Note: I was told that this would not bode well as a stand-alone write-up so I posted it here instead. I hope you get a good laugh out of it. I certainly had fun writing it. Thanks for reading it, and I appreciate any opinions you have. No offense to those Valley Girls out there. I sometimes overuse the word "LIKE" though I try to avoid words like that.

Studies of the Word "like", and an adventure in the realm of Valley-Girl-Vocabulary-land

I know that we all hate the word "Like" as a word, but I have just determined that it does really have a purpose

So, just to get us started, heres an example.

The way a normal person would say that they wished to order a burger and fries: Can I get a large fries, and a McUseless without onions? Cool. How much is it?

The way that a "Valley Girl" would say the same thing: Like, can I like, get, like, a La'arge Fri'es and like, maybe, like a like Mc 'uh' Useless?? Like, oh my god, like is that like really like two like dollars? Like oh my god... And so on.

But really, perhaps I am exaggerating. Perhaps they used "Holy Crud" instead of "Oh my god." But still, you see where I'm going.

Next is a true story of mine. I will write it as if it were a dialogue in a script... *Shudder* Ok. Pretend that the Innocent Working By-stander speaks in a long, drolling tone, as if the world bores him. Here goes:

One Morgan's Cellar. Time is sometime around 5:30 P.M. Breeze is cool, aprox. 51 degrees Fahrenheit. Everything is as it should be.

(Narrator) Enter: Dumb Pink-clad Valley Girl (DVG)

(DVG) like Hi, like honey? How like long is like the like wait?

(Narrator) Enter: Innocent Working By-stander (ME)

(ME)(In a drolling tone)The wait will be aprox. 20 minutes Miss. Until then, please enjoy the complimentary pillow mints.

(DVG) like oh my god, the wait like is like 20 minutes? Oh like my like god. Eeooo'kay. I will just like sit here and like enjoy like the pillow mints. like thank you.

(Narrator) 20 minutes pass. The DVG is becoming agitated. she then spots Innocent Working By-stander walking in her general direction.

(DVG) So, like did you like get me like a table like yet?? I have like been waiting like so long that I like don't believe it. like oh my god, is it ready yet???

(ME) No ma'am. I'm sorry but a group that had prior reservations showed up at the last minute, and we've had to give them seniority.

(DVG)(Freaking out) LIKE, (breath) OH MY GOD!!! (breath) I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOU LIKE GAVE MY TABLE LIKE AWAY. LIKE TOTALLY (dragging the word out) UNBELEIVABLE!!!

(ME) If you wait perhaps another five minutes, I can assure you that you will have a table.

(Narrator) Five minutes pass... *tick*...*tick*...*tick*... Innocent Working By-stander approaches estranged DVG...

(ME) If you'll come with me, I can show you to your table now. Sorry for the inconvenience.

(DVG) (sarcastically)like thank you. I was like beggining to like think that like you had like forgotten me.

(ME) shows DVG to her table. ME brings her the menu, and asks if she would like to hear the specials. Her response is something less than customary...

(DVG) like how dumb do you think that I like am? I can like read the specials like for myself. Oh my god, I'm going to like report this to your supervisor. like jeez...

(ME) I meant no offense ma'am. I was just doing the customary services. Please forgive me for being rude.

(DVG) Ye'ah, like whatever. I'll like call you when I'm ready...

Yes, yes I know that I haven't finished, but you get the idea. And just in case you didn't catch it before, that was a true story from the time that I worked in a little place called Morgan's Cellar. I think that I didn't need to go on with that painful dialogue. You got the gist of it. Anyway, I think that I through numerous tedious studies have determined why Valley Girls use the word "Like" to an excess.

The reason, as I have determined, is note because they are all dumb, as we had previously thought. They use this word, "Like" as an inter-sentence narration. This narrative is a way of emphasizing the following words, or perhaps merely inserting a spoken "Space" into the sentences. This really isn't necessary, but it is for some reason done anyway. Only god knows why. In the following example, see how the word is used as a "Space" marker:

Like I like would like to like use the like computer like to like make a like writeup like on Like thanks alot. Like oh my god, like I can't like thank you like enough.

Hmmm... I got dejavough when I wrote that... Hmmm...

