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And he's the son of an English teacher.

So I was chatting with a certain friend of mine, he who is known in his less-than-shining moments as "Mr. Shallow", he who inspired me to chat with tyrantmouth until all hours and coin the term "angstwanker" at least a year ago.

He was polishing his CV, and wanted me to run an eye over it. Although hampered by the lack of the program he'd used to create it, I nonetheless humanitarianly (note: this is only a word because I say it is) plunged in.

I raised eyebrows over several things, but chalked it up to lack of sleep (he'd been up since 8 in the morning, and it was now past midnight) when I hit what he'd done to the poor computers. I screeched aloud, careless of the hour and of sleeping roommates. "MACINTOSH'S???????????" I scream-typed to my hapless friend. "MACINTOSH'S WHAT? MACINTOSH'S ASS?"

This is why I'm such a helpful friend to run things past. Fortunately, he and I are good friends.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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