War. Illegal war.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/Iraq/Story/0,2763,1089158,00.html

My stance on war: there are some things worse than war. Acceptable war, to me, is entered into through lawful process to right a situation worse than war, and is followed up with, you know, sanity.

That's if it's with another country.

Internal rebellion in a country is, naturally, unlawful, but is entered into after the rational decision that the current and forseeable climate and laws in the country are irrevokably at odds with the first principles of the country.

Music

Little Fayoumis asked me, today, how one spelled Y.M.C.A. I told him, and he began mentioning a cool song.

I snickered, and ran after my CD collection, and sure enough, there it was. I snagged the track info, fast-forwarded...

He's having a righteous boogey with his supper.

Writing group at the Women's Center

Adventures, adventures.

So I was going to go with witchofrock to the writing group at the women's center, and bring my NNWM novel. So her husband gets home late, and she says she's on her way ...

... and then I get an IM from her husband saying that she's sort of potentially lost.

So we get that straightened out, and then he says oh yeah -- it's book club night. There is some waffling, but finally I agree that going would be a good thing. And LF and I have been ready waiting, and we zoom.

The flashy ad-screen-thing on the corner of 19th Ave and McDowell is a fucking danger. I should complain. But it's an effective landmark.

We missed the place the first time when we were driving, because we were talking. I pointed this out, and we got there. I think that's the second time. I was with her both times. Hmm.

Little Fayoumis (who was along, as I'm in charge until Marx gets his school schedule to chill down, which'll be February, I think) got sent to the kids' area, and I went and chilled with the loud people. We were supposed to have read a book, I think the title was That Takes Ovaries, about the gutsy things that women do and have done. This of course turned into talking about stuff. I was relatively quiet.

It was fun. We came back here and I ... did something that I believe could be construed as an act of infidelity. *sigh* Yes, dear, witchofrock got a copy of my story so far, before you did, but I'll very shortly be putting the same within your reach.

So, the truth/lie thing met the injuries thing, with results and stories.

You, my friends and loyal (or fickle, whatever) readers, were asked:

Which one has the Lunatic not suffered? (If you haven't taken it yet, you can still go and fill it out, before you read the answers...)

3 (15.0%) of you thought the ringer was: karlita, popefelix, and conscience.

I was five or so, visiting Grandma in California with my parents and sister. My mother took us to visit a cousin of hers, and their family had a swimming pool. I was delighted, and ran laps around it. Mama was keeping an ear out, because she knew I'd slip and fall, and I'd be right in, and she'd have to fish me out. So when she heard me fall and yell, she was ready -- but didn't see me in the pool. Instead, I had fallen butt-first on a cactus, and had to spend quite a bit of non-quality time with my father and the tweezers. I refused to wear those pants ever again.



2 (10.0%) of you thought the ringer was: tactisle, elance.

This injury actually has nothing to do with That Idiot Shawn, even though he was at the party where and when it occurred. For a reason that was perfectly logical at the time, and had everything to do with my loyalty to my friends, I ran out onto the packed-snow icy road barefoot, and, having failed to flag down the departing car of the person whose lost property I was attempting to return, remained out there in total up to ten minutes. My feet got frostbitten, and after untold agonies, the bottoms eventually did fall off, leaving me crippled for a month. Shawn is only notable for his lack of any kind of being human during the exercise.

The experience was so excruciating that when I think of it, I do not get sympathetic pain in my feet from the memory, because I have placed the memory under the sort of black cloud that I use to blur certain things. I remember it, but it's as if it were from something I'd seen in a movie or read in a book. ( Read more... )

3 (15.0%) of you thought the ringer was: ashlupa, shywickedpixie, snowelf, you were right! I have perhaps never had a bone broken, though I have some doubts about my tailbone.

Though it did almost happen, the finger/rock thing. I was wading in a river, arranging rocks to form a walkway across the river. One of the rocks I was placing slipped, and smashed into a finger of the hand underneath it. My fingernail sort of peeled off, but the finger was not broken.



3 (15.0%) of you thought the ringer was: wolfieboy, hlynna, raaven. Though gods know I wish you were right.

