Now is the time for a rant about nukes.

I hate nukes.

I don't hate nukes like most people hate nukes. Most people think nuclear weapons are tragic and shit, and think they should be got rid of. Nuclear non-proliferation and disarmament and other tree-hugging hippy crap.

I hate nukes because I know that can't be done. And I know they have no justifiable use in warfare. In fact, their only use is as a deterrent, but a deterrent which cannot be used is no fucking use at all.

Hence, nukes are just a big pain in my strategy-studying arse, and there's absolutely no way to solve the problem. They're not going away, they can't just disappear in a cloud of goodwill and fairy dust. They just sit there, bollocksing up my thesis.

Fuck 'em. I hate nukes.

Rant ends.

Yes!! Woohoo! (Thanks to gil for the link.)

I also quite liked this result. Bwahaha.

What's your sexual appeal?
brought to you by Quizilla

Nerdslut? Nerdslut??

Hmph.

Geekslut, at least. Geekharlot, for preference.

(Edit: I think I just created a new screenname for myself. Heh.)

As an addendum to the previous entry, there are also certain emails that just make everything right with the world.

(Sudden urge to jump up and down in the paper recycling box. I think I'd just injure myself, though.)

There are some voices it really just warms my heart to hear on the other end of the phone line. Even if all I can do is turn down their invitation to lunch and swap insults.

The Book of Summer After-hours Duty (SAD): Chapter 1

1: For lo, it was known throughout the land that Dee was a sucker, and would start early with very little persuasion required.
2: And she was heard to utter: "It won't be a very busy weekend, will it?"
3: See? A sucker.
4: It came to pass that once again, the response to the ringing of the duty phone was: "Oh fucking hell."
5: And this was right and proper, and just as it should be.
6: Eventually, even Dee couldn't be arsed putting shoes on to go down to check the people in.
7: But they were all very nice, and didn't seem to mind it that much.
8: And it also came to pass that Jen's Plaything conceived of a great desire to lay hands upon the phone.
9: But Dee did not trust him. (Not that much of a sucker, apparently.)
10: In the midst of the mayhem, a bird occurred.
11: It's a long story. But basically, the birds who've been nesting in the wall next to Dee's bed and which she's been having noisy altercations with for the past few months discovered that there's actually a way to get from their nest into Dee's room, and with a feathery slither and a great squawking, there came through the hole a young bird filled with consternation.
12: And also full of shit.
13: It takes a lot of time and ingenuity to get a terrified young bird out of one's room. And a lot of effort to get bird shit out of bed sheets.
14: And that was the First Day.

Old plan for the weekend:

• Sleep
  
• Play weird Italian card games with Jen while scolding her to study
  
• Write dubious fic
  
• Argue with online acquaintance
  
• Make gloriously artistic presents for overseas friends
  
• Watch commentary and extras on extended DVD
  
• Sleep some more.

New plan for weekend:

• Write introduction and conclusion if I don't manage to get them done today (yeah, like that's going to happen)
  
• Rewrite the third chapter so it's brilliant
  
• Do all that other stuff anyway

Congratulations! The domain iwanttomudwrestletrentreznor.com is available.

Oh, tempt me.

Why did The Piano have a happy ending? Why didn't it just end with the "It appears I want to live after all" and striving for the surface. Even being pulled into the boat, gasping. That should have been the end. Ended at the moment when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Because that's the moment of exultant completion.

I'm totally in a Mood.

Oooh, lookie, more fun internet time-wasting giggle-inducing devices. This time, the Advertising Slogan Generator.

I Bet He Drinks Dee. (I bet he doesn't.)
Don't Be Vague. Ask for Dee. (She'll be vague for you.)
Dee Really Satisfies. (Ahem.)
Feel The Raw Naked Dee Of The Road. (Hands off the raw naked Dee, thank you.)
A Glass and a Half in Every Dee. (More like a litre and a half, actually.)
Can You Tell Dee From Butter? (Just how stupid are you, really?)