Also note that the phrase "Oh My God" is often used to an excess. I think that this word also serves as an emphasizer in these styles of sentences. I do not know why they would choose to narrate/emphasize in this way, but they do. God only knows why. This emphasis style also includes such useless and nausea-inducing phrases such as:

  • "Totally"
  • "Far out"
  • "Groovy"

And many many many more. I do realize that these phrases and words were greatly used in the 70's and 80's, and no offense is meant to those rockin' hippies that read this. It's justs that nowadays those words have been so overused that mention of them induces shuddering and often also causes violent bouts of insanity-induced Valley-Girl Axe Chopping. Use these words at your own peril. On another note, I also mean no offense to those Pink-clad Valley Girls, nor any Valley Girls for instance. It's just like when I'm talking about a laboratory rat. I discuss all of its various behaviors and I talk about those rather annoying ones, that really get on my nerves. I am merely implying that Valley Girls should be further studied. I'm certain that there are mainy interesting scientific possibilities that they may offer us.

Basically what I am saying is that Valley Girls are not always as dumb as we think, though I certainly didn't show that outright. If it truly is a verbal narrative, than they are just brilliantly annoying, and if it is more of a pointless habit then we finally can replace the lab rats with something.

You know, I heard that they are going to start using Valley Girls for testing, instead of lab rats. This is for 2 reasons. 1) The scientists don't get as attached to the Valley Girls, and 2) Nobody cares if you use a Valley Girl.

He's not my type.

He's anything but my type. Two tattoos, a worn leather jacket complete with carefully added spikes and studs, and various piercings.

I walk beside him in my wardrobe of Nordstrom's clothing, carefully coordinated, every hair in place. My makeup alone can take twenty minutes out of any morning.

He has anything but my taste. He listens to punk rock, heavy stuff with an edge that "tears you right in the back of the throat."

I don't recognize half the music in his collection. I listen to soft music, vocal and stirring. When I listen to a song I want to get lost in it and not return until the final note fades.

He has anything but my dreams. He dropped out of college, not once but twice. Now he makes chainmail and plans for technical school, and a future in music.

I've had my life planned out for years: college, law school, a good career and a good home. I collect knowledge like my peers used to collect Pogs and Beanie Babies.

We don't belong together. But we are. At least for now, this instant, before something becomes too much. Before our priorities conflict beyond repair. Before the differences become too great.

We don't belong together.

But I'd like us to.

So I got Windows XP for my birthday.

It comes with this cute feature where an icon is associated to each user of the PC on the logon screen. After I finish the whole setup thing, up comes the XP Logon Screen and my randomly assigned icon is the Space Shuttle at liftoff (lift-off.bmp see



Once, a stray dog was dropped from a van in front of a house with a big oak tree and a porch out front. It was just a puppy, a male with brown fur. It lumbered up the hill with typical puppy awkwardness, and it was beheld by two little boys. The little boys already had a dog, but of course begged their parents to keep the puppy. The parents reluctantly agreed.

The parents took the puppy to the vet for vaccinations. The vet immediately started to laugh upon seeing the dog. Its paws and ears were huge. He reckoned the pup was a great dane/german shephard mix, and he commented that we had no idea what we were getting into. This was going to be one large dog.

We named him Bruno. And in a couple of years, we found that he was indeed a large dog, and a strong one at that. One could not ask for a better companion. He was loving, loyal, and tough. His toughness was deserving of special merit. Of my years of ownership of this beast, I never once heard him whine or cry out in pain, even on the day he was hit by a large Chevy van. He came out of the accident with only a laceration on his left hind leg and some matted fur.

That leg, though, he just wouldn't leave it alone. He licked it, as dogs do to wounds to clean them. But he just wouldn't stop. He carried the open wound for a year and a half. We tried everything. We couldn't heal it. We decided just to let it be.

Now my brother and I are no longer little boys, and Bruno's no longer a puppy. This afternoon my mom found him laying under the porch out front. She couldn't coax him out, and he was breathing funny. He wouldn't eat, and that is definitely strange. I had been at a friends house all day, and I didn't learn of his condition until about seven tonight.

