It has not been 21 days

or anywhere near that. I suspect it has actually been closer to... three. Days are easier to keep track of when the numbers are smaller. But it is good to be keeping this monstrosity alive again. I think it has to do with unemployment.

Stacey wants to play Final Fantasy VII. I am not sure that I want to play Final Fantasy VII again, but I would like to have the recent experience in my mind. 60 hours seems a bit much to devote to such an endeavor, but it WOULD be nice to have fresh memories of subquests, airships, horrific chocobo inbreeding experiments, and a certain attractive jailbait materia ninja fresh in my mind once again. The last time I saw such things was middle school. These are dire straits, and should be navigated.

...maybe I'll just be productive while she plays, and juggle unobtrusively while she gets wtfpwned by the secret boss you have to kill to unlock Vincent. No, Stacey, I'm not telling you how to beat him.

There is a bear, sometimes. There is bad drawing, sometimes. Sometimes, these times overlap at the same time.

off-topical cream

I don't think I have Lyme Disease. I had a bizarre rash on the back of my leg which could -with a little imagination and squinting- be described as bullseye. Fortunately the rash itches from time to time, which the internet assures me is a good indicator that what I have is not Lyme disease, but is rather some kind of random flora- or fauna-inflicted skin condition that it would really be better if I kept to myself. And so, of course, I'm telling you all about it. Rational thought wins again.

Anyway, I think I dodged the lyme disease bullet (I just noticed that every time I've written that, I've capitalized it less than the time before). But it got me thinking: it's very possible that I could develop some horrible debilitating neurological condition, and with no money or insurance, there's not a hell of a lot I could do about it. My immediate reaction is sort of worrisome... I think if something like that were to happen, it would just mean it's time to go off and live la vida loca with the little time I had left, rather than try to scrape money together or beg friends and family, despite the fact that I know they'd be willing to help. I'm way too passive in terms of just playing the cards I'm dealt. I would do something about that... but to do so would be paradoxical.

A Different Spin: East Coast Edition slowly sloughs forward, and other opportunities are presenting themselves. Nothing worth writing about... I think that's why I've stopped writing; nothing noteworthy is going on.

But enough whining and personal business and actual blogging. Here is a picture of a man and an octopus high-fiving in a peach orchard. And isn't that what life is all about, really?

roosinetes

"It was a pleasant and breezy night, and the four horses each had a delicious bucket of bones. Mouthwash the Soporific, Malaise the Solipsistic, Moliere the Solecistic, and Harold the Bland gnawed gleefully and chilled the fuck out."

Fernando Alvero Gomez sighed and shut the laptop. Kofi Mbambaa, the lawyer, was at the door. His normally slick Colombia 'do was matted sloppily across his forehead, and there was evidence of some sort of rodent's recent habitation therein. Kofi took a bottle of pills from his suit coat, drank it in its entirety, and began his daily lament.

"Without our America backers, we will never to be able to transfer the money from the fifth princess Dubai, and the empire will be ruins! You must send out more of our desperate plea to the Americans if we are ever to regain our fortunes."

Fernando slumped in his chair. He thought about the handgun in his top desk drawer; how easy it would be to pull it out, kill Kofi Mbambaa where he stood, extricate his kidneys and profitable vitals, and continue his simple life undistubed for at least a few months more, courtesy of the black market transplant cartel. But he had promised the sweaty little man that he would finish the contract, and he had every intention of seeing it through. Even if it meant his novel would have to stay quietly seething on the back burner of his agenda. As a private problem solver, the customer had to come first.

"Kofi," he said patiently, "your princess is two provinces away. I can almost piss across the border. You have the money, the guns, and the total lack of moral scruples to get her out. Blasting in there with a tank and two hundred men would cost you what, two hundred thousand plus the assassins' contracts afterward?" (Killing the families of the dead was cheaper than paying widow and orphan benefits, by Fernando's math) "You lose more than that every day she stays in her father's castle. Kill the old fuck, steal his daughter, make your marriage happen, get your shitty little ducks in a row, and for god's sake work on your english."

Kofi's lower lip started to wobble. "But the Americans. Our email correspondence, we are making such progress and friendship..." His eyes began to tear.

Fernando saw it, and in one easy motion slid the drawer open. The silencer worked; with a tiny squeal Kofi crumpled backward and expired unhappily. Fernando walked across the room, closed the door, and went back to his computer.

"Mouthwash the Soporific, Malaise the Solipsistic, Moliere the Solecistic, and Harold the Bland gnawed gleefully and chilled the fuck out. Their riders would be home soon, and then there would be housecleaning to do."