Thursday, January 30, 2003
No matter where I go on the intarweb, I see horrific examples of poor spelling and hideous grammar. I blame the decline of the quality of education in U.S. public schools, the television-as-babysitter phenomenon, and Microsoft, because I like to blame Microsoft needlessly for almost everything.
I know this is a popular pet peeve, one that has been discussed ad nauseum by many, many bloggers. Tough titty. I don't care how many times it has been discussed. It's my party and I'll bitch about spelling and grammar if I want to.
Don't get me wrong - I don't claim to be grammatically perfect in everything that I write. I do love me some run-on sentences, and as evidenced in the first and last parts of this sentence, I also loves me some slang. I'm not kvetching about those types of grammar/style issues, however. I'm talking about simple rules of grammar that people should have learned in the first fucking grade. Here are some of the most common mistakes.
Their vs. they're vs. there
Their: Of or belonging to them. Possessive pronoun.
They're: Contraction of "they are".
There: An adverb meaning "that location". Note similarity to the word "here", which means "this location".
Example of incorrect usage: I like 'N Sync. Their so dreamy. There music really touches my soul. I want to have they're babies.
Example of correct usage: I hate 'N Sync. They're not dreamy at all. Their music makes me want to kill myself. If I go to hell, I expect to see them there, since they obviously sold their souls to become famous.
Your vs. you're
Your: Of or belonging to you. Possessive pronoun.
You're: Contraction of "you are".
Example of incorrect usage: Your so gay. I want to kick you're ass.
Example of correct usage: You're so ignorant. If you type "your gay" one more time, I am going to tell "my gay" to go kick your ass.
Loose vs. lose
Loose: Not tight or confined.
Lose: To be unable to find.
Example of incorrect usage: I always loose my keys.
Example of correct usage: You are a giant fucking loser. Please use spell check.
Web sight vs. Web site
Sight: The ability to see.
Site: A place or location, such as a web site or building site.
Fuck examples: There is no such thing as a Web "sight". Sight is a word that describes your ability to view things that are in front of or near your head via your eyes. It is a Web SITE because the word site refers to a PLACE on the WEB, you dumb fuck.
Balled vs. bawled
Balled: Past tense of "to form into a ball". Also slang term for "fucked", "had sex with", or "screwed the living shit out of". Common 'thug' usage: "ballin'".
Bawled: To cry or sob loudly. Frequently used with modifiers "like a baby" or "like a pussy ass bitch".
Example of incorrect usage: That movie was so sad, I was balling like a baby at the end.
Example of correct usage: You were BAWLING like a baby, you fucking imbecile. Unless, of course, sad movies cause you to FUCK like a BABY. In that case, you are not only a fucking imbecile, you are a sick bastard and should probably be shot, or at least kicked in the balls. (Note correct usage of the word "balls".)
Duck tape vs. duct tape
There is no such thing as duck tape, unless I am unaware of some veterinary accessory that is used for temporarily holding ducks together after some sort of duck disaster. It is called "duct tape" because its original use was to hold together ducts. If you do not know what a duct is, and that is the reason that you call it "duck tape", please consult your local plumber and/or my dad for a lesson in plumbing and a thorough ass-whipping.
Accept vs. except
Accept: To receive.
Except: Its most common usage is as a preposition meaning "but" or "leaving out". Can also be used as a verb meaning "to leave out".
Example of incorrect usage: I excepted Justin Timberlake's proposal, and we are getting married next June.
Example of correct usage: I would not accept a proposal of anything except an offer of cessation of all singing activities from Justin Timberlake.
There are so many more of these that I could write about them for weeks on end. However, I think I'll stop right now, because I have to go except a shipment of duck tape that I ordered from you're Web sight.
babbled by Kat @ 3:46:00 PM |
A bunch of random and totally unrelated things:
I was not at work yesterday. I stayed home sick. I should have stayed home sick on Tuesday, too, because I was awake half the night with a fever and some fairly excruciating abdominal pain of an unknown origin. I woke up Wednesday feeling quite crappy, so I swallowed my usual sickness denial and stayed in bed all day. I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking.
