You know, that moment when you start typing, when you start groooooovin', not working at it, let the blog do the work for a change. This thing's been buggin' me, beggin' me, asking me please feed the hole, your publikum is waiting on you, Rube. But you know what, Blog? I'm fucking busy, whiny ass. I've got things to do, people to meet, bills to pay and letters to send. T'aint room here for two jefes, so one of us needs to get a-buggin, and I do believe that would be me. So, now, as long as I'm the one doing the buggin', you be the one doing the list'nin'. Now you listen to me, Blog, and you listen good. Velociman has a boil on his choad, Acidman's got a bug up his ass, and Lousiana ain't feeling so good his damn self. But me? I'm doing jes fine. Rube done took his blood pressure yesterday, after speed-snorting a liter of coffee, and it was 106 over fucking 60. I was on my way to work on a fuckin' Sunday, hands shaking like Katherine Hepburn's favorite vibrator, and you just sat here like a bump on a log waiting for it to find you.

Write yourself, you ungrateful little fuck. What's that? Oh, yeah, anytime, pussy, anytime.

Well, I guess it's about time to stop smoking. I found a brown spot under my tongue today. I've probably got jaw cancer. Which probably means they'll need to cut off the lower half of my face, and reduce me to a freak whose tongue just hangs out of a jagged hole under his nose, wagging impotently with every attempt to speak, unable to articulate a sound, just emmitting some sort of excited whistle of gratitude when it's time for my mush.

Fuck, how did it come to this? I'm only thirty-five. My grandfather smoked for 60 years and only quit because he died. Otherwise, he'd be right here next to me, hooting appreciatively through a tube sticking out of his chest, then we'd go outside and pick up some hookers. Sleep well, Grandpa Arry, you deserved everything you got.

Jottings from yesterday's bar napkin, from the daily evening meeting-of-one:

I'm the chair of your misfortune, 4 legs of strength compared to your two. I loathe your cushions.
There are 3 people you should never lie to: Your lawyer, your doctor, and your accountant.
Your bits of SuSE architecture, you will not get in there. You will stare in amazement, at the amount of trust there.

Unvollständig.
Speth was eyeing my unit.
With Windows,you've got a whole other set of problems. I am the leader of the technik. Keep your fucking hands off of them. Dicknose.
There's no denying it: Things have been better.
Rsync software: No network access. How many revolutions? (backup rev's)(under normal usage)?
Why do I busy myself with such nonsense?
I'm surrounded by freaks and losers, traitors, liars, bitchy little people I'm supposed to give a fuck about.
Perfect coif, unimpeachable ascot. Saaaaah-weeeeet.
Wearing a green ascot on St. Patrick's day is probably not the best way to keep from getting pinched, I fear.
In a few years, I'll look back on these days and think, "What the fuck was that all about?"
Jeepers, I'm tired.
I'm tired of being tired. But I'm more tired of being broke.
Man, I guess TCP/IP, in retrospect, scales pretty well.
I can't believe I actually used to be an IPX bigot.
I also can't believe I used to own a class C subnet, namely 38.221.9.0/24. Merc, Fred, Medusa, Thor, Zeus, NS, man oh man, those were some days!
Here's some helpful advice for the ladies out there: If you're ugly, show some tit! C'mon, it's a date!
People sit around and compare their tools...
Tomorrow, I'm going to have a blister under my fingernail. Damn.