer ($2.50, which is, I imagine, considerably cheaper than you will find it just about anywhere in Australia and incidentally exchanges to about $1.50 US) and then made comments about the money. Australian currency, for the uninitiated, is all the colours of the rainbow, and various different sizes. The $5 is pink/purple with the Queen on one side and someone on the other side (there's a lot of "someone"s on our money. All notable and noble people, I'm sure, but no one know who they are or what they did, really). The $10 is blue/green. The $20 is orange. And so on. It's also made of plastic-type stuff (which means it goes through the wash without any hassles). A friend who recently returned to the States from his exchange over here IMed me and said: "I went to an ATM and went, 'What's this green crap?'"

So I suppose it's not Americans who amuse me, so much as the culture tremor (it doesn't really deserve to be called a shock).

That is my profound thought for this morning. I will return this afternoon and attempt to bestow some more gems. For now, though, wish me luck on this last day of hell work.

The very reason I only buy white socks is demonstrated by the way I stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed, and grab whatever footwear and accoutrements are closest to hand. At least this way, I'm never odd-socked.

One more day of this horrible, horrible employment to go, and then I can go back to university and get some rest. Yes, that was tried and tested irony.

What's wrong with Harry Potter? A lot, apparently. I was flabberghasted that anyone could think this way. It's this sort of thinking that led to a certain well-publicised incident in a little place called Salem a while ago.

Frankly, I think the views portrayed in this article are disgusting and just plain wrong. The (completely un)esteemed author would have children growing up with no sense of wonder, no interest in reading, no imagination and absolutely no mysteries left in the world. This will put them straight into that sterilised world I mention below. Mr No-Fun would probably like them to have the Bible memorised backwards as well. Huzzah for him.

Well, here's my message to children, or indeed anyone: Read Harry Potter. Love Harry Potter. Believe in Harry Potter. Because the world is big and mean and tough and things don't always work out like they do in the books, but this is escapism and as long as you have your imagination, you'll always have somewhere to escape to.

So everyone (or so it appears - and maybe I'm not as removed from that teen-internet scene as I'd like to think I am) is going ga-ga over Emily at rare-ingenuity.com. And I can see why. Her design is pretty. Her content is extensive. It's a sweet site. It is, however, overshadowed in my not-so-humble opinion by the glory that is the site of her neighbour-hostee, Benedicte. I visited today and the beauty of the design almost took my breath away. I found it completely luscious. While it is perhaps not as content-rich as Emily's, I did not find that to be a detraction at all. Rather than being a sprawling, pleasant visit, this is a small, polished gem, and thus all the more precious.

Look, look, look! A brand new layout! I'm so happy with how this turned out I'm almost turning pink. What a horrible thought. I'd better stop thinking about it immediately.

If you see anything odd, please email me. I know the title graphic is huge, but I simple wasn't happy with it when I did anything to make it smaller. Apologies.

Now I think I'm going to start working on a new project. Yesssss, my precious. It'ss a sssecret, it isss.

(Note to self: get more sleep.)

I am left wondering why so many of my references are still coming in from visage.cx/exx. Surely not so many people could have had that URL linked. Maybe someone could shed some light?

I am tired, a fatigue deep down in my bones that only a week's worth of good sleep and rest can fix. Unfortunately, I don't have that week. Dammit.

I take delight in Mallory. She writes with verve and vision. Maybe it's because I am reading a novel involving illumination and other scribe's work (The Barbed Coil by JV Jones, check it out if you like fantasy fiction) but I can envision the inken words flowing from her mind through her fingertips onto the vellum screen and into my mind through my eyes. What a wonderful connection. Better than a cable. (Note: Spelling and grammatical mistakes are what you get for blogging tired, you bad girl you.)

Everyone is commenting on, quoting and raving about Fight Club. I am not saying that I didn't like it. I am not "too cool" for this movie (thank you, R). But I find it amusing that in an average day's blog-surfing, I can come across three glowing comments and two direct quotations. Most of these are related to Brad Pitt's character, and his fuck-the-system attitude. Most are supporting it, seeing the truth in it, saying: "Hey man, he's really got something there."