Today is the 31st anniversary of Bloody Sunday. Not that I'm trying to be all political or anything, because I usually try to keep my political views away from here, but I'm from a big Irish Catholic family, and this particular event is one of those things that the Irish Catholics get all upset about. So, yeah. Go learn something.
Ah, man's inhumanity to man. Warms the heart, doesn't it?
Moving on. I watched a made-for-TV movie on NBC last night called War Stories. It started out okay, with some semi-realistic depictions of war correspondents, but quickly became ridiculous. The part that made it just shoot right past plausible and go all the way over to completely fucking retarded was when Jeff Goldblum's character (a reporter) and Lake Bell's character (a photographer) were abducted and taken into a cave to interview a guy that looked just like Bin Laden but was supposed to be some fictional al-Qaeda leader with another name that I can't quite recall at the moment because my memory is so clouded by the sheer fucking awfulness. I watched it all the way through, though, because I'd rather watch drivel like that that sit through 'American Idol' with the allegedly gay Ryan Seacrest and his man-blouses.
I have plans to actually leave the house this weekend. This is deserving of headline news in the L.A. Times. I ain't kidding.
Tomorrow, we will return to our regularly scheduled programming of vitriol, sarcasm, and blatant disregard for other people's feelings.
babbled by Kat @ 9:02:00 AM |
Saturday, January 25, 2003
In the process of cleaning out some boxes this weekend and organizing my home office, I found the following things:
One (1) brand-new skillet from Crate & Barrel, accompanied by an equally unused spatula, that I purchased in August, 2000.
My certificate of ordination from the Universal Life Church dated November 1, 2000.
The rollover documents for the 401(k) I had with the last company I worked for in New York. I left in June, 2000.
One (1) jump rope.
A jewelry box shaped like a treasure chest, which contained:
My friend Libra's obituary and funeral announcement;
A postcard with a photo of Marlene Dietrich and Claudette Colbert on the front, hinting at my early brushes with lesbianism;
Several photos of myself in various stages of childhood;
Twenty-seven (27) pairs of earrings, three necklaces, and two vintage watches.
A pack of playing cards, three magnets, a bottle opener/key chain, and a t-shirt that I purchased at the Guinness Brewery in Dublin in May, 1999.
Fifteen (15) pairs of black shoes, in various styles, ranging from sandals to pumps to Doc Martens.
One (1) Coach bag, given to me as a going-away present by my friend Rachel when I moved back to L.A. from New York city.
A complete set of action figures from The Matrix.
A stereo, three computer keyboards, a Palm Pilot, two sound cards, two sets of computer speakers, a network card, five ethernet cables, a cable box, and two telephones.
An exquisite handmade leather backpack that my ex-boyfriend Jim bought for me in New York, which contained:
Three (3) receipts from stores in the concourse shopping level of the World Trade Center;
Two (2) U.S. Golden Sacagawea Dollars, badly in need of polishing;
Three (3) English pennies;
One (1) tampon;
One (1) endlessly debated proposal for upgrading the aforementioned former New York-based employer's messaging infrastructure.
I still have 8 more boxes to unload. I am attempting to leave my pack rat lifestyle behind. As Chicago once said, it's a hard habit to break.
babbled by Kat @ 1:38:00 PM |
Friday, January 24, 2003
Note to self: Do not believe the local deli's description of its soups. The "Bayou Gumbo" that is supposed to contain "pieces of chicken and sausage" actually contains "a lot of rice and no freaking chicken whatsoever."
Also, I think I need to start using eye cream.
babbled by Kat @ 2:03:00 PM |
Thursday, January 23, 2003
Hi, I'm a baby koala.