He's pretty messed up. I noticed that his leg had sprouted a massive white infected area. He looked at me passively from his hiding place under the stairs. His tail was motionless by his side. I have been staying with him, and he's remained the same until I decided to come up to my room for the night. I hated to leave him, and I'm not sure he's going to make it through the night. Damn, I hate to lose him.

I hope he's not in pain. He's done nothing to deserve it. Whenever he walks down the street, the neighbor dogs assail him with obnoxious barking and nip at his heels. He takes it with his head held high, and I'm sure he knows he could tear any one of the officious dogs throat out in the blink of an eye, but he just walks on and goes about his buisness, paying them no heed. He never, ever hurt a human being.

I guess life is a disease that's 100% fatal. I just never expected it so soon for him. He's in the prime of his life. I suppose we all have to go sometime. But if he doesn't make it, I know one thing. He'll never have to deal with barking neighbor dogs or their jackass owners ever again.
A few days late, but Happy Seollal (Lunar New Year) everyone!. Here in Korea, we all ate our ddeok guk (rice cake soup) on Saturday, and got a year older. I'm 25 now, although still just 23 back in Canada (see Korean age system for details on why this is).

Unfortunately, the biggest holiday in Korea is also the most boring time of year for a foreigner, because everyone goes to spend it with their families (the whole family goes to the house of the oldest living relative), so most stores are closed, no one goes out to the bars, etc. The whole country is like a ghost town.

To deal with the Seollal boredom, I bought myself a Samsung DVD player-VCR (445,000 Won at Carrefour) on Friday. Now I can watch Korean movies, since the DVDs have English subtitles available, while the video tapes don't. That evening, my girlfriend, Eun Jung came over, and I took her to the video store (which was open, fortunately) to rent a movie. I was expecting to just get one and then go out to do something else, but she picked out three, which we then watched back-to-back. We saw I Am Sam, and two Korean movies; one was a romance called "Lover's Concerto" (I can't remember the Korean title), and the other was a thriller called "Phone" (same name in Korean). I found both a little bit hard to follow, even with the subtitles, because both involved minor characters that I kept getting confused, because Korean names are all so similar to the Western ear/eye, and the actresses all looked quite similar (Hollywood actresses all look alike too, but coupled with the fact that it's harder for a Westerner to tell two Asian faces apart, it makes it quite difficult). I watched Phone a second on Sunday, and it made more sense that time, since knowing the surprise ending in advance made some earlier events a bit clearer.

Saturday, Eun Jung came over again, but we were all movied out from watching three in a row the night before. There isn't much to do in Suncheon at any time, and on Seollal weekend, it was completely dead, so we eventually decided to take a trip to Mokpo. If you're in Korea, don't go to Mokpo. It's boring as hell, and I don't think that was just because it was the holiday weekend. It's a waterfront town, but too industrialized to be beautiful. Despite having a higher population than Suncheon, the downtown is even more lacking in interesting bars or restaurants.

The long weekend over, it's back to work. I have a new girl in one of my classes. The other two girls in the class had chosen the English names "Candy" and "Sandy," so I tried to name this one "Mandy," to complete the set, but she decided on "Olivia" instead.

At long last, I'm going to be a published author! I've done a couple of freelance writing projects for roleplaying game companies, but both projects got hung up with all sorts of delays for years. Finally, three years later, Clockworks Games is finally going to publish Asylum: Eastern Seaboard, to which I contributed a section on post-apocalyptic Montreal. I wonder if Grey Ghost Publishing is every going to publish the FUDGE sourcebook that I helped write for them. I don't even know if they still have my email address to get in touch with me if they do. I've sort of given up on ever getting money from them. Freelance RPG writing is not a good career choice, for anyone considering it. It pays fairly well (3 cents US a word, so if you're a fast writer, like me (500-1000 words an hour; the writing, not just the typing), you can get about 15-30$ an hour), but most companies only pay you when they actually publish... and small companies tend to take years from conception to printing.

You know, I'm starting to get worried about my memory.

I've always been bad with names. I'll typically remember any of a number of other details about a person (their favorite color is purple, they own a Rottweiler, they play softball every weekend) before I'll remember their name. I've tried the tactic of verbally repeating someone's name in their presence several times (if possible without seeming weird) with fairly good results. However, bottom line, I'm bad with names.

