A girl from my floor at college was on Wheel of Fortune tonight. She won. I actually didn't think they used real people for those shoes. I thought they were special vat-grown clones or something. Just goes to show I'm wrong, I guess.

It is obvious to me that I am missing something important. However, if I knew what it was, then I wouldn't be missing it, would I?

It all makes sense, in that Yes, Prime Minister way. More things should make sense this way.

According to the Violet Crumble wrapper, it's the way it shatters that matters. Well, mine shattered all over the bloody floor. Do you think this is something that can be interpreted, like tea leaves and dreams?

I can see my future. There's a vacuum in it.

And now, an entry in the 'most amusing and/or random spam ever received' category:

From: Bank_of_Caymens@excite.com
Subject: Notification for Payment Received

Dear customer,e3327801,

Notification for Payment Received!

This email confirms that you may have received a $16,000.00 Commission Payment for May 2001

Whoo! Go me!

(From earlier, when my connection experienced a brief out-of-body experience.) I'm feeling loquacious today. Words everywhere. I'm feeling bouncing-around-the-room-singing-Mr-Eels-Beautiful-Blues-into-my-hairbrush energised. Of course, I didn't use the hairbrush, but I did bounce and sing. Hairbrushes are serious business, and not to be taken lightly.

"She knew what she wanted!
She was lookin' for that stud bull;
She was lookin' for that 'he' cat.
And that was me.
Tommy the Cat is my name,
And I say unto thee..."

(Primus. Tommy the Cat. Fun.)

Supergroove's "All That Is Good" is a very good song. I like it a lot. I am, apparently, the only person on Audiogalaxy who has it in their shared files. It's amazing. Every five minutes, someone downloads it from me. Whoops, there they go again...

"It's the mascara," J^e decided, as we shooed away yet another goth-nite random pick-up attempt. This one had been more subtle. Instead of just plonking himself down at our table and proceeding with variations on: "So what's your name, then?", this guy had been conducting a clever campaign of small manoeuvres. The smile across the room. The catching the eye. The dance-floor shuffle. The passing comment. And, finally, the coming over and asking for a light.

It was shortly after this latest, most direct assault was deflected that J^e decided her eye make-up was to blame. Apparently, it made her look stupid, and stupid people, as we all know, are easy. This was, she concluded, the only possible reason that every single goth night - the only time she wore mascara that thick - some random tried to pick her up.

I considered pointing out that she usually looks especially gorgeous - and busty - when gothing, but didn't.

On commenting that tonight's Mr Random had waited until J² and K^r left to approach, J^e noted that: J² keeps the bad men away. I'm sure he will be delighted to know he is of service.

Also decided: the best response to: "Do you have a light?" is "If I give you one, will you go away?"

Hot is better than cold.

Life is better than death.

Noise is better than silence, except when

Silence is better than noise.

German is better than English (for swearing).

The Rosicrucians are better than both the Discordians and the Bavarians.

Valmont is better than Cruel Intentions.

Sean Connery is better than Roger Moore. But that went without saying.

Maybe is better than no.

Lasagne is better than Moussaka. Though that's a close one; they're both awful.

Crying is better than the alternative.

Paper is better than pixels.

Imagination is better than real life, except when...

Friends are better.

I am better than this. Get off the fucking internet and do some work, Dee.

Snooze spiked with the tattered remnants of dreams ripped apart by the alarm; missed tutorial on the Dead Sea Scrolls; breakfast with radioactive multi-vitamins and no newspapers; lecture that made the past week's reading make sense, and frustration that there was now no time to rethink the reading before the tutorial; return of the J^e(di), and there was much rejoicing, and coffee; Neo-Nazi is now a flavour of ice-cream, we think it should replace vanilla; Throw Your Arms Around Me, love for Paul McDermott and fic ideas that I have no time to consider and little will to write; long words and longer sentences confusing me into submission; tutorial with being told I was unfocussed, and biting my tongue to stop a blistering retort on the legibility of the reading matter without the simplistic explanations of the lecture, instead speaking more than usual, more forcefully than usual, letting it all hang out to lambast feminist criticism of the 'dominant paradigms', which I think is a pile of crap, and coming across as some sort of fascist 'vanilla'.

Hopefully the day will improve from here. It will involve spaghetti and sleep, so that has to be a plus.