Sometimes people call me a "joey" but I think that's stupid, because my name's not Joey or Joseph or Joe. Plus, Kat used to have this ex-boyfriend named Joseph and he liked referring to himself as "Joey" in this really fucking annoying baby-talk voice, and I don't want to be associated with that punk-ass bitch.
Kat decided to take a day or twelve off from posting because she's busy. She's got some deadline for some project at work, and she's writing some presentations for some conference she's speaking at, or curing cancer, or something. What the fuck do I know, I'm just a little helpless baby koala. Look at me, I'm so goddamned fuzzy and cute I can hardly stand myself.
Anyway, since she's so busy she asked me to write about something that would hold her readers' interest. Not like she had that many, but since this one really gorgeous lady linked her she's had a bunch more traffic. I took the writing gig because I had to. Do you know how hard it is to find a job in L.A., especially if you're really short and hairy and still live with your mom like me? It's a nightmare.
Since I'm just a little koala I don't know shit about all this turmoil in the Middle East and that W. guy's reasoning for going over there and blowing stuff up, but I was thinking that maybe there's something else that could be done instead of making everything all explode-y like my ass the morning after I go to the Mexican buffet. Everyone keeps talking about how bad that chunky dude with the big mustache and the beret is, so I thought, well, why not just send us koalas over there to take him out?
Hey, stop laughing!
You people all think that since we're so damn cute and fuzzy, that we're some kind of punk-ass bitches like Kat's ex-boyfriend with the baby-talk. Not so! We're mean little mofos in real life. See those claws? We can fuck some shit up with those things, mang. My plan is simple: just send that Saddam dude a big box of live koalas as a present. He'll be all, "Well, spank my ass and call me Potsie!" and he'll open the cage because he thinks we're so cute. But then we will open up a can of whoop-ass, koala style. We'll turn into a raging ball of fuzz and fury the likes of which the mustachioed dictator (ha, ha, I said "Dick Tater") has never seen! He'll be left bloodied and humiliated - do you know how much of a wuss you look like if you get your ass kicked by a bunch of fuzzy little tree-dwelling koalas? Seriously, all his minions would lose respect for him, his concubines wouldn't want to do him anymore and he'd be exiled to a goat manure processing plant in the mountains. Voila! No war, no dead people, and us koalas would get to eat the human flesh that we secretly crave. Everyone's a winner!
babbled by Kat @ 1:35:00 PM |
Monday, January 20, 2003
Last week, I was full of things to talk about. (Well, I'm full of "it" most of the time, but that's beside the point.) This week, for some reason, I feel like I'm reaching to find something interesting to say, so instead of actually coming up with something interesting I will just review the Golden Globes for you.
I had the show on as background noise while I worked on a presentation for a conference, but every so often something caught my attention and I looked up. The first thing I noticed is that cleavage is IN. And I'm not talking about your average, run-of-the-mill cleavage here, I'm talking giant bazongas pushed up to here and fluffed out to there, with depth that would require special equipment to explore. There were a lot of milk-filled boobs there, due to all the new moms like Cynthia Nixon, Sarah Jessica Parker, and the lady from Malcolm in the Middle, and the currently knocked-up Catherine Zeta Jones. There were also impressive displays of boobage from Salma Hayek, Susan Sarandon, Megan Mullally, and Halle Berry. I'm more of an ass woman, but the sheer quality and quantity of the breasts involved was astounding. Job well done, ladies!
The next thing I noticed was the fashion, of course. With one notable exception, everyone seemed to be dressed beautifully. I spent some time during the pre-show coveting some dresses and some of the people in the dresses. All the guys looked great, too, except Brad Pitt, whose hair is just stupid looking.
On with the awards. There were a few surprises. Some of the recipients seemed surprised, especially Jack Nicholson, who won for Best Actor in a Drama for his role in About Schmidt. He commented that he was confused, because he thought that the film was a comedy. Perhaps his confusion stemmed from his on-again, off-again lover's outfit. Meryl Streep also seemed surprised that she won a Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy or Musical award for her role in Adaptation. Apparently when she is surprised she feels compelled to adjust her breasts on stage. I have never experienced that level of surprise personally, but if one day I do feel a sudden urge to stick my hands inside my shirt on a show that is nationally televised, I will be sure to think of dear Meryl.