And the most apt, at present:
Only The Crumbliest Flakiest Dee.

Yep. That's me.

Eeeeee-arkerplargle.

Well, that's over. Interview finished. I gushed in a suitably ladylike and intelligent way (well modulated voice, good grammar, interesting and varied vocabulary, and restrained laughter). It was faintly enjoyable. I'm even more excited than ever about the prospect of doing this course. And the very nice lady said that she couldn't see me getting turned down.

I believe the phrase I'm looking for is: squee!

Nearly got run over today. That was fun.

Observation of the day:
Little skater boys = fun to point and laugh at.
Big skater boys = fun to perv on.

What a difference ten years makes.

Hungry, but I don't want food.
Tired, but not sleepy.
So much work, but I won't do it now.

I dub myself contrary.

Oh, yes, almost forgot. There's a Wench Quiz. Find out which of the wenches you're most like. You know you want to.

Just to clarify the comment about the Pants:

I started out deciding I was going to wear the Pants. Don't ask how, that's secret women's business involving moods and underwear. You don't want to go there. Anyway, I decided it. I then went looking for the Pants in the pile of clean clothing on my desk.

They weren't there.

I was chatting to someone at the time, so I had to tell them I'd be right back, because I had to go and find my pants.

I went skipping along the corridor (pantsless, but I wore my dressing gown) to the laundry. Yes, the sole item of clothing I'd left in there was the Pants. I brought them back, and put them on. I felt a toddler-esque joy at having finally dressed myself.

The Pants in question button in two places, inside and out. Later on that afternoon, in an amazing display of talent, I ripped both inside buttons off, thus mucking up the line of my Pants. I couldn't be having this, so I went and interrupted Jen's, um, 'activities' to borrow needle and thread.

I then sewed the buttons back on the pants. While still wearing them. This was rendered highly amusing by (A) the fact I can't sew for shit and (B) the fact that I had an audience of four during the proceedings. But I did it, so nyah, and they haven't fallen off. Yet.

Even later, in another amazing display of talent, I would spill coffee on the Pants.

Just an adventure all day, I tell you.

In other news, Jen and I are Barbie Best Friends. You wish you were as cool as us.

Chapter three finished, prettified, and sent.

Intro, conclusion, and complete rewrite still to complete. In a week.

Faaaaaaark!

But tonight, Strider and hobbitses and extra scenes. Oh yeah.

When you get right down to it, writing a thesis is all about the really interesting questions, like: "If I were me, where would I have put the National Security Strategy of the United States?"

Great big fly, very unwell from banging its overheated head against the glass of my window all day, lands on the carpet with a bewildered, flustered buzz.

I look at it.

It looks back.

I pick up my boot.

"Dodge this," I say, and drop it on its head.

There is chocolate all over my thesis notes. I find this improves them tremendously.

H^m went out and got the extended DVD. (Whaddya mean, which extended DVD? Which extended DVD do you think I'm talking about? Fellowship of the Ring, of course. Only the movie that I'm totally and utterly obsessed with.)

Have I mentioned recently that H^m is an amazing and wonderful human being? No? Well he is. Oh yes, he is.

I can watch it when I finish writing this damned chapter. Talk about incentive.

If you need me, I'll be in the other room, eating cold pasta with a cake fork.

Amusing things heard when walking past doors, #53: "Am I going to rack who??"

I got shortlisted for my RMIT course for next year.

This is me doing the happy dance.

*does the happy dance*

Phone interview next Monday. 3:10pm. Don't let me forget.

You know what pisses me off?

(Well, recently, lots of things. I'm turning into a really intolerant person in my old age. But here's what pisses me off today. This morning, anyway.)

When I put a lot of effort into making posters for Burg Vids, telling the plebs what we're going to be showing them this week because we care about their movie-watching pleasure, and then there's no damn toner in the printer because people have been wasting it.

And then to top it all off, I come storming upstairs and rip my Tom Cruise as Lestat poster by mistake. Aaaargh!