When I grow up, I want to:

• be taller. (It's standard.)
  
• buy things from Mean Fish design for my abode.
  
• have elegant chic, or something.
  
• be owned by a cat.
  
• meet friends for yuppie ventures like long coffee breaks and dinners in obscure little foreign restaurants.
  
• not work 9-til-5.
  
• know what I want.
  
• not live in the suburbs.
  
• be comfortable.

I have an image of an apartment, tiled floors, carpeting, interesting mis-matched furniture, but not in that thrift store way, just in that eclectic way. A nice kitchen - I can't live with a scungy kitchen - and me, drinking coffee, reading the paper, cat wrapped around my ankles and sunshine coming in the window. Cozy, comfortable... me.

But I don't particularly want to grow up.

That sound you just heard was the scream of a girl who has found out that one of the few acts she desperately wants to see in concert will be in the same country this Saturday, and she has no ticket, no money, and no way of getting to Sydney.

Bloody buggery dammit!

Kittie are very cool. They are loud, angry, rocking and would go off so hard in concert it makes my head spin. I could just about cry over this. They're even playing in bloody Brisbane. If I was still in Queensland, I could probably get to see them, because I'd have someone to stay with. I don't have anyone to stay with in Sydney, even if I could get there and afford the ticket.

Fuck. It's going to be one of those fucking weeks, I can feel it.

I avoided the horror that is Dawborn (a vile exhibition of the depths of bad behaviour the Drones are capable of here on the Mothership) and went to the party that the Male and his household were throwing. It was a select gathering (mainly because their house can't hold that many people).

"You just wait," J² declared. "By the end of the night, I'll look like Catherine Zeta Jones."

We played strip 500, which got off to a blinding start with J² and myself taking the Male and Z 10-nil in the opening hand. We denied them the next one as well, and then they won five in a row. Barefoot and jumperless, I suggested we move on to strip poker, since J² was being stupid and I hated having to undress for his silly mistakes.

I was on my third - or was it fourth? - beer by this stage. I don't drink beer. Especially not the bloody awful pigswill that is VB. I don't eat pizza either. Apparently I hadn't got the memo, though.

Anyway, we didn't have any chips, so strip poker never eventuated, and I wandered around being cold until I gave in and put my jumper back on. J² was down to his thermal underwear above the waist, but then again, he was still wearing one sock.

The Male and I sat on the back steps this morning, eating Weet Bix and watching it rain. It was a moment out of time, and beautifully relaxing. Later, there was old-skool Metallica, and contemplation of how the wax got into the carpet. Later still, there was Werewolf and junk food.

The hangover seems to have gone, thank goodness.

But by far the best thing about the weekend was that I missed Dawborn.

By the way, I've been reviewed by the Weblog Review. Read the things they say about me here. Now I'm off to bed. Or at least to Civ II.

Pyjama pants with decent waist elastic. That's all I ask.

I'd taken two steps down the corridor, examining my broken nail, when there was a crash-thump behind me. I turned, and there was the light casing, in pieces on the floor. If I'd been walking the other way, it would have fallen right on my head.

If I was someone else, this would probably bother me. But I'm me, so I'm hungry, and I want breakfast. Who cares.

When I come up against blind intolerance, bigotry even, it leaves an unpleasant taste my mouth. My naivety shows though as I can't believe there are still people in the world who think it is acceptable to say and do things like that. Acceptable to despise someone for who they associate with, or love, or worship, or are descended from.

Maybe it makes me just as bad, but... You pompous, arrogant, self-fucking-righteous bastards will get what is coming to you. You will die alone, reviled, buried under the heaped-up shit you dealt out with a sneer. Use a little bit of sodding intelligence, you fascist fuckwits. Think for two seconds and maybe, just maybe, you can overcome your towering stupidity, and reverse my vitriolic disgust.

Yeah, see; I just despise people for the things they say and do.

Forearms are sexy. Greymatter is not. This has been my day.

Not forearms bared in that 'wearing a T-shirt' way. That's just an accident. They have to be bared on purpose. That's the key. Sleeves rolled, folded, pulled up to the sweet spot just underneath or on the elbow (it varies - there's a whole erogenous zone there). Somehow, it leaves the hands, wrists, forearms bared in an intimate, sensual way.

Yes, I have weird, weird attractions.