My personal favorite for Best Actress in a Drama, Salma Hayek in Frida, didn't win, but she was looking so fine in her slinky little red dress that I kind of forgot about that whole 'award' thing she should've won. I also thought that Adrian Brody had that Best Actor in a Drama award all sewn up for The Pianist, because Hollywood loves them some WW2 movies, but Jack Nicholson's comedy that got mistaken for a drama swept that out from under him. I bet Adrian will win an Academy Award for it, though.
Oh yes, and Rene Zellweger might possibly be the most annoying person on the planet. Other than Richard Gere, that is.
Obviously, my Golden Globe review is far more superficial than most. I didn't really care very much who won - I just wanted to see who looked hot. Actually, now that I think of it, my superficial review is exactly what Hollywood-types like. Perhaps I should lobby for a job with Entertainment Weekly and get paid to stare at cleavage up close. A girl can dream.
babbled by Kat @ 10:54:00 AM |
Friday, January 17, 2003
Ancient proverb: Give a man a fire and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.
I really don't like people very much.
I mean, sure, I can hold my own in social situations. I can pretend to be all nice and sweet and make small talk with people. But if I had my way, I would buy a castle in the middle of Ireland or a ranch in Bum Fuck, Wyoming and just be one of those eccentric hermits that the townsfolk are afraid of. If I had the ranch, I'd have a lot of space for dogs to run around, so I'd purchase an army of smush-face dogs. I'd get a pug, a boston terrier, a boxer, a bulldog, and a shar-pei. (I know a couple of those don't actually have super-smushed faces, but they're funny looking enough to make me want one. I'm weird, ok?) Actually, I'd get two of each, a boy and a girl, all Noah's ark style. Then I'd name my ranch "The Ark of the Covenant" or something else scary and biblical sounding to really scare off the townsfolk.
But really, the main reason I'd like to move away from civilization is traffic. I fucking hate traffic. I especially hate L.A. traffic, but I tolerate it because I like living in L.A. due to the large concentration of Trader Joe's stores and good camera shops. I also like playing the game called "Spot the plastic surgery". I can pick a liposuctioned ass out of a lineup.
The problem with the traffic in L.A. is threefold:
A. The freeways are sucky. Some of them are too narrow, some are in disrepair, and some have the shittiest onramps/offramps/merge lanes in the free world.
2. There is no decent public transportation. Sure, if you happen to be lucky enough to live right near one of the train lines, and your workplace is also near a train line, then you're golden. But if you're like me, and live downtown but need to travel to an office near the airport, you would have to take three different trains to get to work. It would literally take me half an hour longer to get to and from work if I were to take public transportation. That is just goddamned ridiculous.
D. People in L.A. drive like total fucking assholes. Sure, I get it. Lots of cars on the road. You need to get somewhere. But do you really think that not letting me merge into your lane is going to get you there ANY FUCKING FASTER? And you, over there, trying to merge into 70 mph traffic doing 35 miles an hour! What the fuck is wrong with you? If people in this fucking city would just learn how to fucking MERGE INTO TRAFFIC, and stop speeding up just so they can slam on their brakes 2 minutes later, our traffic problems would be greatly reduced. It is not that hard, people. JESUS.
Don't even get me started on people driving in the rain in L.A.
The only solution that I can see to this problem, for myself anyway, is to either work at a place that is less than 3 minutes from my home, or invent something spectacular that will change life as we know it and become filthy stinking rich and never have to commute again. I doubt either of those things will happen anytime soon, so I'll just have to get myself a prescription for Valium and daydream about my freaky dog ranch in Wyoming.