Those bits were not what made the movie mind-blowing for me. It was not even the stunning revelation (that will not be pre-revealed here for those people in Papua New Guinea and certain parts of Greenland who may not yet have seen the movie and may still desire to) that made me go: "That is the funky shit." It was the way Brad Pitt gained support. The way these people wanted him, needed what he had to say. They ate it up. They wrapped it into something they could grasp firmly onto and they cherished it. The part where Edward Norton's objections to the death of his friend as part of the plan are bulldozed into part of this cultish belief system is, to me, the defining point of the movie. And the quotes and references just prove it to me. Here are people who are grabbing what Brad Pitt had to say. Who are embracing and finding worth in it. Here are people who would chant in unison over the dead body of a fallen comrade, given the right situation.

Maybe we're all Edward Nortons, searching for our Brad Pitts. Maybe we all desperately need something to hold on to, to cherish, to be the burning coal in the pit of our stomachs. Because we do live in that sterilised world that Edward Norton showed us and Brad Pitt jumped up and down on. And we have had the magic removed from our lives, the action, the excitement, the daily desire. But terrorism against credit-card companies won't work. And frankly, I don't think saying: "Fuck the system" will either. Because the system, frankly, doesn't give a fuck about you or your opinions. It is fired by the endless churning of the world, and each part turned the next like cogs. And if all the ants left, I think it would still keep turning, running on the ghosts and memories of those marching feet.

Enough of that. Back to the fish.

When I grow up, I want to be a firetruck!

Speaking of Terry Pratchett (which, if you're reading this from top to bottom, I haven't yet, but I will soon), here's the rules to Cripple Mr Onion. No wonder it's touted as the Discworld's most complicated card game. I'd like to learn to play, just so that I could have a party trick too (like my father's intricate shuffling matters) but I simply don't have the sticking power.

I was about to launch on a "Why I love Terry Pratchett" rant, but probably no one cares. If you do, let me know.

I have gone completely image-grabbing crazy. Snatching them up left, right and centre. My third finger (the one I right-click with) is developing RSI, I'm absolutely certain. What does this portend? A change in design, I predict. Yes indeedy. I don't know what yet. The miscellainy of graphics is simmering in the gumbo of my creative consciousness. I'll just have to wait and see what bubbles to the surface. (Unnecessary and oblique PTerry reference for anyone obsessed and geographically well-situated enough to grasp it.)

The electricians were in college today, putting new lights in the staircases. They worked all day, but the lights are not there yet, the staircases still smothered in dimness. The light fittings are there though, looking forlorn, useless and frankly pathetic without their oh-so-necessary accoutrements. Once, as I trudged up the paraphenalia-clogged stairs on my daily grind, I passed one of the electricians talking on his mobile phone to his accountant. Yuppie electricians? What is this world I live in?

Gasp, choke, hack. (This is the sound of me inhaling my drink as I read the email that has landed in my inbox.) Wheezing: "Holy crap!"

Apologies for my lack of eloquence, but you see, I've just received email from and had my site discovered by Helen Razer. This name means nothing to non-Australians, I imagine, and probably nothing to Australians outside a certain demographic. But I'm smack-bang in that demographic, and it means quite a bit to me. I am really quite flabberghasted that Ms Caustic Radio herself has noticed my site. Moreover, thinks I'm a "linkiotastic empress". I shall wander off in a haze (added to by the hallucinogenic properties of carbonated beverage applied directly to the sinuses). Until I come back in some form of coherence, why don't you go play at Big Fat Radio, which appears to be Ms Razer's newest project.

Incidentally, regarding that conspiracy theory involving a certain incapacitated Scientologist mentioned below. Apparently the likelihood of it being true is 42%. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest.

Ah well. Would like to continue to ramble for a while, but can't blog, working.

So Drioux and I are conspiring. Muahaha. I had a wonderful chat with him this afternoon on IM, only made possible because I skived off work an hour and a half early, but I think this is justified considering I'm working an extra four hours (make that five by the time I'm done) tonight. Do you think so too? Oh good, I was sure you would.

