Computer joke

How do you reboot the server?

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Something very like this happened today in lab... my bad. My very bad...

The very disorganized and rambling story of the ill-fated orgy

I wrote up the ill-fated orgy a while ago.

I left out of the narrative how the local cat, Jasper, was utterly traumatized by the sight of That Idiot Shawn (referred to in that document as HSBF, High School Best Friend) pretending to ass-rape Rocki.

Also left out was the utterly traumatic sight of Shawn, wearing only, and I do mean only, a Santa hat and silver thong underwear. (Poppa Smurf was wearing green thong underwear.)

I wound up helping Shawn clean up after the party, some weeks later, before his mom got home.

Maternity, etc.

It always feels so odd, knowing that I'm near unto another mother to Little Fayoumis.

I wasn't there for his conception, gestation, or birth. I wasn't there for his first four and a half years. He's seven, now. In another two years, I'll have known him half his life. He doesn't, now, seem to have all that many clear memories of life before me.

His mother's really coming out in him. He's definitely got her nose. It used to be impossible to tell, with the baby-nose -- but he's got that. He's so got that. Bits of me are coming out in him, because he's around me so much. marxdarx is in there too, to a lesser degree, because he's not been around so long.


It's weird, too, to write letters to my mother babbling about the growth and development of a kid who, to her, is a bit of a cuckoo. There's none of her genetic material in this kid. There's none of FatherSir's. It's weird, because I know that unless things drastically change for me, within the next twelve years, he's the only child I'll have.

Odd, to know that.

At the moment, there's one man I would seriously consider reproducing with, and he's keeping it in his pants. (Good for him. Seriously.) I'm not planning on a body-birth after age 35. And if I'm not having a body-birth, why bother with my genes at all? My maternal aunt, for whom I was named, has sons with children. My paternal aunt, after whom I was not-quite named, has teenage sons; my paternal uncle has two sons, one of whom just got married. Hell, I have a sister who's a near-twin, who may well wind up with children.

The other two people with whom I might consider combining my genes -- one of them wouldn't, and the other one couldn't. Not with current medical technology, anyway, and I think I'd really rather adopt.

Vainly, if I adopted, I'd like to find a serious girl with straight dark brown hair and quirky, intelligent mannerisms, somewhere in the age range of three to five ... or else a hyper boy, the sort that bounces off the walls. I can deal with hyperactive. I dealt with hyperactive starting from age fifteen, continuing to age 19, when I handed off my duty with all formality to Shawn's wife. I, a year younger than pyrogenic, baby-sat him at CTY. I baby-sat Shawn through high school alive. I tutored a first-grade hyperactive in his letters.

It's scary that I'm thinking of certain people in terms of marriage. I've been thinking this way for a while, for that certain people, but I think this is the first time I've even voiced it on here. I haven't voiced it aloud. I did mention it in my paper journal, but I've still been thinking of it for longer. Which is odd, considering the amount of contact there is, or isn't. We shall see. This one, I'm letting settle for a while. But there is still no genetic compatibility.

I do want a partner. Eventually. Somewhere down the line.

Phone (and why I never call at any human hours)

Note that our household has two, maybe three phone numbers.

One is the Temple landline, that which we've had since nearly day 1, that which contains the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Assorted people have this number; assorted people probably should have this number and don't; assorted people don't have this number. This number does not have long distance. At all. Never has. We've been using calling cards. We've been broke and barely scraping through, most of the time, and the added charge of long distance, plus that when I do get on the phone, I talk... let's just say that it's been proven, in the past, that leaving me with pay-per-minute long distance without access controls is a bad thing that should never be repeated. We've been using calling cards. These show up on caller ID as some funky number, possibly out of Colorado.

The second (well, maybe third) is the number that's associated with my little cellphone that used to have the Cricket service. It's changed a number of times, because, hey, broke college student family, prepaid phone service. Anyone who's had this/these numbers is a pretty broad range of anyone. This phone's service lapsed at the beginning of the month again. At one point, it had 500 minutes of long distance per month. It is this way no longer.

The other phone is votania's cellphone, which is necessary for her now that she's an in-charge type person at work. It has unlimited long distance. This phone is what I use when calling people. My access to it is limited to when votania and I are both at home, however.

This means that I can only call people on her days off when I'm not in school, mornings when I'm not in school and she hasn't left for work yet, or evenings when I'm home after she's gotten home. This doesn't add up to much in the way of sane calling times. It also means that if you try to call me back based on the caller ID info from when I call, you'll get the cellphone, which isn't ideal for callbacks. If I'm home, the landline is more reliable; if she's not home, you'll get her on the cellphone.

Furthermore, on the days when she's home, she's generally home those days because I have to be in school, and she has to watch the Little Fayoumis. So... yeah.

I really need to come up with a table of times showing when stuff is going on, don't I.

*fume*

Still having a difficult time living with Marx.

Really wish to fuck with my schedule so he and I are never, ever home at the same time while Little Fayoumis is awake.

Fwd: Grandma Got Run Over by a Broomstick

Grandma got run over by a broomstick

Grandma got ran over by a broomstick
Walking home from our house Halloween.
Now you can say there's no such thing as witches.
But as for me and grandpa, we believe.

She'd consumed too many spirits.
And we begged her not to go.
But she'd forgot her Belladonna,
So she sacheted out the door, we didn't know.

When they found her the next morning
At the scene of the attack.
She had bristles on her forehead,
And incriminating brush marks on her back.

Grandma got ran over by a broomstick.
Walking home from our house Halloween.
You can say there's no such thing as witches,
But as for me and grandpa, we believe.

Now we're all so proud of grandpa.
He's been taking it so well.
See him in there watching wrestling,
Drinking wine and dancing skyclad with cousin Nell.

It's not Samhain without grandma.
She's the one with the big hat.
And we just can't help but wonder,
Should we divvy up her candy, or send it back.

Grandma got ran over by a broomstick,
Walking home from our house Halloween.
You can say there's no such thing as witches.
But as for me and grandpa, we believe.

Now the punch is on the table,
And the pumpkin, it's so big.
And the black and silver candles
That would just have matched the hair in grandma's wig.

I've warned all my friends and neighbors,
Better watch out for yourselves.
They should never give a license,
To a gal who flies a broomstick deosil.

Grandma got ran over by a broomstick,
Walking home from our house Halloween.
You can sat there's no such thing as witches,
But as for me and grandpa, we believe.


Author Unknown

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For whatever reason, fewer people are insincere about wolf whistles.

I like wolf whistles.