Lately, though, it's more than names. Someone tells me something, five minutes later, it's gone, unless I make an effort to remember. For instance, I was at midnighter's last night. His wife had cooked us all dinner, partly in celebration of my new job. We'd eaten, had watched a DVD, and were down in the basement computer room when midnighter called down to say that one of their cats had gotten into my glass of tea and had been drinking from it.

Why the cat was drinking unsweetened tea, I don't know. Why midnighter didn't take the good-host step of removing the glass from the coffee table after he'd discovered the cat drinking from it, I don't know.

But not three minutes later, I was back upstairs, and unthinkingly took a drink of the cat-contaminated tea.

Braunbeck said, "You really need to learn to retain things, Lucy." He's partly frustrated because he'll start talking to me while I'm typing or in the middle of something else, and I won't hear him. At all. I hyper-focus on tasks and block everything else out, so if anyone starts talking to me it takes me a few seconds to realize I'm being addressed.

I don't like being this spacy. I wish I knew what the problem was, if I'm deficient in some vitamin or need more sleep or different sleep or what. I've been a night owl -- the new job lets me continue that -- but maybe I shouldn't be. I don't smoke pot (or anything else) and my alcohol consumption is negligible. I'm not on any drugs, prescription or otherwise. I'd try ginkgo but for the fear of colchicine contamination (a common problem, from what I've read -- it caused my mom's hair to start falling out when she tried the herb a few years ago).

It could be genetic. It could be a side effect of being unemployed close to 11 months. It could be sunspots. It could be everything.

This couldn't be some kind of latent attention deficit disorder, could it?

Maybe I should try coffee, and see if that helps me keep track. My PDA is very useful for preserving the bits that fall through the steel sieve of my mind, but I'd rather be able to fill in the gaps on my own.


2008 Edit: As it turned out, I had undiagnosed hypothyroidism. All hail Synthroid!

After approximately a year of searching and testing various schemes, I had finally worked out how to change the product key on my illbegotten (read: pirated) copy of Microsoft Windows XP Pro. Immediately preceeding this was my discovery of a valid Microsoft corporate key which hadn't been hog-tied down with a "this software is pirated" product ID, of which there are two:


In fact I happened upon a list of about 200 Microsoft corporate product keys, a few of which I'd recognized from the months I'd spent looking for them, but ultimately finding nothing. The product keys I found did work, but you couldn't install any service packs or make any kind of significant upgrades to the operating system while you were using them.

So, yesterday, I found that cache of valid keys. The first one I tried worked. I selected the one I was to use, deactivated my copy of Windows XP Pro, rebooted, and entered the new (apparently valid) product key. When XP finally dumped me back onto the desktop, I activated it ("by telephone," of course) and all seemed well. I checked the internal XP product ID and it was not on the list of pirated IDs, in fact it didn't even come close to resembling one of them except in format or syntax.

"What next?" my apoplexied brain demanded, so I fired up MSIE (before you poke me with sharp sticks, I normally use Phoenix), and hit, to download and install the lengthily-titled Microsoft Windows XP Professional Service Pack 1 Express. (Whew!) About 67% into the installation process, my ever-benevolent computer (most likely the motherboard, which is failing and is going to be replaced later this week) decided to crash right at that moment. I was unsurprised, but also nonplussed. Crashes are no fun at the best of times; when you're installing a new part of an operating system, a crash means that you'll probably end up having to format the drive the OS is on and reinstall the damnable operating system.

Which is...


...what I had to do.

One would think such a task simple! But no, sir! This is Microsoft we're dealing with here! Pirated Microsoft software, in fact! Suffice it to say, I waited around for an hour while the format-and-install scheme ran through and hung on 53% of installing some probably useless Visual Basic DLL.

At that point, I'd had enough. I got dressed, put on my paratrooper combat boots, and my eleven-year-old black leather motorcycle jacket and leapt into my car, gunning the engine. The tires squealed as I pulled out of my parking lot. I was going to ...