Hi Jen! *beams innocently*

miss megolas: ah, let sleeping law students lie.
titania fae: Wise words.
miss megolas: the damage a law textbook could cause doesn't bare thinking about.
titania fae: Eek. You're right. They're huge bastards, those things.
titania fae: Even dropped from a moderate height, they can kill.
miss megolas: and flung at close point range? ow!
titania fae: Worst of all, she might withhold my coffee.
miss megolas: noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
titania fae: I know.
titania fae: They call her Vindictive Wench for a reason.
miss megolas: :fears:

A political Friday Five:

1. Did you vote in your last elections?

Well, yes. We sort of have to here in Australia. Although there are numerous nefarious ways of making sure your vote doesn't count if you really, desperately want to not vote in order to make some sort of point about personal choice and shit. But, yes, I voted in the last elections. And every election since I turned 18 and could. Including the Republic referendum.

2. Do you know who your elected representatives are?

Lemme think... yes. My state one is easy; that's Liz Cunningham, who used to be the only independent in the house, and held the balance of power. No longer, but she's still a fantastic lady. As the crowning glory of the WunderJahr that was my senior year, it was she who presented me with my awards at the end. I think she's great. And I'm not actually sure if I do know who my federal rep is. Paul Neville, I think. (I checked. I'm right. Go me.)

3. Have you ever contacted an elected representative? If so, what was it about?

Not really. I've chatted to Liz a few times. Once it was even an official-ish sort of chat. But I've never had reason to petition one in their official capacity.

4. Have you ever participated in a demonstration?

No. Emphatically no. Why not? Because I think they're stupid, pointless exercises. I do not believe anything useful and valuable was ever achieved by application of mass humanity in a potentially violent and obnoxious way. Demonstrations are just two baby steps away from the mob, and the mob scares me almost as much as it scares Jen. I will not be a part of it.

5. Have you ever volunteered in an election? What was the result?

Not a 'real' election. I've been a scrutineer in the college elections. Does that count? (Result? We all got pissed and Jim fell in the pond.)

Googlisms. All the cool kids are doing it. My results edited for maximum amusement.

dee is back; gomez drowning mona (I deny all responsibility)
dee is an angel now (I deny all innocence)
dee is back/ from hillbilly to hip hop (I just deny)
dee is a red brindle greyhound (Hey!)
dee is in need of a loving home in ca (Please?)
dee is dead (That's entirely possible)
dee is in japan and mark is in rome doing piano concerts
dee is dead dead (I get the picture)
dee is a very rocky river and best avoided by all but the most sure of foot (How metaphoric)
dee is shown to be the dumb blonde (Oi!!)
dee is a full service hair and beauty salon with two philadelphia locations (Who needs a home in California)
dee is not liv (I've noticed that myself, dammit)
dee is online now (Shit! I'm being stalked!)
dee is very good indeed (Why thank you)
dee is more than happy to reply to your e (Yes, I am)
dee is the 6 (but not the 7)
dee is slimming down and has avoided kidney problems (Thanks for asking)

And the best:
dee is geplÖk d'n haon dee is geplök de veere zien gevloge vaan heij tot aon de brök en ze zègken 't is geloge

Too fucking right!

Somewhat nervous-making to receive a phone call from the staff tutor, asking you down to 'have a chate about a few things'. But I'm not easily made nervous, and especially not with thesis-apathy clutching me in its grip. So I wandered down, curious and vague.

I'd almost forgotten about the incident he wanted to discuss. Said incident occurred during the Valete barnight, when I was wearing the purple catsuit, an item of clothing that is verging on the scandalous. On the couple of occasions when I ventured into the bar area (only twice, to get water), I was somewhat perturbed to have someone hiss from behind me: "Whore!" (There may have been an adjective. I acn't remember. Like I said, I'd almost forgotten the whole thing.)

Staff tutor wanted to make sure everything was OK, and check if I wanted to take it further.

Honestly, I really hadn't thought about it.

