I summarize tygerr's Theory of Midlife Crisis: "It takes a certain amount of throwing-self-at-walls before adulthood is achieved. If it doesn't happen in youth when it should have happened, it keeps trying to happen until it does."

To do: write up the most recent news post.

Fic Rec: "Black Widow" (Pansy/Tom) NC-17 I want this to be canon so badly. Not JKR's version of this, but this.

Must pick up load of (probably bad) romance novels research material from easalle, any time she's ready for that.

Management at my apartment complex has changed again. No news about what happened to the Red-Haired Maintenance Witch. I hope she's OK. I have no connection to these new people. I should probably make some, because I'm decent at connecting with people and getting to be liked, if thought of as totally wacked.

My teeth are not happy with me. The lower left side of my mouth, it hurts. I suspect this is related to the Filling that Fate Hated.

Dear Phishers:

It works a lot better if you spell your phishing e-mail better. "Choise"? My fingers hurt typing that. "Rightfull"? Go choke on a dictionary.

No love,
Unphished


The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?

My workplace is definitely at Sophistication, though there are forays into Inquiry, as witness the recent investigation of the exact genital setup of the standard-issue hermaphrodite (Joe Average Layman, in the form of ObsoL33t Super, Stressy College Chick, and gods know who else, is not dreadfully informed on this) and the thing with the cow stomachs and all the trips to Google for vocabulary definitions and the IMDB visits.


figment0 tearing his hair at a monitor report is never a good sign.

Stressy College Chick was talking about school.
"Class, class, class. You know what class rhymes with? You can kiss it." Rev. Not-So-Nice Super is actually an asshole. (Not an asshat. An asshole. In the Dennis Leary sense.)


We still haven't decided on a place to outsource lunch from. And it's 5 minutes until lunchtime.


I seem to have acquired a decent working relationship with the Crazy Cussing Bus Stop Lady based on her being pagan of some description (and possibly 'kin as well, because "Mortals are so much fun" was cited) and me being a little bit "high-strung" or something. Innnnteresting.

And it's now 15 minutes past lunchtime; I have yet to actually order lunch.

Oh. Dear. Looks like I'm getting Random Crap from the Machine for lunch: the delivery driver just went home sick. Heh. One of those days, eh?