(And if anyone gets the obscure early '90s movie reference hidden in plain view in this post, tell me and I'll give you a dollar.)
babbled by Kat @ 9:03:00 AM |
Thursday, January 16, 2003
You people were doing so well with the commenting until I started telling this story. Apparently Auntie Kat's storytelling has rendered you speechless. Either you're so riveted by the story that you can't bring yourself to respond, or you've fallen asleep. I suspect the latter.
In the spirit of all of those movies that tell you what happened to the teenaged characters after high school, Auntie Kat is proud to bring you the postscript to the adoption story, sponsored by Laphroaig and Trojan condoms.
The Prince and Kat moved back to Phoenix and lived together for a while. They eventually broke up because Kat started seeing signs that perhaps he wasn't really a Prince after all. With his title sullied and crown tarnished, he moved on, eventually knocking up another girl, whom he married. The "Prince" and his wife live in Phoenix with their two children.
The baby was very healthy. Her adoptive parents have taken wonderful care of her. She is now a bright young lady who is almost twelve years old. She plays a ton of sports, and is ridiculously intelligent, very pretty, and very tall. She lives in a suburb of San Diego with her adoptive parents, who are pretty much two of the most awesome people ever.
Kat, after dumping the "Prince", moved on with her life. She married and moved to a suburb of Los Angeles. She began working as an accountant's assistant and eventually worked her way up to become a senior accountant by the age of 22, all while going to school full-time at night and maintaining a 4.0 GPA. (What? I can brag. It's my website, you know.) At the age of 23, she decided to change her career and her life, and moved to New York City, without the husband, to start a new career in information technology. After three years in New York, she longed to wear open-toed shoes in December and moved back to Los Angeles, where she currently resides with her girlfriend.
Kat sees her daughter 2-3 times per year. They get along famously.
Who says there's no such thing as a happy ending?
babbled by Kat @ 2:21:00 PM |
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
Okay, boys and girls. We'll have story time one last time before Auntie Kat takes her sleepy medicine. If you're good, maybe she'll let you give her a full frontal massage before she goes to sleep.
We last left our heroine, the round non-virgin, in her wondrous shithole apartment, accompanied by her loyal Prince and several loaves of Wonderbread. She was entering the last stages of her pregnancy, which as we've all learned from film and television involves the mother-to-be saying "I want this thing out of me!" at least 972 times per day. She went to the doctor two weeks before her due date and was informed that her baby, whilst somersaulting and doing all manner of squirming within Kat's uterus, had turned around and would have to be delivered via cesarean section. Kat, having never had surgery of any kind, promptly freaked the fuck out.
After riding back to the castle/shithole apartment on the magnificent steed/Vespa, the Prince and young Kat sat and discussed the upcoming surgery. Somehow, the combined efforts of the Prince, Kat's mom, and Kat's grandparents managed to calm Kat down about the surgery. She accepted her fate and hoped like fuck that they would give her a ridiculous amount of painkillers. She called the doctor, and the cesarean section was scheduled for four days after her due date.
Two days before the scheduled surgery, Kat went into labor. There was no dramatic breaking of water, no ruined shoes, no delivery in the back of a taxi. She just started having contractions, and went, "Ow." A friend with a car took Kat and the Prince to the hospital, because riding on horses and Vespas is not good for ladies who are in labor. Since it was the middle of the damned night, the doctors waited until early Sunday morning to perform the surgery. Kat was given some painkillers, but she proceeded to beat the crap out of the Prince anyway when the contractions got really bad, just because, you know, he got her into this mess in the first place.
The surgery was mostly a haze. Kat drifted in and out of consciousness during the surgery, but waited to completely pass the fuck out until she heard the baby's first cry. Then she, you know, passed the fuck out. She awoke hours later when her mom arrived. Shortly thereafter, the baby was brought into the room. Kat held her in her arms, but it was a bittersweet moment. She knew she would be giving the baby up in just a few short days.