I'm sure most of you have heard me mention That Idiot Shawn before; for those new or forgetful, Shawn was a high school friend, an ADHD stoner, and charismatic as hell. One day, he had a lighter that he was being irresponsible with, flicking it off and on. Someone yelled, "Joan, your hair!" I put my hand up to my ponytail and drew it around to look at the end -- huh? Fortunately, my grabbing it just then put out the fire. I was Not Pleased.



1 (5.0%) of you thought the ringer was: mobius416.

I took to sleeping on the floor when I was 15, and the floor was varnished wood. I slept with a sheet under me, but that was about it. No mattress, no carpet. It was a camp thing. So I had been sleeping face-down, and woke up in the middle of the night and tried to lever myself up on my elbows. I have large breasts, and I was sleeping in not very much. My elbow wound up on my nipple, and severe pain ensued.



2 (10.0%) of you thought the ringer was: godai eng1ne.

I was the goalie for my soccer team when I was about 17. The opposing team took a shot, and I blocked the ball by leaping after it. The ball and I went down onto the ground, and before I could get back up holding the ball triumphantly ("See? Didn't get us this time! Ha!"), a particularly enthusiastic member of the opposing team came up and attempted to kick the ball through my face or something to get it in the goal. A lesser woman, or at least a less stubborn and more smart woman, might have let go. I did not. Eventually, the referee called it as blocked.



2 (10.0%) of you thought the ringer was: nilodlien memnus.

In the 7th grade, when I was about 12, our Algebra class went outside to calculate the height of the flagpole based on the shadow. My friend and I were walking back in and talking, and I was holding a meterstick. It tangled in my legs and tripped me, and both of my knees were covered in lovely scabs for the duration.



1 (5.0%) of you thought the ringer was: hookncrook.

There were actually two iterations of this. First was the initial injury, when I slipped on some ice outside of my ex-fiance's house back home in Alaska. I thought I was going to be OK at first, but when it didn't get better, I wound up in the ER, because by that time, it was too late for anything else, and I was in increasing agony.

The second iteration: I had just recovered nearly-full use of my walking following the first sprain, and had moved to Phoenix. (Yes, lucky me, I got to fly and move while not quite walking properly.) I wasn't bandaged or having to walk with crutches or cane anymore, and wouldn't you know it, I stepped down a place where I didn't expect there to be a down, and CRUNCH! It was after midnight, of course, so I crawled into the bar outside of which I'd gotten hurt, called the bar at which my roommates were at (Yes, I was walking alone), had them come, and they summoned a cab and got me to the hospital, and the cab home from the hospital ran out of gas and my roommates had to push it.

Both times, I was pretty sure it was broken, and we had to have x-rays to prove that it was not.

Yes, dear.

Okay, tomorrow. I think I'll have time then.

Day things

Went to school. History went over well. Doing my paper on Adm. Dr. Hopper. Hee, double duty. Also crocheted in class.

Lab. Much with the cussing. Managed to figure out the matter of permissions on the thingy, which was causing much ill to the other thingy. (thingy the first: userfile, thingy the second, viewing the web pages protected and viewable only by being the user named in said userfile.) (Page being viewed said this: "This page is secret. This page is protected from the terrible secret of space." Sadly, only I got it.)

Mr. President wants to go to the Devonshire Faire. He is contemplating selling his services as an escort. He leered at me and had me feel his pecs. He has no phone. I should lend him mine.

COBOL lecture. McGuirk is back. (*sigh*)

After that, DeVry had its Thanksgiving thing. Ate with my group from Server Admin, minus Irving, who had to leave.

Hung about school and teased my EET gayboy (who is Mr. Pres's roommate) by sharing the Terrible Secret of Skippy, and also Hank's Ass, with him. Little to no progress on novel.

Picked up the "viable food source" and came home. He did homework; I tried to call Darkside. (No answer.) We chilled, and eventually went to writing night. Then we came home, and he got himself packed off to bed. Amazingly, no fuss. Even though it was too late for him to read me his school book, I read him This House is Made of Mud. (A copy was given to all school kids, evidently.)

I chilled.

The rest of the family came home.