Yes. My old arch-nemesis, Wal*Mart. I knew as well as they did that they would be the only place in the three Parishes that would be open at 7:30AM on a Sunday morning. Upon arrival, I squealed into a handicapped spot near the entrance and took off running towards the innards of cultureless megacorporationland. I walked inside and grabbed a hand basket. I started whistling a jaunty tune, hoping to menace whoever might question my mission. I had to get to the electronics department!

I tore through seemingly unending rows of Middle America's dresser drawers; bras, panties, gowns, footed pyjamas, slippers, pantyhose, and garter belts (at Wal*Mart? I idly pondered) flew past my periperheral vision as I cut corners on my way to the software subdepartment, near where the PlayStation2 and PC games are kept.

And there it was. The last one. It was on the top shelf, grinning smugly at me from behind its lucite casing and $99.88 price tag. I stepped on a short stack of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen VHS releases, and grabbed my prize. Microsoft Windows XP Home Edition. I made for the checkout lines with all speed, except for a stop along the way to pick up a bottle of Coke and an Energizer 2032 battery for my motherboard. After I paid for it all, I returned with all haste and the speed of the gods to my apartment, some 15 miles distant. And there, I remove the Microsoft Windows XP Home Edition from its pleasant-enough box, and slammed the dervish into one of my CD drives, where it began installing itself.

And it was good.

The moral of this story is, well, Sonny Jim, sometimes software piracy drives a man to adventure. Otherwise, he's left with plenty of pirated software, don't get me wrong here, boy. But he's also got to understand once in his life, Sonny Jim, just once; you've got to buy a retail copy of one of the easiest operating systems to pirate, just in case your comrades there can't get it for you.

Now let that be a lesson t' yuh!

Woke up later than I wanted to today. At about 0500 hrs. or so. Mr. X was not pleased at all. I had to get on the plane to Bolivia at precisely 0530 hrs. I've only ever been late once. Being a mercenary does not mean that lateness can be condoned.

I knew from the mission briefing that I'd be in the jungles for a week or more, so I brought enough ammo and provisions to last me for whatever time I'd be spending in the bush. Gotta think smart in my line of work. Yep, that's right. I've got plenty of ammo, but no true friends, not ones I'd trust with my life. It's very cut-throat way out here, but I live through it. I always make it through and come home. I'm proud of myself for that.

Today's target was a cocaine kingpin. I got him. It didn't take me long to breach his outer defenses, so I had reinforcements come in, after I did the deed, as it were, and pretty much waited for evac.

A normal day over here.

Last night, my fraternity had their annual elections. In the past, we've attempted to hold all of our elections on one night, which means that even if we start at 5pm or so, it still takes all night. Well, we started at 6. When we were kicked out of the building at 10pm, we had only elected 3 officers (out of seven), and one of those ran uncontested. The rest will be done next week.

So anyway, the moral of the story is that Jews talk too much and can never decide on anything. Another moral is that if something is long and painful, get it all done in one night. The fact that I have to deal with this again next week is really upsetting.

What can I say? Two Jews, four opinions.

You can feel it before you even get in the building. The sound, the energy and the people dressed in black. Last night I saw a metal/hardcore/punk rock show. It was the band System Failure's last show and they had it packed. With six bands waving their flags before them, each one rocked the place making sure we knew that System Failure was dead and these were the eulogies. I am a fairly calm person, but I don't go to shows like this very often (even though I love them) and I hate being in crowds. I even hate being in Wal-mart for too long. I can tell you the place was packed. Added to the mix of hot bodies, sweat and tears was smoke and alcohol. The place was called the Ranch Bowl. It's a bowling alley/ hard rock/ punk rock venue.

Just a year and a half ago I realized how much I loved the dark, loud, and energetic atmosphere of the punk rock scene. I try to go to a lot of shows, but no matter where I go I stick out like a sore thumb.

1. I don't wear black, I sometimes wear yellow, or pink.

2. I don't have my hair spiked, colored or long.

Not that either of these are a requirement to be punk rocker, but it helps you not look like a preppie trying to be a punk rocker. I just talk, dress and act like me, because I believe that's who I am. The thing I always love though is to go to a show with my friends. It's like you form a bond together when you are out there moshing and banging heads. None of my friends showed up to this one though, so it wasn't as fun. Yet, I still thoroughly rocked my face off.

Why is it that cable companies are incapable of providing decent service?