It bothered me at the time because whoever was doing it was only doing it behind my back. They lacked the courage to say it to my face. They lacked the courage to face up to the person they were insulting, and give me the opportunity to respond. It's cowardly. It's underhand.

It didn't bother me. Apart from slight frustration over the whole not being able to cut them down with withering scorn thing, I was entirely unfussed. Sure, it wasn't the highlight of my evening, but it didn't plague me for weeks afterwards. Because, really, I don't care. Staff tutor asked if I was feeling intimidated by anyone following the incident. I replied that there wasn't anyone at all in college with the power to intimidate me any more. Obviously time I moved out.

But most of the female (and male) population of this college doesn't have as much of a fuck you attitude as I do. Most of the population doesn't have a skin as thick as mine. And I'm pissed off about the incident because I might not have been me, I might have been an insecure little first year, and it might have really hurt me. I'm pissed off because that sort of thing shouldn't be even conceivable to a college student. They shouldn't even entertain the thought of doing or saying something like that.

I'm pissed off, basically, because whoever did it is a fuckwit, and rampant stupidity offends me much more than being called nasty names.

Basically, I'm fine. If I ever find out who said it, though, stealing his door is just going to be the first thing I do.

Is it still procrastination if you'd want to do it even if you didn't have a thesis you should be writing?

Plus, cleaning out emails is fun because occasionally I find ego-boosting things like this:

"In my defence, I only ask you for help b/c you are sooooo good at everything, and of course the fact that I worship and adore the very air that you breath, not to mention that many a religious debate has been won at the mere mention of your name, the fact that you glide fluidly above the earth and bestow the grace of your presence upon us mere mortals proves that there is a god, and he does indeed love us."

Aw shucks.

You know what I love about cleaning out my inbox? Finding an email from my parents right below one with the subject line of: "Re: fucked, 7/9: cocksucker".

Yep, just another day in my life.

I am a schmuck. A great, big, unbelievable schmuck. The schmuckiest schmuck to ever draw breath and attempt to make a website.

I'm an idiot too.

The comments on the Wench Nano page should now work. Please, discuss mightily and make us feel better. Use it like a discussion forum, we don't mind. One deviant intimated he wanted to write Simon/Mike slash. Go nuts. Plus, it's been suggested that it's really confusing telling the stories apart. I might start writing mine in puke green or something. Wait and see.

(Note to self: if you want to use PHP, it helps if you give the file a .php extension. Schmuck!)

Bored bored bored.

Which is a stupid, idiotic, ridiculous way to be, what with thesis and nano and all.

How to give yourself a heart attack in three easy steps:

1. Spend more than an hour playing with pictures, making a new design.
   
2. Finally put it all together into the mock-up, delete all the altered images that went into it, and sit back to admire your handiwork before you save it.
   
3. Blue Screen of Death.

(Fortunately, it wasn't PSP having the BSD, but my email, and everything was all right.)

There are stars on my socks. This is at one and the same time amazingly profound, and thoroughly mundane.

Oh great. I've used up all my tissues. Wonder if I can go snuffle in Jen's room.

Reason I love the Male, #374:

Him: Yeah, because you have a lot of deeply spiritual conversations over Mexican food. Like:
"So, yeah, I'm the Chosen One."
"Wow, really?"
"Yep. Pass the salsa."

Me: It's the Bhagavad Gita, not bag of fajitas.

Grraaaaaagh! I'm allergied as fuck. How can one human body produce this much mucus?

(This Gross Out message brought to you by Sorbent and the letter D.)

So rawr, we're off and running with Insanity Writing Concept. Check up in the header. Official Wench NaNoWriMo site. Watch the stunning works of genius (tm) as they're created, word by heartfelt, wrenching word.

Or something. I'm only up to chapter two and already dribbling shit about Star Wars.

But if you're a glutton for punishment, come along and Watch Wenches Write.

(If some tech-clever person could tell me why the hell the comments aren't working on the Wench-writing page, I wouldn't be averse to that, either. In fact, I'd be downright pleased.)