A few days later, she did just that. Kat had met the adoptive parents several times, and was sure they were the best people she could have chosen as parents for her child. The paperwork was done, and Kat and the Prince handed the baby over to her new parents, and drove away.
It was the hardest thing Kat had ever done.
(Don't worry, there will be a postscript.)
babbled by Kat @ 8:15:00 AM |
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
Come on over here and sit down by the fire with your Auntie Kat, kids. It's story time again!
When we last left our heroine, she was staring blankly off into space alongside her trusty Prince, trying to figure out what to do about their impending offspring.
The Prince, after much thoughtful consideration and several Heinekens, came up with a plan. "I know what we should do!" he proclaimed to a nauseous yet attentive Kat. "We're obviously too young to take care of a baby. I mean, technically speaking, our relationship is illegal in 49 states! (Sorry, Tennessee!) I think you should get an abortion, lovely Kat."
Kat was somewhat crestfallen by the Prince's suggestion. She had always been pro-choice, but in this particular situation, she just didn't feel that abortion was the answer. But she was a mere wisp of a woman, just 15 years old, with a bright future that would be forever altered by raising a child. She had no idea what the right decision would be.
Kat spent several weeks contemplating what to do about her predicament. The Prince became more and more distant, overwhelmed with the sudden, overpowering thundercloud of adult responsibility now hanging over his head. Kat was left to her own devices to make a decision about her child. After much thought and gnashing of teeth, she decided that adoption would be the best option.
The duration of Kat's pregnancy was a volatile, emotional, and difficult period of her life. Kat moved from Phoenix, the land of dirt, cacti, crystal meth and mullets to San Diego, the land of beaches, palm trees, mary jane and bleached blondes at the insistence of the future adoptive parents of her child. She moved several times, staying with friends of friends and eventually in her own shitty yet horrible apartment. The Prince joined her in the shithole apartment when she was about 7 months pregnant. They lived a meager existence, cheered only by their walks to the local record shop where they couldn't afford any records and the 7-11 where they could afford white bread and luncheon meats. It was a far cry from their former home in Phoenix, where they had been living large on full-priced sandwiches from Arby's and Jack in the Box. They lived in anticipation of the life-changing event that was fast approaching.
And, once again I'll leave you on the edge of your seats by saying... TO BE CONTINUED.
babbled by Kat @ 8:10:00 AM |
Saturday, January 11, 2003
Gather 'round, kiddies. Pull up a chair, kick off your shoes, grab a mug of hot cocoa (or a hot toddy) and make yourself comfy. Auntie Kat is going to tell you a little story.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (ok, it was Phoenix), a wee lass called Kat fell in love with a gallant young prince who rode up on a white horse (ok, it was a red Vespa) and stole her heart (ok, she doesn't really have a heart). Kat and the Prince spent many a day together, whiling away the hours talking and boning and eating fried foods. It was all very lovely and shiny like all new love should be, and one day Kat and the Prince decided to do what all young couples in love do - they shacked up together.
Kat and the Prince had a rollicking good time in their fancy yet humble new abode. They said, "Wow! Now that we can be alone every single day, without our parents around, we can bone all the time!" So Kat and the Prince threw caution and birth control to the wind with that mistaken youthful certainty that they were invincible and invulnerable to the consequences of their actions, and boned away confidently with imagined impunity.
Then one day Kat woke up with a curious feeling in her stomach. "Gosh," she thought, "whatever could be the matter?" Then she promptly ran to the bathroom and puked her brains and perhaps several other vital organs out. The Prince was awakened by the soft and soothing sounds of her retching, and came into the bathroom to inquire about her well-being.
"Kat," he said, "What the fuck?"
