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Public, like a Frog.

The more I talk about things that don't matter at work, the more I smile and gleam and shine, the more I shut down quietly inside and don't talk to anyone but just the few on the things that do matter, and matter the most.

This past 24 hours has already seen two e-mails sent off in the general direction of my favorite-most Blonder Half. Those still weren't private enough to discuss the deep things. I'll have to write more on paper, later.

My 2005 Petridish.net album has bits and pieces of my random life. Right now I have to convince the camera to release the next set, which involve "wearing my new hat to town", some dangling network jacks, and the lurkingest little harlequin-masked stray calico cat.

Anyone managing the hurricane disaster relief efforts at this point is in the un-enviable situation of a ghem-general succeeding a number of others in the ultimately ill-fated Barrayaran invasion. Fucking up is a group effort, and it does not take a negative hero to solely stage-manage a disaster, but no matter how good or bad you are, it still sucks to be in that position. You surely did not get there by yourself, and you're not going to get out of it by yourself, not unless you have the tactical skill of a Vorkosigan.

Work is reaching a consensus that I need to get my little work cartoons scanned and uploaded somewhere so that they can get shared with the whole class. Eeep. The thought both thrills and intimidates me. Today (Sunday evening) I left the binder with the cartoons on the desk, and the supervisor who's recovering from the broken back picked it up and started reading and howling with laughter.

My apartment is still a housekeeping storm watch area: not a warning, quite, and not a disaster area, but it could become one with very little help. There is a laundry queue. Yay weekend.

I wished the LF a happy birthday, and got back a message wishing me the same. (The 11th is his birthday. Not mine. But it's the thought that counts.) Happy (belated) birthday to cindygerb as well; happy Orgasm Day. My finest refrigerator-dregs to the Shrubbery, like those tomatoes that aren't much good for eating anymore, at a suitable velocity. (We actually don't need a Shrubbery. Ni! Ni! 'Ni!)

I've been awake for about 23 hours at this point, because I woke up at 6 on Sunday morning. Saturday night was not exactly a good night for sleeping either -- I came home from work, collapsed, slept for two hours, woke up to the telephone ringing with a familiar caller ID, talked with Darkside for a few minutes (this does not count as him calling me: it was his mother calling me back and passing the phone over to him) then stayed up wired until midnight or after, then crashed until 3:45, then stayed up until 5-ish, and then got an hour of sleep... no, not a good night for sleep.

The alarm clock gets switched OFF now, and sleep gets priority until distinctly after noon.
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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