Our rabbit Theo died mysteriously this morning. He was cute.

every day, you carried 'round
four fat fluffy rabbit's feet
but even so, your luck still ran out young
I wish you knew how much we loved
our grumpy little friend, with bouncing
ears and twitchy nose and dreadlocked bum.
bye bye, funny bunny. we won't forget you.

He really did have a dreadlocked bum sometimes. If his fur got muddy there, he couldn't or wouldn't clean it completely. Also, he looked funny when he cleaned his ears.

In my last daylog I wrote about my Crohn's Disease flare-up and how it was slowing me down. Here we are a week later and I am no better. I have not eaten in thirteen days. I spend most of my time in bed sleeping. Last week I only made it to work for seven hours over the course of three days and didn't go to a single class. I've been e-mailing my homework in to professors.

I've had two stories due for classes in the past two days, one fiction and one nonfiction. I wrote these while I was medicated with my painkillers. Surprisingly, I think the works turned out pretty well for me being so completely out of it. I'd like to thank NinjaPenguin for proofreading my work and making sure it makes sense to people who are not medicated.

Hopefully in the coming days my health will improve. I could wake up tomorrow feeling perfectly fine, or this flare-up could last for weeks. In 1996 I spent three months in this condition.

To all of you out there reading this, I implore you: go out and do something. Hang out with friends. Eat a really good sandwich. Go to work. Attend your classes. Do all the things I have difficulty doing or just can't do right now. You do those things for me, and I'll lay in bed and watch reruns of Saturday Night Live and Late Night with Conan O'Brien for you. That sounds like a fair deal, right?

Halloween is my favorite holiday. It contains no obligations, just wild nighttime reveling. One can dress as one wants, revealing fantasies or hidden natures, stay out as late as one wants in the newly cool evening, and get candy from strangers. What could be better? Relatives do not show up at the door expecting dinner or gifts. There’s no church service involved (not for most people, anyway.) The Rocky Horror soundtrack can be heard playing all over town.

Our new boss at work asked a colleague if he was dressing up for Halloween, and he pulled himself into a rigid posture and replied with a straight face that he certainly was not, because it’s a pagan celebration. The boss turned to me to get a reaction, to find out if he was joking or not (he was), and I said “hell, yeah, that’s what makes it my favorite.” I’m not sure which response surprised him more.

Anyway. Halloween starts early at my house. By mid September, I’m thinking about costumes. By the first of October, we are planning the annual pilgrimage to the pumpkin patch. I celebrate Halloween the way other people do Christmas—I’ve been known to carve pumpkins for everyone on my block. The ten days of Halloween. I hang the ghost in the tree outside, I put the skeleton on the front door. I roast pumpkin seeds. Lots of pumpkin seeds.

The patch. It’s an annual tradition. We round up friends, neighbors, and family and drive an hour out to the country, to a farm that has hay rides and hot apple cider, corn mazes and a petting zoo. It is impossible to dress correctly for this trip. If you dress warmly, it will be sunny and hot; dress for mud, and the boots that you haven’t worn since last fall will give you blisters. Dress for a sunny afternoon, and the wind will come up, smelling vaguely of woodsmoke. Fortunately, you’ll be too busy with the pumpkins (Punkin punkin punkin!) to care.

One friend picks pumpkins for their stems. The smallest in our party always wants a HUGE pumpkin; the only restraint is that he must be able to carry it himself. Here’s a tip: if you find a pumpkin that you might like, that you are considering, don’t put it down. Someone else is sure to pick it up, and then you’ll be sure that it was the one, and no other pumpkin will measure up.

I always dress up. I own two witch's hats and a black velvet cape that I made years ago. Some years, I have one costume for the day and another for the evening. (I'm a teacher, so I can get away with costumes at work; in fact, I have a box of costumes in my classroom, to lend out, should the occasion arise.) When my hair was long, I braided it and alternated between being Pippi Longstocking and Wednesday Addams. After I cut my hair, I was Velma from Scooby Doo. Last year I was a ghost, in layers and layers of white gauze, and I refused to talk all morning. I just pointed to the blackboard with my long, white gloved fingers. Amazingly, my classes made it through without too much chaos. This year I will be Professor McGonnagall, of Harry Potter fame. I was searching in a consignment store yesterday for just the right brooch, and was amazed at the number of people who were just starting to think about What To Be For Halloween.

When I was a kid, I went in for the contests. I bobbed for apples, I estimated the number of candy corn in the jar, I carved jack ‘o lanterns. I won. I came home with jars of candy corn and prizes for my pumpkins. In college I made a John LennonImagine”-style pumpkin; the carved lines of long stringy hair, the round glasses, the sharp nose. It was one of my all time favorites. Last year I found an oddly heart-shaped pumpkin, turned it pointy-side up, and carved The Grinch. This year, I found a very square pumpkin—a blockhead—and it will become Charlie Brown. Every year, I carve one pumpkin with a big spider web and a black widow in the middle. Need any carving tools? I’ve got plenty to spare.