Greymatter, meanwhile, may be very sexy indeed, but since I can't get it to work properly, I will never find out. It's just been one trial after another - first, getting the files to work, which required the usual sort of randomly stupid antics. Secondly, the use of that double-asterisk thing meant that I had file troubles all over the place. And now the archives refuse to work. See, you can store them in a cgi directory, in which case the HTML files can't be accessed, or you can store them in a normal directory, in which case the cgi files can't be accessed.

Yes. It was at about this point that Dee went beserk, and looked for something to throw. Finding nothing, she made do with screaming. In a suitably blood-curdling fashion.

But scanning is kinda fun.

I need more sleep.

Random opening comment designed to attract attention. Clarification of comment. A long sentence containing many multiple-syllabled words that illustrates my argument in both an erudite and amusing fashion. Short sentence providing contrast and impact.

Rant, vitriol, blah, blah, blah, stupidity. And furthermore.

Completely unrelated thought that forms an interesting juxtaposition with the previous discussion.

Declaration. Flippant comment.

Four teaspoons of milo, machine coffee to fill, and three quarters of an inch of milk. The robot that is Dee runs on this.

OK, I confess, I like zapping the monkey.

To: The Red Star
Subject: Stunning work

"Dear everyone involved in producing this masterpiece that has hi-jacked my brain and rendered me incapable of anything resembling sensible work today.

"I stumbled across issue #6 by accident Friday of last week, and was immediately taken by the artwork and unconventional approach (and also by the publishing company, the same Image that allowed me access to my other comic obsession: Kabuki). I returned today to relieve my comic shop of the trade paperback, plus issues 5 and 6. I read them in one stretch and found it one of the most intense media experiences of my life.

"Beautiful, marvellous, brilliant. Gripping and enthralling. In the last few pages of #6, I was amazed to find tears in my eyes. No comic has ever affected me that way, and I cannot think of another character whose demise affected me so after so little actual interaction with that character. The grand sweeping scope is breath-taking, the attention to detail intriguing.

"You have captured something exquisite and visceral in these pages, and I thank you most fervently for allowing me to witness it. I await more with great eagerness."

I'm serious. This is some fantastically wonderful stuff. Get your hands on it if you possible can. You won't regret it.

Bloody hell. I just looked out my window and saw a kangaroo. It's still there, grazing on the back lawn of the college next door.

This does not happen in urban Australia.

Really, it doesn't. Usually. It always annoys me when silly foreigners think that we Aussies ride to school on the vicious things, or just see them bouncing down the main street. I always take great pains to assure them that I've rarely seen a kangaroo, and never in an urban situation.

Can't say that any more, I guess.

If you picket, it won't heal...

More writing about writing. Yes, I am on a one-track cycle at the moment. (There's new fanfic, if you care.) I am slowly gathering inspiration and motivation and momentum for the Novel Entity, but I lack that final spark. Fanfic is easy to turn out, because there's a ready, waiting audience. It's instant evaluation, and it's easy to superficially answer the 'Why am I doing this?' question. Not so easy with the NE. Well, I mean, the answer is obvious. I'm doing this to get published. But that's such a long way away, and so amorphous, and not really specific. That's why I'm writing the novel, but why am I writing this bit at this time?

So I'm seeking some way of regulating myself, making myself write by having some method of checking up on it. Word-count and progress checks aren't good enough, I've tried before. There has to be some deadline, some physical act of handing over what I've done to impel me to, in fact, do it.

Pondering options for this. A physical writing group is the best idea, and I've found one of those, but they don't meet for a while, and they're only two-weekly meetings. I'd like something a little more frequent than that. Perhaps making a website? But that leads to publication issues. What I'd really like is a writing partner. Someone online with whom I can exchange frequent news and words. Someone who will keep an eye on me and provide company on this trek. And who, in return, I could... well, whatever they want out of a writing partner.

Cute idea, wot? Anyone interested? Or got another suggestion?

He was dressed like me - uniform black - and strode forth with the sort of confident air I assume sometimes. I felt like I should give him the secret handshake. Then again, I'd probably be disbarred from the association for that flippant thought.

Canberra's weather is weird. Where else would I have to wipe rain off my sunglasses so I could see?

The question: "And who wants to be grey?"

Pause for thought. Contemplation. "Um... me?"

