April 30, 2003
And There Was Much Rejoicing
Yep. I’m still up.
woo.
I’m eating candy, because only in that way can I get the sugar I need to keep writing my language spec. The specific candy I’m eating is a piece I got from the admissions people. We hosted two pre-frosh for a three day weekend. The admissions office sent me (not my roommates, mind you. Just me.) a Jolly Rancher sucker wtih a little note.
For providing housing to 2 people for 3 days.
A sucker.
I think they’re trying to tell me something.
April 29, 2003
w00t!
I just found out that my Algorithms Final Paper, which I thought was due tomorrow, is in fact due on Friday.
That is two whole days worth of cool.
See, What I Meant To Say Was…
When I’m dancing, a lot of the time I keep count in my head. Not all dances, or all the time, but a good amount. And I know this is a bad thing to do, but sometimes I can’t help it. The real problem, though, is that, when I go to say something, sometimes I say whatever number I’m on, rather than what I meant to say. So, in advance, if I step on your feet and then apologetically say, for instance, “five,” know that I really meant to say “sorry.” Or maybe “What the hell?” Either way, “five” is what you get.
This kind of thing had never happened to me in text, though, before now. A few minutes ago I sent Kyle a message on IM to ask him a question. Actually, what I did is type a message and almost send it, then had a good laugh at myself and erased what I had written.
I was listening to a song, and instead of writing the question I actually wanted to ask, I wrote the line in the song that was playing at that point. The line was “We should be lovers” from the Elephant Love Medley off the Moulin Rouge Soundtrack.
Glad I caught that one.
I Wish I Could Dream Of Electric Sheep
What a beautiful night to write an essay. The air is crisp, my computer is humming, and the stars (both of them!) are out.
April 27, 2003
The Writer Is: OUT
Expect sporadic and brief postings for the next week or so. After that, they should start back up again in full awesomeness and regularity. Either that, or I’ve died. Check with Vegas for odds.
April 26, 2003
My Feet!
Danced my ass off at the dance party last night. I don’t think I sat out a single song for several hours. As a result (and I don’t want to alarm anyone, but) I think I’ve depleted all of my body’s natural sweat reserves. It’s ok, I mean, I’m sure they have some kind of surgery to replace that kind of thing. So far, though, my google searches have been less than helpful. This is probably one of those things they hide under its Latin name.
He he. Nailed Jonah with that javelin, too.
Pictures of costume will be forthcoming.
April 24, 2003
:: whoosh ::
Ok, my references were clearly way too oblique. Oedipus. That’s who I’m going to be. The King. Who blinded himself. And fucked his mother.
That one.
April 23, 2003
To the Loud Bastards Outside
Why, oh why must you drill holes through the wall only a few feet from my head? Do you not realize that we are trying to sleep? Are you not aware of the horrific noises coming out of your drill? The cinderblocks are screaming for mercy, but you cruelly ignore their pleas. These noises are the sort that herald the coming of Satan and the abandonment of all hope; surely you can wait until we are all in a more positive frame of mind, or at least until they won’t scare the bejesus out of those who are still asleep.
And why are you drilling holes in a perfectly adequate wall? Why, to make the fire alarms louder, of course. Now when some drunk bastard pulls the alarm at 5 o’clock Saturday morning, I will have the pleasure of another rude awakening, and all of you will have the pleasure of further ranting. There is no way the dorm is ever burning down–it is made of concrete. If it was possible to set fire to the dorm, Nick would have burnt it down years ago.
Workers of F&M, your task is futile. Cease your drilling, or you will incur the wrath of North!
Like Electra, But Not So Girly
I’ve gotten three new T-shirts recently that I’m quite happy with. Scratch that. I’ve gotten one, I got a box in the mail that claimed to have the other (but was lying!), and I’m on a mission to find the third, or I’ll get kicked off the dance team.
Ahem.
So, the WWJD (Who Wants Jack Daniels?) suite makes awesome T-shirts. I bought one of theirs a few weeks ago, a black shirt with white writing in the style of the Jack Daniels logo, but about Mudd. Then this week they were in the back of Platt selling more shirts. It seems they have other designs as well. The other one I bought has the D.A.R.E. logo on it, and it says:
D.A.R.E.
To keep college students off hard drugs on weekdays
I’m a huge fan.
The other one i got was a napster shirt to replace the one I made in high school. Sadly, that one is past it’s prime. To be honest, it’s pretty much past the point where I should be using it as a rag on the good whiteboard, but I wear it anyway. It turns out that napster still has shirts left over from when they were alive, and Roxio, the company that bought them, is selling them off. So the package came today. And, I have to admit, it was nice box. It had tape, easy to rip open with a butter-knife, a pretty label with my name on it, some of those air-filled plastic bags (so the shirt wouldn’t break during shipment?), and a lovely itemized invoice. The one thing it didn’t have was the shirt I ordered. Maybe whoever normally had the job of putting that part in was sick that day. Still, A for effort to the rest of the shipping dept.
Anyway, I had a nice little chat with a woman named Nicole who works for Roxio, and she assured me that she would send another shipment out immediately. It was only after I got off the phone that I realized she never said whether that shipment would have a shirt in it either. I hope that guy doesn’t have anything serious.
The final shirt I’m getting is for the dance party on Friday. It’s an Ancient Greek theme, and we team members have been informed that we all have to dress up for it. I got my sheet all ready, but, really, you don’t want to go dancing with a toga on. So I had to think of something else. Lisa suggested sandals, tan shorts, and some kind of shirt with gold cord stuff. “And laurels,” I added. Because you can’t be Greek without laurels. But I wasn’t sure where I’d find a shirt with gold stuff on it, and, due to my recent blood-giving, I didn’t want to tempt fate by trying to do anything with a needle. Thus, I came up with the T-shirt idea.
Here’s my costume: A Crown, dark glasses, and a T-shirt that says “I [heart] Mom.”
And laurels.
And Then, Seven Hours Later…
I had all these plans for tonight. Really I did.
Most of them involved sitting down with Kevin and banging out the rough draft of our Programming Languages final project spec for about an hour after Sci-Fi class, and then maybe watching a movie, having a glass of wine, enjoying the company of the fairer sex…
Any of those would have been quite nice, really. But, no.
Well, we’re done, now. At least, we’re done if you count stopping in the middle of the control flow section and stating “The rest of the features are relatively self-explanatory” in about as believable a manner as those guys on tv who say things like “Satisfaction guaranteed” as “done.”
ugh. I’m going to go crawl into bed and slam my head against the wall until I lose consciousness.
Ian Ferrel 