For the past week I have watched as my expensive cable television service offered by RCN/Starpower has degraded to the point where I can no longer watch my local channels. Numerous requests for service have failed to fix the problem. A technician was dispatched on Saturday, forcing me to wait home all day for him to show up, but apparently he didn’t think it was necessary to come up to the apartment and check to see if his efforts actually fixed my cable.

This is an insane amount of time to waste on fixing a television reception problem.

I’m not what you would consider a “couch potato,” or a TV junkie. All I want is my local channels and the 24-hour news networks. I watch a total of five television shows on a regular basis -- Buffy, Angel, Miracles, 24 and Alias -- plus news, a lot of news. If I was able to get these shows with an antenna, then I would dispense with this cable business altogether.

Being infinitely tougher than I am, Pantaliamon called to complain yesterday, getting us a credit for each day we’ve gone without service. If only she was tough enough to get them to fix the problem, but I fear no one is capable of that.

Ah, well. It’s not like it’s really that big of a deal, but it’s irritating.

After a series of marathon Photoshop sessions last week at work, my hands have begun doing peculiar things. Fingers going numb, wrists popping painfully with every motion. I’m terrified of what will happen if I have a repetitive stress injury -- my whole livelihood is dependent on my ability to type. Maybe that’s why I obsess over my cable television reception, ignoring the real problems. It’s impossible to conceive of what I’d do for a living if I didn’t have the use of my hands.

I wouldn’t even be able to write. Now there’s a scary thought.

I was listening to the radio the other day, and that guy with the deep voice on NPR who’s always talking about the Midwest (you know the guy, don’t you?) was talking about how easy it can be sometimes, and that no one ever talks about it. He said that the reason people stay married is in hope of finding that easiness. I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but he was kind of rambling, and I wasn’t paying rapt attention. But it struck me, because I feel so far from that easiness, but I keep going, hoping that the uphill struggle of existence will flatten out, and maybe run downhill for a while, so I can coast.

I think I’ve been hanging around with the existentialists for too long. I am starting to believe that nothing matters. At least, that nothing matters to anyone else, which amounts to the same thing. If nothing matters to anyone else, then what does it matter what matters to me? It won’t matter that people matter to me, if I don’t mean anything to them. That terrible knot of matters is weighing down on me.

How much do I owe anyone? If I don’t matter to anyone, do they deserve anything from me? How sacred are the secrets of a nihilist? Trying to do right by people has gotten me absolutely nowhere; doing right by someone who believes in nothing seems kind of pointless, doesn’t it?

The problem is, I don’t want to become a nihilist. I want to believe in something. I don’t want to be empty inside, because I’m afraid it will agree with me too well, and I’ll stop living entirely. I have to believe in people, in love, in friendship. I have to fight this apathy somehow. I’m too afraid I’ll miss something if I give up.

Listening to Nine Inch Nails usually cheers me up when I get like this, because it makes me realize I could never possibly be as fucked up as Trent Reznor is, but I’m getting tired of wallowing in misery. Maybe things will get better in the Spring. Winter has never been good for me: my grades always dip, I always have a cold, I begin to slip into depression. I need a change of scene. This might be the universal teenage “get the hell out of this awful town” impulse, I don’t know. I just need some sun.

Looking back, I realize I haven’t answered any of the questions I raised. I can’t answer them now, because I don’t know. I guess I have to keep slogging; maybe I’m almost over the hump.

Fucking hell, Michael Jackson just completely exposed himself on British TV, as in he just showed the real person, it wasn’t an act at all. My original view of Michael Jackson was just that he was a bit kooky (love that word) who wore the same shit for 20 years, did the same shitty dance he did 20 years ago, and had a fucked up face, and was almost asexual, and was crazy, especially after he dangled his masked baby from a 5th floor Berlin hotel room…… a joke.

Then I started watching this documentary on him on ITV at 9pm, and yeah, he’s clearly fucking mad, yeah yeah, he acts like a child, yeah yeah he’s obviously had more plastic surgery then the 2 nose operations he says he’s had.