Back to the conspiracy. Not a conspiracy like: "It is rumoured that L Ron Hubbard was seen on Larry King Live just before the abduction while receiving a case of subpoenas implicating involvement in a sinister scheme designed to secure the worldwide movie and distribution rights." (Thank you Westword.com.) But a conspiracy to provide unusual and ego-stroking (whose egos? Ours of course! If you want your ego manipulated by these skilled hands, you have to pay like everyone else) web schtuff. Details as they come to hand and as I feel like delivering. Be nice to the Dee now!

It annoys me when I have to work bar, because if it's slow, there's nothing else to do except sit there and read the ceiling. Never does time seem like it's slipping through my fingers more than when there's so many things I could be doing, and I'm prevented from them. Of course, should I have the opportunity to do them and choose to sit there doing nothing, that is an entirely different story.

I figured maybe someone might care what I was in a past life (see entry below). I found it interesting anyway:

"...you were female in your last earthly incarnation. You were born somewhere around territory of modern West Russia approximately on 450. Your profession was librarian, priest, keeper of tribal relics.

Your brief psychological profile in that past life:
Seeker of truth and wisdom. You could have seen your future lives. Others perceived you as an idealist illuminating path to future.

Lesson, that your last past life brought to present:
You fulfill your lesson by helping old folks and children. You came to that life to learn to care about weak and helpless."

Care for the weak and helpless? Children?? Get me out of here! No children for me! It's frequently been stated that I have a negative amount of maternal instinct. As for old folks, I can't say they've been a huge factor in my life to date. Maybe this will all change. Maybe I will become a gooing mother of six and work in a nursing home. The thought fills me with trepidation, not to mention nausea.

This is a fantastic find. While reviewing Eula's site I found a delightful little past life generator. Want to know who you were before you were you? Come on, you know you do.

I have a new delight on the blogging scene. ninePERCENT is delightful. And when I read everything twice, then check back four times in one day to see if there's anything new (squealing in delight and reading voraciously when I discover there is), I can no longer convincingly tell lies like: "I don't really read this blog too."

Check it out. Laura is wickedly sly.

Oh my DOUG, for the past half hour in the shower, I've been thinking: "I said Lauren, didn't I, and it's actually Laura." How embarrassing. I'll go and crawl under a rock now.

Hmm... this is too spooky to be coincidental. Yesterday, the Marriage Crystal Ball tells me I'll be married by September 2002 (too close for my peace of mind). Today, I receive my first-ever cyber-proposal. Thank you thank you thank you Drioux, but especially considering that Bluebeard key, I'm heading for a non-specified South American country as soon as possible, and changing my name to "Lina Featherworthy".

Seriously though, the more I talk to Drioux, the more I like him and what he has to say (and I'm not just saying that because he threate- offered nuptuals). Check out Absinthe Noir, because it's lyrical.

I am feeling incredibly intolerant today. Stressed too, and fatigued again. I hate beer, which is the cause of most of this. I also hate the ANU student email server, which has been down since 9am. Fuck it.

Prompted, most likely, by this miasma of mood, I have realised today how much I am bored by the teen internet scene that I recently and somewhat pretentiously took my leave from. I visited a few sites today and found myself steeped in apathy. The words were dull, the emotions hackneyed. Oh cynical bitch me, that I could say such things, or even think them. Yet there it is. Teenagers bore, annoy and completely and in every way fail to excite me.

Good thing I'm not one anymore, I guess.

"And from him, you can rent a video, and watch his ex-girlfriend, who's now your next-door neighbour, doing things that are definitely moving too fast for prime time." Thank you Henry Rollins.

Having seen links to some page about cowtipping all over the place, I just had to go and see what was going on. I only read about half-way down the page now, because I'm tired and want to sleep (not standing up, lying down like normal mammals). I have this to say: I know someone who's done this in real life. (It's all true, from the cows sleeping standing up to the running like hell. Especially the running like hell. And please don't ever go bulltipping.)