She replied, ever so sweetly despite the burning sensation in her throat, "I have no fucking idea." Of course, Kat and the Prince had a sinking feeling that they had exactly the right fucking idea. So our fearless Kat downed some baking soda and water (which is a magical cure-all for stomach ailments, by the way) and hauled her youthfully perky ass over to her job at the local Target store. She had a tasty, well-prepared meal at the hot dog stand prior to her shift, and immediately regurgitated it, as many people would. However, she knew this wasn't just a reaction to the questionably edible phenomenon known as the hot dog. She went home early from her shift and rode on the white horse/Vespa to the drugstore to purchase a test to determine the ailment that was causing her incessant vomiting. Upon being told that the local Walgreens didn't stock malaria tests, she purchased the next best thing - a pregnancy test.
When the Prince returned from his job at the place that Kat can't remember the name of anymore, she showed him the results of the test. Sure enough, Kat and the Prince were now expecting a mini-Kat or mini-Prince. Kat and the Prince spent the rest of the night staring blankly off into space as they contemplated what the fuck to do. And, just like a prime-time drama where everything's left up in the air, I'm going to say...
TO BE CONTINUED.
babbled by Kat @ 6:51:00 PM |
Thursday, January 09, 2003
I think the internet is ruining my life.
Thanks, Al Gore.
Thinking about how much the goddamned internet was ruining my life and the lives of many others pissed me off, so I decided to write a letter to the internet and its hetero life-mate, the world wide web, to discuss their deliberate ruination of countless lives.
Dear Internet and WWW:
I have noticed that you're doing so well out in that vast cloud that we geeks see so often on network diagrams. It looks so cold and lonely on the diagrams, but apparently you have overcome that and managed to suck the souls out of enough people to at least temporarily satiate your bloodthirsty desires and continue your plans for world domination. I know many people who have had their lives completely decimated because they've been sucked in by your siren song. I am writing to you now to let you know that we will not continue to allow this relentless soul stealing to continue.
I admit, I have been sucked into your sticky web (pun intended) of lies, sex, and deceit. You present pretty pictures of beautiful people, places, and things that make us mere mortals melt and become pawns in your evil game. You grant us the convenience of shopping at home at 2 a.m. in our pajamas. You give us access to people in far-off lands that we probably would never have known otherwise. You give people an outlet to show their collections of lesbian pulp fiction book covers and condiment packages.Your contributions to the porn industry are laudable. But I know what you're doing. I see your secret plot. You want to ruin my life. You want to steal my soul.
That's right. I've seen through your thick and deceptive veneer of gorgeous naked ladies getting it on! and great deals on computers, cheap! I've rejected your offers to enlarge my penis and breasts, get a house with no money down, and get several million dollars for helping that poor widow of the Nigerian official who's being so maliciously persecuted, no matter how tempting they may be. I know that you're trying to trick me into spending all of my hard-earned cash and rapidly disappearing free time within your vast and neverending vault of products and information. I vow to resist you!
But your appeal is so great, your siren call so sweet, that I have to muster all of my will to stay away. Your vast expanse of nothingness is like a playground for my ADD-addled mind. When I get tired of looking at one thing, there you are with a bright, shiny link to someplace else. When I sit down "just to check my e-mail", I invariably start up one of your seductive minions, the IM client, and end up talking for hours with people, some of whom I will probably never meet in real life. When I'm away from you for too long, I feel disconnected from the world. It's a relief for the first couple of days, because your narcotic effects wear off slowly, but by the third or fourth day I'm jonesing for another hit, another fix of your sweet brown sugar.
I want to kick. I want to resist, but I've become addicted. I don't want to succumb, but I fear that I'm on the brink.
You're ruining my life.
But I won't let you. Even if it kills me.
Resistance is futile.
Internet & WWW
Subsidiaries of Al Gore, Inc.
babbled by Kat @ 10:40:00 AM |
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
Have you ever been in a situation where you have so many things to do and so many things to keep track of that you can't really coherently express any thoughts about any of them? I'm in that situation now. I've got two major projects going on at work, three presentations for the Big Geek Conference due within a few weeks, an entry for a gallery show to prepare by this weekend, school registration for the spring semester, home office renovation, and various other things to do. I need to dig up that old Palm Pilot that I used to carry around religiously and start using it again to keep track of all the things I have on my plate, because the plate has been piled so high with crap that I don't know where to start with any of them. And yet, I spend time writing about it to you, the nameless, faceless interwebpeople.