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Silver, shiny, stand-out-in-the-crowd hair. Even better if you can get the tips to fade into black. Or maybe the roots. Copper streaks? Brilliant. Twist it up on top of your head and sparkle-glitter it up for that ultra-unorthodox goff look.

I really do like this idea. I'm going to look into it. Though the cost makes me shudder, and I should probably let my hair recover from the shenanigans I've already unleashed upon it.

But, but, but... it's so purdy!

(I can't believe I'm rabbiting on about hair again. I am not a teeny-bopper. I can't be, I'm twenty-bloody-one. In an effort to redeem myself: I find it interesting that Machiavelli, beloved to realists, has deep underlying post-modern and liberal themes, even though he himself tries so hard to escape them. Could The Prince in fact be a satire? And how's that for an eclectic post: shallow hair-talk and political theorising all in the one package. And ain't that what this thing is all about?)

Occasionally, I find myself thinking: "That's such a good idea; I'll save it for when I'm a better writer."

And then I realise that that is a silly, silly thing to think. Because how am I ever going to become a better writer if I'm not writing. And writing the very best ideas I can possibly come up with? Because I'm not going to respect a second-rate idea enough to write it properly, and what will I learn from that?

If I do sit down and try to write my brilliant idea, it will push me to raise my writing to the level worthy of it. The problems I come across will lead me to solutions which will be invaluable as lessons throughout my writing career. All of this practice will let me come up with another idea, even more brilliant than the first one. Because, when you get right down to it, the first one probably wasn't that brilliant in reality, it just seemed that way because I was so inexperienced.

If you want to be a writer, then write.

"It's been 12 white-hot reminders that forever means nevermore."

Yeah, that's mine. It's floating in my brain like it was when I first wrote it. Probably got something to do with my mood, which is wallowing in some sort of sheltered cove on the other side of stressed. That was the second line I thought of from that poem, the first being "posthumously stalking Trotsky". (The whole poem is rather mediocre and a part of exx, and you can find it here if you really care.)

"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable"

That's Uncle Walt. Also part of exx. Also a permanent resident in my skull.

I'm feeling weird. I'm feeling lost. I'm being tossed by the tide and I'm sea-sick, but too tired to throw up.

I want out. I'm serious.

"I stop somewhere waiting for you."

I am definitely developing a Joaquin Phoenix 'thing'.

Saw Quills last night. Once again, poor Joaquin was playing second fiddle to an Australian. Once again, I thought his performance was stunning. Understated, brilliantly executed, and... well...

Abso-flogging-lutely gorgeous.

I didn't get that so much with his Commodus performance in Gladiator, but he was really very attractive as the Abbe in Quills. Nicer character, perhaps. (And I will not enter again into arguments regarding his performance in Gladiator. Suffice it to say that most of the population seems to think he was awful, while I think he was superb. Oh well.) The Abbe was a great character infused with a lot of energy. Such a kind, gentle, compassionate man, with such a coiled and intense capacity for violence. Intense. That's a very good word for it.

There was an instant, in one scene, that will, I think - I hope - stay with me forever. When he opens the door to Kate Winslet... A moment of startled wonder, of shock through his entire system. I want to capture it somehow, but it's so ephemeral.

Meanwhile, he's only six years older than me. I think that's very interesting, don't you?

Oh my goodness, I totally have a new obsession. It's the jaw-droppingly, stupendously beautiful The Red Star and I covet like I ain't never coveted before. This looks so amazingly gorgeous, and it's so original and innovative. I love Image comics. They are my personal comic deities.

Meanwhile, the new Ultimate X-Men, which I picked up in the midst of lusting after this new comic, is also quite stunning. An amazing opening sequence that is giving me so much Cyke/Wolvie fanfic fodder. I'm just going to ride out the storm at this point and then try harnessing it. And the end sequence was... well, it rocked. A lot. Another great comic.

Plus I also looked at the Cyke Icons edition while I was there, and was quite disappointed. It's 70s-style, old-skool comics, and I hate that. All skanky drawing and noises. I particularly hate the noises. You know the sort. Explosions that go ka-boom or electrical charges that go Fshzzzk or whatever the bloody noise they've decided it makes is. They're silly. They're childish. They're one of those things that really annoys me. You will not find silly noises in any comics I collect seriously. Ultimate is for grown-ups: it doesn't have them

So that's my adventures today. No, I did nothing that did not involve comics.

