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Stick a fork in me.

I'm planning on nuking my lunch in the phone goon break room when it clears out, and then having nuclear chicken at my desk. I don't want to get away to have lunch; I want to save my getting-away-time for things that are worthwhile.

I don't know how much longer this thing is going to take. I'm glad that I'm getting assigned projects. I'm not glad that it breaks my brain. I am glad that it makes my brain stronger. I am glad that I have 'net access, because being truly isolated back here would have me going stir-crazy. I'm getting the comments, even though I'm not actually responding right now because I do not particularly need any of my locked entries ever viewable on this network. (When I do respond from work, I never log in. This leads to me replying without logging in fifty billion times if I am replying.)

I also have internet radio. The internets went down at work yesterday; they came back up after I left. There was something that wasn't routing right.

One of the steps to doing this properly involves data entry, rather than complicated and painful figuring. Well, the figuring could be done, but this way it's damn near foolproof. Fool-resistant? Fool-retardant? Like fire-retardant pyjamas?
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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