When someone triggers something, sometimes it's not so much a matter of pulling the trigger, it's a matter of smoking somewhere, and having some sparks fall on an exposed fuse that's leading to a couple tons of TNT that are buried right under your feet.
Sometimes they knew it was there and were smoking there anyway. Sometimes there was just a large "No Smoking" sign posted. Sometimes there wasn't anything, and they just decided to light up. Sometimes, and the person whose bomb it was really should get their ass kicked for this, there was a bench and an ashtray there.
If I want to spell it incorrectly, if I go back and change it to the word that I actually typed, you should give it up and leave it that way. Fuck you.
Darkside defines 'sanity' as 'mental stability'. Good to know where his definitions are coming from.
Today, so far, has been a glowing success. (Well, not what I wrote in my dead tree journal during ASP, but it is now.) Despite LF throwing a hissyfit when he was told to step away from the game and get dressed now, because they were leaving, it's been a good day. (Don't know if he's going to get grounded from gaming for that little display. I would.)
ASP class was good. Still need to settle down and read a couple chapters there. Lit class was good. I got the reading journal done this morning before school, sitting around lazily clad in underpants and sheet. Much discussion of Joyce Carol Oates' "Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?" -- fascinating. An Old Fiend, eh? One hour isn't hardly enough time. I got the reading journal printed out from school before ASP, as I e-mailed it to myself.
I was a little nervous about my ASP lab, due today at 5p, but no longer -- I had the bulk of it done, and I just had to re-look-up the proper syntax for a caption on a table (<caption align=top>caption</caption>) and send off the link. 5 minutes work, and most of it was the opening of the program and the searching for the information.
So I now have an hour and 20 minutes to finish reading my friends page, responding to comments, and generally chilling (oh, and lunch, too) before heading off to my DBA class.
I need to remember to ask Dawn what class she and Darkside were in that project team together in. (I miss them both.)
*giggle* A girlfriend! *gigglebounce*
Gha. Ever since starting up computing, I've been generating more typographical errors. Evil!
Darkside and I have decided that this is called "CIS Disease" -- the inability of programmers to spell worth a shit. (He has a worse time with it than I do, having never had the ability to write a flawless sentence the first time out the fingers onto the keys as I had from those years of writing my novel.)
I miss him, and all those little injokes. I really do.
I started wondering who I was, and what I was doing here, early. I hear that many people don't start to wonder about that until their mid-20s; does this have any basis in more than rumor?
At any rate, I started writing in a journal for myself on the day the first Gulf War started. I did it so that my children would have a record of what their mother thought during the war (I'd been reading a novel set in WWI). I continued it because I found it interesting. My entries were sporadic at first, but by the 8th grade, I was writing about myself and my life regularly.
This set the stage for my epiphany at CTY in the summer of 1994, just before the 9th grade: everyone had a purpose in life, I knew. Not everyone was aware of what theirs was. I knew mine, and I wondered why everyone else had such a hard time finding theirs. I was comedy. My life was a comedy.
I kept seeing, in my path, the banana peels, the little things that would inevitably trip me up. And I wondered how I should take it. They'd be there anyway. Should I take them straightfaced and painful, falling with stiff dignity and bruising myself every time? Or perhaps, should I roll with it, take my fall gently, with more show than pain, and bounce right back up giggling?
I was fourteen.
I knew the benefit to me, and was aware of the shadowy benefit to others, but not exactly what it was. At fourteen, "I should do this because it will be better for me because I'll be happier, and besides it will be good for others," is a sufficient reason.
I keep coming back to that every time I do a self-examination. (Okay, maybe not every time I do a breast self-examination, which incidentally every woman should be doing to make sure that all the lumps in there are supposed to be in there, but you know what I mean.) I live a comedy, and I derive benefit from seeing the funny bits, and others derive benefit by watching my antics. (Makes me sound like Miles on crack.)
I started writing my novel because my love life was doing some really screwed-up, hilarious things, and I wanted to keep a record of what the hell was going on. I figured that it would beat most of the YA novels I'd been reading, and be funnier than Peter David. I think I was right, in retrospect. It became fiction when I moved away from what was actually happening, and began filling in all the "it would have been funnier if" bits. To this day, my mind still confuses itself about which was the cause and which was the effect in the relationship between my novel and the real thing.
Who am I? I'm still not entirely sure, but this journal outlines a great deal of the possibilities, and hints at more.
But I know what I'm Meant to do, and that's been a good thing to help me. I'm surprised more people don't know, still.
One good chat with Darkside.
One good long hot bath.
One good good book.
Several good items from Trader Joe's. (These were made possible by three checks in the mail, two from surveys that I'd gotten some time ago, and one the remainder of my retirement savings from when I worked that heartless phone job.)
Put these all together? Happy Loony.