"He's Lucifer with fuzzy hair."
"He's too goofy-looking to be Lucifer."

The things I overhear in the corridor.

Call it Ham's evil influence.

TIME: 7:57pm
FULL NAME: Diana Elsie Evans
DOB: 25/5/80
SIGN: People underlining words in library books. That is *definitely* a sign of the apocalypse. (Gemini)
BIRTHPLACE: Gladstone, Queensland, Australia
HOMETOWN: See above, I guess. I am currently a nomad, but try telling the Electoral Commission that.
PARENTS TOGETHER/DIVORCED: Both divorced from other people and still happily married to each other.
CURRENT LOCATION: My college room, on the third floor, nears the stairs.
HOW OLD DO YOU LOOK: Old enough to drink, apparently.
SHOE SIZE: 7b
EYE COLOR: Grey. Mostly.
HAIR COLOR: Brown. Somewhere under the black and red dye.
CURLY OR STRAIGHT: Straight. I will never go curly ever again. Well, not in the next little while.
HEIGHT: About that. 5'7? I dunno.
WEIGHT: A little over 50kg
TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: Ears pierced. I am always considering an eyebrow, but will probably never get it done. Tattoos, never. I refuse to permanently marr my body with something that I may consider stupid and juvenile at the age of 45.
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING: My dominatrix outfit. Today, this comprises grey dress slacks and an orange long-sleeved T-shirt. NO shoes. Let my feet be free!
WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO BED: Pyjamas. Depends on the weather. I have fleece stuff for winter, but in summer it's my oversized Oktoberfest Muenchen 1994 T-shirt and Playboy bunny boxer shorts.
PETS: I have a cat. She is unfortunately a couple of thousand kilometres away.
BEEN TO CANADA: No. But I have been to Singapore, England, America, and Germany. I think I can be excused Canada.
BEEN IN A CAR CRASH: No. Not even close.
SHAMPOO/CONDITIONER: Yes. Oh, that wasn't a question. Whatever looks good when I'm buying. I like Pantene, and have recently returned to it.
EVER GIVEN MONEY TO A HOMELESS PERSON: No, because they haven't asked. It's a long story.
COLLECTIONS: I collect fantasy books, and interesting non-fiction books. And some comics. But no, I don't collect any useless knick-knacks or anything.
IF YOU COULD LIVE ANYWHERE: Here's good. For now. But maybe... somewhere on the beach, or near the beach, but a lonely beach. Somewhere warm, with good ventilation, and space for me and my imagination, but not space to sprawl. Yeah.
DREAM HOUSE: AAAAAAAgh!!! No houses. Houses BAD! You'll be suggesting suburbia next.
DREAM VEHICLE: One that goes. Red, perhaps. Fast? Sleek. I'll know it when I see it.
DREAM JOB: I don't like jobs. They're almost as bad as suburbia. Normalcy. Eeurgh. (I wanna be a writer. Or a firetruck.)
MOST ANNOYING THING: Only one? You're stunting me. Stupidity. That about sums it up.
FAVORITE NUMBER: 39 is good.
FAVORITE TV SHOW: I don't watch TV.
FAVORITE MOVIE: Thirteen Days.
FAVORITE TOOTHPASTE: Huh?? Whatever's cheapest. People worry about this sort of thing?
WHAT'S TO THE LEFT OF YOU: The open door to my room. It is always open, unless I am out, asleep, or naked.
WHAT'S TO THE RIGHT OF YOU: My stereo, complete with the Funk Soul Reindeer. That is also a long story.
CDS IN YOUR CD PLAYER: Let me check... Dope, Faith No More, and Poe.
WHAT DID YOU DO TONIGHT: Plotted, filled this out, talked to my friends, and soon I will go down to bar and start writing. I did not read Machiavelli, and that is a problem.
THINGS YOU DO ON THE WEEKEND: Sleep in a little more, and play Werewolf. I got to hit things last week. In fact, I got to throw a Mafia thug out a ninth floor window. I am a happy little warrior wolf.
THE THREE PEOPLE YOU'D TAKE ON A DESERT ISLAND: I wouldn't take three. In fact, I might not take anyone. Solitude... aaaaah.
TIME IT IS NOW: 8:16pm
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING: I try not to do dangerous things like think.