5 minutes later, erm what’s this, having kids stay over at the house, well I guess it could take all day playing on his personal fairground, oh and then you have the inhouse ZOO as well, yeah you might not have time to go home, would be late wouldn’t it, make sense to stay over, yeah I can handle that, no crime there, oh, what’s this, having kids in his bedroom, oi oi what’s going on here then! Why the fuck would a 44 year old man have children sleeping in his bedroom? I ask myself. Well, the kids like to be with him, they ASK to come and sleep in his bedroom, it’s being friends.

FUCKING FRIENDS????!!!!! What the fuck is a 44 year old man being “friends” with a 12 year old???? There’s something fishy going on there. Oh Michael retorts, it’s the best thing you can do for company, to give up your bed for them, to have them in your bed, and position yourself with them. Oh right, so it’s not sexual, okay okay, Im feeling it, Yeah if it’s a double bed there's gonna be some space between them. Then Jacko says they cosy up! What the fuck am I talking about???? A 44 year old man, snuggling up with a 12 year old boy, a whole fucking NUMBER of young boys, oh it’s with their parents permission is it, and you fucking know why it’s with their parents permission, because they’re probably getting paid $500,000 to keep stum about it and give their fucking permission, you think that makes it right?

Then I thought, this guy must be worth million upon million of US Greenback. He can go anywhere, do anything, surround himself with minders and lawyers, and is almost invincible, he’s still inherently popular and accepted by the mainstream media, loved by loads of girls which I just don’t understand one bit, this guy lives in his own world, created and moulded totally by himself, like having the ultimate virtual reality machine. He can do no real wrong, it’s just him being wacky, and the last time I looked, being wacky ain’t a fucking crime!

Then he said that his wife felt sorry for him, and said he should be a Daddy, and deserved to be a daddy, more then she deserved to be a mother, and left him, and wanted nothing to do with the children (apparently, according to Jacko), and she was sorry for him because he used to walk around craddling little dolls, oh really Michael, and you think that’s natural for a man of your age, to walk around carrying fucking dollies, because your maternal instinct is driving you insane. What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Oh and then, he says with all the sincerity in the world, it is his dream, his dream yeah, to adopt two children from every continent in the world, one boy and one girl. Now that’s not just wacky, that’s fucking insane, that is one sandwich short of a picnic hamper, no fuck that, that’s forgetting the food, and the picnic hamper, and the forgetting the car for actually getting to the picnic sight, and you realise you’ve fucking walked there, with nothing! In fucking sane. Why Michael? Why do you want to do that? Why don’t you do what every other motherfucker would do in your position, and fuck as many women as you want, drive some fast fucking cars, you know collect a few Ferraris. Buy your bog standard millionaires mansion in Beverley Hills, forget all this ranch business, and fucking having a fairground and a zoo, that’s not what a man does with millions of dollars, you buy a fucking nightclub, you buy a fucking restaurant, buy a fucking yacht that goes 50 knots even though its bigger then a fucking house, but no my friend, no zoo, put the elephants down. And whatever you do, cut down on the hoards of disadvantaged kids you invite to visit and stay over….in your bedroom!

But then I think, hold up, he sincerely believes that nothing sexual is going on, he comes across as completely disinterested in sex, to the point where you wonder if he knows it even exists, like it’s not natural to him. He pretty much convinced me that nothing fishy was going on, although he did sit next to a boy on camera who claimed Michael Jackson had saved him from cancer and was his best friend, and they sat holding hands, and saying they had shared a bed, and hugged each other in it, he admitted this, and his justification was that they were friends, and he loved children. Now come on, we gotta all agree that that is pure fucking peaodopile talk, there’s no two ways about it, that is pretty fucking disgusting, even if that kid don’t wake up with semen dribbling down their leg, that's just wrong, that shouldn’t happen.

But it’s acceptable, and he isn’t arrested, because he’s a “wacky” megastar, and because people are paid off with ridiculous sums, just so he can do it, he is untouchable. He is the ultimate evil comic character, Jesus Christ, I’m scaring myself. Am I saying what I think I’m saying? Michael Jackson is the most baddest baddy in the world, like that baddy in Inspector Gadget who could never be caught, was he a fucking alien or something? He must have been one rich motherfucker, where do you think he made his money from, the prostitution game or something? Tell you what, that was one smart motherfucking dog wasn’t it…Brain.