Four hours of: perching on a bar stool, watching faces in the crowd, giving odds on various pick-up opportunities, straining to hear drink orders, playing Questions, restocking the fridge because everyone was drinking one sort of beer (Coopers), reading the ceiling-graffiti of previous bar-workers, disposing of empties, arguing Oscar Wilde quotes, having fun with calculators and cash registers, meeting one of A's Honours cohorts, watching old men drink Guinness, imagining all the things I'd rather be doing.

Am I the only person in the world who doesn't read /usr/bin/girl or does it just feel that way sometimes? I personally have to say I do not see the appeal. Every five times I see it linked, I go and check, to see if it has suddenly become palatable to me, but no movement thus far.

Don't get me wrong. I am not bagging it. Zannah is a fine person, and her blog is very nice. It is just not for me. The oodles of links and snippets of commentary just don't draw me in. I want thought, and prose, and emotion. I want maura.com. So, no matter how screamingly delightful the plethora of links /usr/bin/girl provides, it simply doesn't suit my appetite. So I think I'll pass on this course and go straight to the beef.

There are five keys on my work keyring, each a master which opens a certain sort of door. Well, four of them do, at least. The fifth is something of a mystery. It opens none of the doors which it conceivably should. It makes me quite nervous. I don't want to start trying it on every door I come across in case I stumble across the Bluebeard Room, and find all my husband's dead wives. Even though I am not married, nor is this the sort of establishment which lends itself to secreted stashes of rotting women.

Bluebeard Room is a term I first came across in a Nancy Drew book (which I read as a young teenager). A search reveals plenty of references to this book, but no direct sources. From whence sprung the concept? A search for merely "Bluebeard" answers that question and provides some interesting thoughts on the legend.

A new contender in the "People with more intelligence and/or time on their hands than me" awards is this sterling entry entitled: The Uselessness of Guestbooks. It is silly. It will take two seconds out of your life and make you giggle. Is not this worth it?

Simply one of the many fine selections discovered at The Useless Pages, soon to be my one-stop-shop for instant sniggers, I suspect. There's nothing like surety.

In the meantime, the aforementioned (or rather, belowmentioned, don't you just hate the blogger setup?) crutches have gone, escaped with a dodgy young man too tall to use them. I suspect he was taking them to watch porn, but for the sake of my fragile innocence, I did not think it wise to inquire more deeply.

Oh yes, PS, I joined the webloggers webring @ jish.nu yesterday. Today. Sometime in the past blurry forty-eight hours.

I am currently dwelling inside a pink bubble of warm fuzzy after having found a lovely reference to me in Absinthe Noir. Any reference is, of course, likely to beget this feeling, but particularly one from the author of a blog that snared me instantly with its delicate prose and (im?)pertinent points. I have been searching for something above the average mundanity for quite a while now, and am obsequiously proud to add Absinthe Noir to my list of frequent reads. I recommend it to anyone.

Now, there is merely the question of what to do about this pair of crutches on my floor. Of course, if I fall over them again, I shall have a very good use for them...

State: Busy. Rushed off my feet. But determined to do something interesting on the blog, and flabberghasted that I haven't done the search of the day for ages. It's fun. Let's do it again.

Search: freeze-dried squirrels

Result: Well, for starters it's absolutely amazing how many people recommend freeze-drying squirrels. Not just as a random, "should be tried by every young man" experience, but as a part of hunting, taxidermy or various other pursuits. Taxidermy has always held a strange sort of freakish interest to me ever since an episode of an Australian cop drama featuring a taxidermist who was considering stuffing and mounting himself. So I decided upon Deer Woman Taxidermist as my result of choice. What on earth gets a woman interested in this? I mean, I can see a guy shooting something and wanting to keep it. Then again, I suppose women go hunting too. Can't see the fun in shooting and freeze-drying squirrels, myself. But I guess it takes all types...

Looks like I told a lie. viscerate.com is perfectly operational!

Brand new and now up and running. Dee (the artist formerly known as x) presents her domain, finally. Please let me know if there are any problems anywhere. Please let me know if you like it. :-)

Tarsh is back. Go and worship. :-)

And I feel a bit better. Thank you for your sympathy. I don't know what's happening with the domain. It should be up already, but isn't. Time to growl at people, I think...