So, did you do the reading?

Well, yes, sort of. See, I had a nervous breakdown on page 10, but I was right as rain again by page 15. I think I may have missed the main precept, though, and was unwilling to return and reread in case I suffered a relapse. I'm sure you understand.

(I am still here, by the way. Simmering back down to normal. Equilibrium is at least within shouting distance. But it doesn't like shouting...)

(Beware: self-absorbed ranting ahead.)

Annoyed. Annoyed, annoyed, annoyed. Pissed off that I feel bad for being angry for putting up with other people's shit.

God, I am so PMSing. Not that this invalidates my reaction or anything. Because I have had it up to here with this sort of crap and anyone else would have started getting narked a lot sooner than me.

Dee is a placid creature. Dee is laid back. Dee is relaxed. Dee does not cry, scream or bitch at random. This is not any great feat of willpower on my part, I'm just like that. Things don't annoy me like they do other people. They don't get to me.

Except sometimes.

In patches and drabs I feel fragile, and I want to be looked after. Amazingly, recently, this seems to correspond with the only times when it cannot be the case, and in every other instance, the attention just irritates me. It passes in seconds, and I am me again.

I don't hate it. I mildly wish it didn't happen. But it does, and it is me, and I can deal with it because I am me.

And it's times like this I wish I wasn't always the strong, reasonable, calm one.

Because it let's people get fucking used to taking advantage of me. Well, you can all just fuck off. Just for a little while. Oh, wouldn't that be lovely? Set up the barricades, no one allowed past. Except the Male, and J^e, because they are no burden on me, they are no tax on my resources, they are only support and strength.

(Thanks guys.)

But it can't happen. I can't shut everyone out. So I'll just shut out the annoying ones. The ones that take too much and give too little. Just until I can handle dealing with them again.

(One final note before I end this epic: Funny how all of these 'them' I'm talking about shutting out are female. Once again proving to me why I hang out with guys more than I do with girls. Every male of my acquaintance is (at least towards me) more considerate, more... friendly.)

Fuck. Fuck 'em all. I can't be fucking bothered caring tonight.

Make a Golden Calf! Get a son and sacrifice him to the God who gave him to you! Grow boils like magic! All in the Old Testament Choose Your Own Adventure Game! (Now with extra pottage.)

Seriously, I just spent too long playing this and giggling. I'd better go and have breakfast...

(Link from the interesting obsidianbutterfly.net.)

Am I going (more) nuts, or did there used to be a really popular font called Violet? It was all cursive, with bits blocked out. Seems like once upon a time it was everywhere, getting underfoot and generally causing a nuisance, and now that I want to download it, I can't find it anywhere. Pesky littler critter. Can anyone assist?

An afternoon spent browsing the wonders of Elfwood now that it is back up and running (thank DOUG).

How beautiful is the work of Anke Eissmann? Some of the most beautiful renditions of Tolkien that I've ever seen. Most Tolkien art tends to be a bit drear, a little like his work; all grand sweeps without much touching detail. But this is different, and very welcoming.

Dee goes goth.
This is actually quite an old picture, taken at least a month ago now, possibly more. Meghan might remember talking to me as I was getting ready for this outing, about how I was wearing a hat with a veil, and going as a sort of 1930s widow. The hat was definitely the highlight. It was J^e's, and she put the veil on for me as well, since I am absolutely hopeless with a needle.

I really adored this outfit, actually. I felt good in it, and enjoyed being out in it, even if it did involve shoes with a good four inches of heels that made walking all the way home quite an effort. Best part was the reaction I got from one guy: "I hear the funeral service was lovely." How could I not grin?

Example of why the Male rocks my socks so hard:

haiku is tricky,
and yet i have mastered it.
am i not the best?

Hear ye, hear ye. Because Dee is (Maude) bored (and dangerous to gnaw... ten points and a lot of respect), she is making zany proclamations. Henceforward...
... Dee is now an acronym. It stands for Destroyer of Everything Evil. And by Evil, I mean anything covered under the banners of Stupidity, Moronity, Ditwittedness, Fanaticism, Uneducatedness and Law Students (just for J^e).
... A will be referred to as the Male. This is just because A is too easily misunderstood in a sentence.
... All of the Worthy folk shall be referred to as Comrade. Since we must unite together against the nefarious Evils aforementioned. We must be strong!
... My college will be referred to as the Mothership. Unworthy residents shall be known as Drones. Come the Revolution, they shall be reprogrammed into Killer Robots of Doom, and then we shall dress them up in pink lace and point and laugh at them.