That’s the melody to funky town..........combination to what?

You know what I’m saying

About a month ago, during the University break, my mother came home from the primary school where she works (she's a teacher). Her school had finally got its classrooms networked and connected to the Internet. She complained that even though she had been given a new school email address she couldn't yet access it from home, because the IT department hadn't given her the details yet.

She had her username and password already, so I reckoned that all she needed was the email server address. Her description convinced me it was an IMAP server the school was using. So I tried using the domain of the email as the mail-server address. There was an IMAP server at the right port, so I put her details into Outlook Express (Yes, we use Windows at home), and tried to download her emails for her.

It didn't work, and complained about a bad user/pass combination. That wasn't a huge surprise, to be honest. Networked machines have passwords for a whole range of services, and my mother didn't know which pair was for email access. We tried a couple of other possibilities (e.g. full email address as username), but with no success. We gave up, and decided to wait until the IT department gave specific instructions.

That was a month ago. Today I got a call from my step-father telling me that I'd been reported to the police for hacking.

Understandably, I found this pretty funny at first. Then I found out my Mum had also been accused and reported, and she was pretty upset. It seems that she mentioned to a colleague in IT that we tried and failed to collect her email from home. The next thing we know is that somewhere along the line, someone reported this as an attempt to gain unauthorised access to a PC under the Computer Misuse act (I presume).

It's clearly ludicrous. Somebody attempts to connect to a server on which they have an account, attempting to access their own account, using a standard protocol on a publicly accessible port, visible to the Internet. If that's illegal than the entire Internet is illegal.

I don't really know what happens next. Will the police interview me, or phone me? Will I be arrested? Will nothing at all happen? My logical self suspects that the 'nothing' option is the strongest. The police must have hundreds of unauthorised access attempts reported a day, and most of them will be the real deal; industrial espionage, script kiddies, spammers and the like. A quick look at our server logs shows that people like these try to hit us all the time. Hopefully, the police will be able to say straight off: "That's not illegal; don't be silly".

Another possibility is that they'll follow it up a bit. This would be a bit of an arse, really. It would involve phonecalls, statements and stuff like that. And then they'd drop it at that point.

What actually worries me is that I probably won't know what they decide. The police don't phone you up to say "Oh, by the way, we just thought we'd like to let you know you haven't committed a crime". I'll have to wait it out and see if anything happens.

It wasn't the school who contacted the police, it was an IT solutions company -- you know, network installation and all that. They're in the high-tech business, and they don't know the difference between using the Internet and 'hacking'. It's a farce.

I've just realised that this probably constitutes a statement of some sort, but I don't care.

Oh, and my flatmates elem_125 and Heschelian have an odd sense of humour about this whole thing; see for their contribution to this mess.

As I struggle to overcome the turmoil inside myself, nature openly corresponds with the pain in my soul. The tempest rails outside. My ears are sore from the cold wind which beat about my head as I walked the hill back to my residence hall. Small gusts of snow bit at my cheeks and stung my eyes, forcing yet more tears to trickle down my face, burning my freezing skin as I fought to avoid both pains.

This weather has everyone feeling the agony of winter, yearning for April when sunny days are more prevalent than the prevailing winds. Yet despite the suffering the tumult causes me, I cannot help but feel comforted by the rushing wind and the bitter cold. It feels like home, somehow, although my body protests any such idea. Maybe it reminds me of some happier emotional time when the weather was similar, or perhaps something wonderful is on its way into my life. I prefer to hope for the latter, and for a moment the barren feeling of despair dissipated and I smiled into the wind. I can feel it in the atmosphere: something is coming.

Almost as though the wind is speaking only to me, I know that extraordinary things are about to happen to me, things that will make up for the miserable events that have lately had me feeling beaten, destroyed. I will be born anew, fresh with life and love and nothing can take that away from me.

Nothing can stop me now.

I broke up with a boy on Sunday, someone I thought I'd be with for a long time. Last night we called it off forever, no chance of getting back together. I need this, and yet it hurts like someone stuck a knife in my ribs, twisted it, removed it, then left me lying in a ditch to bleed to death. Writing seems pointless and whiny right now, but it was something I had to do.

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