I had wanted to get a new comic book done before APE, but due to various scheduling issues with the contributing writers and artists, I don't think it'll be ready in time. However, I am totally fucking committed to getting one done by the time the San Diego Comic-con happens. I want to have a booth in the small press section this year, dammit. I think I'll still go to APE just to check out what's going on with independent comics these days, since I haven't entered a comic book store in at least six months. I totally lose geek points for that, but I watch the Star Trek marathon every time it comes on TNN, so those geek points cancel out the lost comic book geek points. Mmhmm.
In other news, I have found the greatest nutrition bar known to mankind: the Zone Chocolate Caramel Cluster bar. I've been eating Zone bars for quite some time now, and their variety and flavor has gotten better over time, but this one is absolutely the best one. I have no fucking idea how they get them to taste so good without having 9,472 calories, but they manage it somehow. Anyway, I probably shouldn't mention it because now I will cause a mad rush to the store and people will buy all of the yummy Zone bars and then I'll have nothing to eat for breakfast. Oh well, too late.
I promise I'll try to write more interesting entries from now on that don't include my penchant for Star Trek: TNG reruns or tasty nutrition bars. Any requests for subject matter? Sex? Priests? Monkeys? Priests who have sex with monkeys? You decide.
babbled by Kat @ 2:48:00 PM |
Saturday, January 04, 2003
The last few weeks have been really shitty for my productivity levels, at work and at home. Actually, the entire month of December, with its holidays and vacation time and hot sexy fat men in red suits has completely jacked my gig. As you learned from my friend the squirrel monkey, I was in Vegas for the first week of December, during which time I became accustomed to being in a hotel, spending lots of money on a daily basis, and not thinking about work. Then, I came back, but the second week of December was full of meetings and holiday parties and all other manner of shenanigans which caused distraction both in the office and at home. The third week was even more of the same. The last week was really screwy, as it had Xmas smack in the middle of it. It was very odd, because there was a weekend, then one full day of work, then a day where we got to leave early, then a day off, then two regular workdays. Then, because I have every other Monday off (envy me), I had a three day weekend, then a day where we got to leave early, then a day off for the coming of the glorious new year, then two regular workdays. Now it's the weekend again, and my internal workweek clock is all turned around and confused like a new porn starlet in a Ron Jeremy flick. You know it's bad when I spend my Saturday morning thinking about how I'm going to redesign the workflow in some application I'm working on.
My weekend plans include thinking about the aforementioned application, writing a rough draft of a presentation I'm giving at a conference in the spring, bringing the giant shelving unit that is currently residing in my kitchen into my upstairs office so I can unpack several boxes full of gadgets, toys, cameras, and other assorted items, and putting together all of my tax-deductible receipts for 2002 so that I can estimate how much my refund is going to be. Now, before you tell me that I'm a complete and utter nerd, let me say this: I am a complete and utter nerd. I just like to get a handle on my tax crap early so I don't have to freak out and panic in April when everyone else is freaking out and panicking, see? You come back here and tell me what a nerd I am on April 15th at 11:45 p.m. when you're licking your stamps and getting ready to run to the post office to get your shit postmarked before midnight. I'll already have my refund check in my grubby little hands.
Oh, there's one other thing. I did not mention this on December 30, which was his actual birthday, because I was spending a little quality time away from my computer:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHANE!!!!
If he had a website, I'd have linked his shit all over the place here and he would've gotten a bunch of birthday wishes from strangers, but he doesn't, so I just have to say stuff about him here and then he can post comments. Isn't the interweb fun?
babbled by Kat @ 11:58:00 AM |