Seen on the way back from lectures this morning:

1. A Peewee stalking a Magpie. Every so often, it took off, bombed the magpie, and went back to its spot a few peewee steps behind again. The magpie mostly ignored it. Of course, it could, since the magpie was twice the size of the other bird.
   
2. A duck doing something inexplicable, holding its wings down around its feet. I thought maybe it had cold legs, until I walked past and saw tiny bundles of fluff huddled underneath it. Ducklings, born too early into cold since it isn't even spring yet, being sheltered underneath their mother. Very clever, and quite sweet. I still don't like ducks, though. They're evil MoFos.
   
3. A guy speeding past me full tilt on his bike, but without his hands on the handlebars. Rather, they were in his pockets. I shared the sentiment. It's not really that cold, but the bloody wind...

From the Vampire: the Masquerade FAQs:

"I imagine you probably have to wear a cape or some sort of makeup, for what it's worth, because I see a lot of that at LARPs. Exactly who some "vampire" with a face full of Crow makeup and a velvet cloak thinks he's fooling with his "Masquerade" is a bit sketchy, but it seems to be part of the thing. Then again, dressing in those boss costumes is part of the appeal. Just remember, enthusiasts of Victoriana, that hunters are trained to look for anachronisms. Don't blame me when the Society of Leopold burns down your havens at one in the afternoon. I warned you. ;)"

Yeah, I'm a nerd, or something. Role-playing humour makes me laugh. Quite a lot.

Today, according to the Lonely Planet desk calendar that my brother got me for Christmas, I am going to Edinburgh. This is somewhat ironic, I believe, since yesterday I got rained on old-skool-style.

It only rained twice yesterday. When A, J² and I were walking over to J²'s house to play Werewolf, and when we were leaving. Two minutes before we packed our stuff up to go, it started pouring. Buckets. We waited a little, but it showed no signs of letting up, so I set off on foot anyway.

When I reached the halfway point of Maccas, I was sopping wet. My shoes were water-logged, my jeans wet to mid-shin, the front of my overcoat almost dripping. My book in my bag was wet, and I thanked the Librarian Gods that it was a second-hand book I'd bought for $2, and not a good-condition one to start with.

It had stopped raining when I finished my meal, and I walked quickly home. Not quickly enough, however, and I got caught on the far side of campus when it started to rain again. Up went the umbrella, but the storm was not to be so easily thwarted this time. Halfway across campus, it decided that very hard and horizontal was a grand way for rain to be.

I disagree, I have to say. And after struggling home through gale-force winds determined to blow rain right up my nose, umbrella or no, I'm pretty much determined never ever ever to go out in the rain again. Horrible stuff.

So that, in a nutshell, is why I am not going to Edinburgh, no matter what the calendar says.

Never mind a boy, I would like a game.

A role-playing game. A game that is minimally systemic or code-driven. A game that inspires me. A game that has intricate plot, but simple background. A game that has players that get in there and are friendly. A game that has staff that are committed and involved. A game I could play.

I'm serious here. I'm looking for a great game - preferably online, of the mu* persuasion. Of almost any persuasion in the fantasy/post-apocalyptic/cyberpunk mode. Not sci-fi. I adored XET because of the concept, but it is lacking in the involvement stakes. I don't know where to find a great game. All suggestions very much welcome.

Why do you write?

I recently got into an argument online about this question. More specifically, I got into an argument about the answer: "Because I have to."

I think that answer is a cop-out. Moreover, I suspect that half the time it's pretentious. It smacks of: "Oh, you poor, feeble-minded pleb, you couldn't possibly understand the grand, high, powerful motivations that drive me to pour my brains out onto unfeeling paper."

Delivered with suitable melodramatic gestures, of course.

I feel that if someone asks you this question, you owe both them and yourself at least a modicum of thought in your reply. And don't just brush it off with 'because I have to.' Why do you have to?

I write because it makes sense, and because it's fun.
I write because it's what I do, but that's another cop-out.
I write because I'm good at it, but that's only come recently.
I write because I want to experience everything in the world. Every little thing. And through writing, I can.
I write because solving the problems it throws up is the most exhilirating sensation.
I write because I get satisfaction out of arranging my thoughts on paper.
I write because I have to, for all those reasons.