It seems daylog is becoming a daily event.

Hope noone minds! But I am prepared for the onslaught of downvotes!

I have the feeling I'm getting way behind studywise, and should probably do something about it, but what really happens if I fail. Sweet bugger all really, there's no real consequences, I'll still be the same old waste of space as before. Not that this is a pity node or anything.

And most people have already lost all faith in me, so what do they care!

Damnit, this is getting a little too similar to a livejournal to me.

Maybe I should just throw my arms in a huge display of angst. Well, I've only got one more year of being a teenager, might as well use it while I can.

Lets throw in some geek eh. Today I played Battlefield 1942. I need a new pc now, more than ever.

I had an interesting encounter with a bike messenger yesterday. The whole thing started as I was making my way to a food court in a place called Peachtree Center here in Atlanta. It was lunchtime and me and a couple of guys from work headed over there for some not-so-authentic Japanese food.

One of my favorite reasons for going to lunch at that particular food court is that there is a lot of eye-candy. Hence, I am always looking around and very aware of the people around me in that part of town.

On our way into the food court, I noticed a group of bike messengers gathered next to the escalator. I didn't pay much attention to them and they didn't really pay much attention to me. Little did I know, one of them was a complete retard.

About ten minutes into my meal I noticed two (a male and a female) of the bike messengers coming down the escalator into the food court. I don't know if he was showing off for the girl or if he was really just an elitist asshole, but the bike messenger proceeded to yell to everyone in the food court the following information: "The food you are eating is the reason you are all dying from heart disease."

My initial thought was, "thanks for the update, assclown". Luckily, my friend Jeff was having the same thoughts yet he made his vocal. Jeff is a really cool guy. One of my favorite people at work. He is actually older than my parents but he is one of those product of the sixties adults. He has lots of stories about drug use and wild parties yet he has an MBA and works for a major corporation. He also has no qualm with letting people know exactly what he thinks.

Needless to say, most people were just annoyed and went back to eating. I would imagine the majority of them just shrugged it off as another stupid teenager who thinks he knows what is wrong with the world. I agreed with them but unfortunately my mind went into overdrive and I started thinking about what he said.

What kind of person thinks it is their right to proclaim medical advice and at the same time criticize people for their life choices? Maybe a doctor. Certainly not someone who has chosen bike messaging as a career. I guess that makes me the elitist asshole. I'm not sure what to think of the whole thing. Either way, the dumbfuck with the high and mighty complex then walked by with an ice-cream cone from Dairy Queen and completely contradicted his whole argument.

I've been thinking seriously about becoming an ad executive, just like someone out of a 1950s t.v. show. I grew up on Nick at Nite, and because of that, there's a special place in my heart for those employed in the media industry. There's Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, Bobby Wheeler from Taxi. Hot damn, their lives appeared so succesful to me. So I wanted to introduce my first idea for an ad campaign.

Lawyers. They need advertisements. I remember fondly 1-800-THE-LAW2, I would call the number and throw around the legalese catch phrases that dripped from their commericials like an infection. "I just had an auto accident, and the other driver didn't have auto insurance, help me 1-800-THE-LAW2, I need compensation." Needless to say they rarely found my joke funny.

But with the cutthroat atmosphere of law these days, (and I confess, I haven't watched t.v. seriously in years) (can one watch t.v. seriously?) -- but there needs to be a focus for niche markets. For example:

Does Mommy take the child support and spend it on mail order fondue sets?
At KinderCare, LLP we specialize in TykeLaw. We'll insure that your rights as a minor are upheld despite the nasty failings of your pathetic parents.

I think I've lost any chance of being funny here. I think I should put my tail back between my legs, crawl under the fence, and hang out in the neighbor's yard again. They've got a bird bath that could keep me hydrated for a week.

Darkening of the Light. In adversity It furthers one to be persevering.
The Art of Selling and Buying Time or Love is Severe Brain Damage

Mall: 10:19 am. Immediately I am bombarded by a woman in a windbreaker. She rushes up to me, moral justice flashing in her regularly dim eyes, lips pursed, face wrinkled into a permanent frown.

"Do you still have those calenders showing women's naked bottoms?" she says, in a self-righteous manner.

Of course we have them, as long as women have attractive pieces, this corporation will make a calender featuring those parts.

"Hot Buns?" I ask, hiding my smile. I will not reveal my utter amusement.