What about you?

Once again, for the really twitful amongst us:

Please, please, please, please do not use the right-click-warning on your site. It is stupid. I understand you may have some deep protective artistic need to hold on to your intellectual property or something, but this method does not work. It is simplicity itself to get around, should you really be in the mood to run away with someone else's work. However, it does seriously fucking impede someone like me, who surfs with images off to save money, and uses the right-click, show-image to look at things she particularly wants to see. And it pisses me off.

I have a lecturer who speaks well, delivers his points concisely, building with definite structure. And yet there's something distracting about him when you watch him speak. I figured it out the other day. It's because he uses hand gestures all the time. Not just one thump of the edge of his hand to make a point, but every word after that one in the sentence until he reaches the end of his point. It's distracting. It's numbing. Because eventually the emphasis just ceases to have any meaning at all.

See what I mean?

I spent a lot of yesterday afternoon exploring the excellence that is Laura's fallenlights.net. A beautiful collation of artistry.

Oh good, it's working today. In a minute, I will think of something interesting to say.

Meanwhile, I am fucking freezing.

(I wonder how Mrs Freezing feels about this? End bad in-joke here.)

Ham's back and I have a fantastic acoustic version of Depeche Mode's 'Personal Jesus'. This might just be a good day, despite the weird dream I had involving trying to move out of college but finding that not only were there just as many morons outside this monstrosity, but there was also the fact that I'd be living in closer proximity to them if I moved out. This led to me considering, as I awoke and lay there before my snooze-alarm sit-ups, who I would want to live with if I did move out. Well, more who I could stand to live with. Applications now open?

Now, if I could just find the hard-rock version of 'True Faith' they played last night, I'll be a happy girl.

The purpose of our lives is to make other people's lives more random.

One of these days, I want to walk up to some random in the street, squeal with delight and launch into a monologue: "Jeremy! Hi! How are you? What have you been up to? My god, you look great. Sorry, must dash, I'm running late, but I'll give you a call. We'll have coffee. Bye!" And run off.

J^e and I were sitting at the goth night. She was burning straws. I was musing, Melissa-style, about how cool it would be to have a 'Fuck as goth' T-shirt. Suddenly, two folk - normals - come up and slide themselves into the booth, smiling in a friendly manner and greeting us warmly. They introduce themselves, while I look in a vaguely questioning way to J^e, who seems to return the sentiment. We do not introduce ourselves. (Well, making up names is silly if you're not going to continue the acquaintance, isn't it?)

Apparently Normal Girl and Normal Boy were wandering around town, going to different places. There's not much to do on a Wednesday night, you see. And they were avoiding Insomnia, because it was such an anti-social place.

In unison, J^e and I think: So you decided to come to a gathering of the most notoriously anti-social sub-culture in the world?

We continued to say very little, and eventually Mr and Mrs Normal said goodbye, still very friendly, and wandered off.

And J^e turned to me and declared: "Aliens. Gotta be."

...And then they shall say of her: Never has someone done so little, for so long, with so much class.

It'd be interesting to go back over my life with a fine-tooth comb to try and find the day when I stopped keeping up, and started lagging behind. I'd like to know when it was, what brought it on, whether I could change it. Because since then, I've always been behind. Sometimes I expend a huge effort, and catch up for a while, but I always fall back again.

It doesn't bother me, which is probably just as well. I adjust, and it becomes a part of what makes me me. It's a definite contributing factor to why I am so laid back. And there's some sort of thrill in living life by the skin of your teeth.

One day it might be nice to catch up for good, maybe even get ahead. But somehow I equate this to my usual nightmares - steady job, suburbia, 2.x children. Boredom. For now, I will live with the thrill, and the lethargy, and the apathy, and be me.

Yay, I'm a liberal airhead according to the F-scale, rocking up with a score of 2.87 (and some change). Considering I don't live in right-wing America, but in leftist Australia, I think that actually makes me quite a conservative, since our country is built more or less on the principles of welfare liberalism, which the Yanks usually dismiss as 'Bleeding Heart Liberalism'. So yes, I'm happy with being an 'airhead'. Does this mean I get to giggle more?

(Thanks to Jett for the link.)