Her glasses are unstylish, her neon yellow and blue windbreaker tied around the waist of the jeans that are cut unrevealingly high and tapered at the lower leg, leading up to worn white and blue Reeboks. Her hair is short; mid facial level. An uninteresting cut. The kind of hair no one notices or remembers. Her woman companion is her clone, a bobble-headed marm. I can tell that these petite unattractive brunettes in thier mid-thirties are mothers. I can imagine their blank-eyed towheaded sprogs as their moms are standing irritatingly close to me, by the look of them I can tell without a doubt that they are surely avid frothing members of the PTA. These woman have never smoked a cigarette, let alone a joint and probably power-walk around this mall (instead of their respective suburban sectors) out of a paranoid fear of being raped.

I lead them over to a rack filled with calenders featuring girls in bathing suits, garter belts, and thongs. I pick up Hot Buns and display it to them. My pink lip gloss glistens, I am sweeter than candy.

"Hannah, look at this smut. This is disgusting. This is exploitation!"

Hannah, the dowdy old hag is appalled, "I can't believe that you display this kind of pornography (she says this with a little extra zesty Judgement in her voice) in clear view of children!"

I'm still holding Hot Buns. My pupils are pinpoints, if I could narrow my eyes just a little further, perhaps I could jab these sheltered beasts with them.

She sighs.

"Thank you." Shaking her head.

And I am quick to exclaim with horror and lack of sleep and lack of caffiene and lack of nicotine and lack of a decent job:

"Well are you going to buy the fucking thing or not!??"

Wrong response.

Their ruffled feathers are ruffled further and they briskly power walk away, swishing ther irritating arms from side to side.

A bad hair cut walks by and provides her damnable insight "Nice hair!".

I am grinding my teeth. I feel the urge to tear out my hair. To spit on the shiny gumball machine. I keep my saliva to myself. Such a display would be bad for customer service.

I'm angry because I'm in love and because the loudspeaker is playing "I Want to Hold Your Hand".

I want to be at the apartment pouring tequila in my naval and having him drink deeply from it.

A young black man walks by as I am scowling at calenders featuring God's little abominations, the Bichon Frise, and chewing my finger obsessively (a little trickle of blood running down my finger) and he says:

"Come on baby, it's not that bad." As he says this he does that snap and point at the same time thing and I'm tempted to whip the Bichon Frise calender at his head like a frisbee as he walks away, casually bumping along to some silent unknown beat.


Earlier, he took me for breakfast. One of those Mom and Pop things. One of those places that the same group of old men and women gather at every morning grasping at some semblance of a joyful life.

We ate and conversed and watched the traffic on Main Street.

I kept staring at his eyes; foolishly-madly-intoxicatingly-insanely-extremely-crazy-fucked-up in love with him. As he spoke, I could only think one thing; I would bleed for him.

Being around him makes me want to say sappy regurgitated lines that people in love always say to each other in romantic little places like this.

My heart beats for you.

Love is severe brain damage.

Dead or Alive

Brad Wong winning, exclaiming,
Have a drink, won't you?
But try putting into effect
What I told you again and again
and again and again...

You can't kick Jason, he'll just
grab your foot throw you down
toss you around mess you up
put you in the air,
and Kasumi finishes with a kick.

So sue me, I'm rappin' about X-Box,
I have a soft spot for video games
and other forms of geek entertainment
Bringin' us together
in Mike's basement
hardly a party,
consisting of the four of us,
hidden from light
Not fit for human consumption!

Starin' at the screen,
watching Gen Fu harnessing
the infinite mysticism of the universe.

But there is no feeling so sublime
as watching Zack's Thai Boxing
and no words so sweet
as his battle cry,
"It's bitchin!"


Well, another era has come to an end. Today was Nolan's last day at NetLojix. Actually, the era of Nolan the First has been fading for a long time. He assured me that he'll still see me from time to time, but given that we've only been together outside of work once or twice this year (and that he says many things that he does not follow up on), I won't hold my breath.

It's a darn good thing I have such a good friend in Edward, or I'd probably be a mess. Speaking of whom, another interesting thing happened today.

He has a friend of more than ten years who moved away from here about a year ago, and the last couple of months have seen them becoming estranged and bitter (to different degrees). Edward asked me to read an email conversation that they'd been having, and write to his friend giving my viewpoint of what was going on between them. Despite the fact that that seemed to be none of my business, I was glad to do it for Edward. I sent off an email at about one o'clock this morning. The major subtext of most of my points was that Edward was seriously interested in fixing their friendship, a point which didn't seem to have been getting across, and which his friend had said that he doubted.

At about 6 o'clock this evening, while Edward and I were at his desk, he received his copy of the reply to me. Having thought it intrusive of me to send my missive in the first place, I was quite surprised to see, while we read it together, that the first paragraph consisted of thanks to me for doing so, and kudos to Edward for asking me to. (Which, amazingly enough, Edward had predicted would be his reaction.) As we reached the end, Edward's phone rang — it was his friend, and they started talking things out. I left them to it and the next morning, Edward said much good communication had occurred, progress was made, and the repair of the friendship was ongoing after a very good start.

I was very pleased to have been a part of that.

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