As seen camwise, the dog has ceased to destroy my copies of Halo 2 (I bought the one with the aluminum case) and occupies most of her days now staring out the window. Eventually she will evolve wings, and yea, the people will learn fear of the Hawkpuppy of Broadway.
Category: People
From a discussion of finding Dracula’s voice in the Anacrusis LJ-feed comments comes this quasifilk gem of Ben’s:
“You know perfectly well the nature of doctor-patient privilege, Vlad,” says Van Helsing. “But–“
“I have her power of attorney since she was declared missing,” says Mina. “Go ahead, doctor.”
Dracula looks at her sharply, then back to Van Helsing. “Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula, Dracula.”
Van Helsing sighs. “It’s Ms. Murray’s discretion. In here, please.”
He gestures them into a file room and rummages through drawers. “Polycythemia vera,” he says, “a chronic condition. Simply put, the young lady produces too many erythrocytes; circulation is slowed, bruises come easily. Treatment of choice is–“
“Dracula,” says Dracula.
After a week and a half of being a terrible brother, I fixed Caitlan’s blog.
This is mostly for my own future reference, but the apples I found labelled “Mountaineer” at Whole Foods are just slightly superior to Fujis in every way. A little more tart and crisper, with thicker skin, less wax and a better texture. They asymptotically approach the quality of apples from my grandmother’s orchard, which is probably the best any commercial apple is going to do. Unfortunately, they seem to be available only in season, so it looks like I’ll be back to eating Fujis (which are, to be fair, far superior to any other cultivar) in a month.
Data point: since I started eating roughly four to five apples a week–something like a year and a half ago–I have not been sick. Magic? Or coincidence?
How to write this post.
- Your package has finally arrived. Open it. It is a refurbished MacBook!
- Boot it up to see if it works. It does! Have Maria show you neat tricks in OS X.
- Snip open the mylar packets of RAM and new hard drive that you bought to make this thing more than a toy. Crack the case and immediately fall prey to the shit hell middle screw of death.
- Break Maria’s screwdriver trying to get it out. Yes, the screwdriver. Don’t even scratch the screw.
- Become very irritable and take it out on the dog. Buy more screwdrivers and, in a fit of bad decision-making, WD-40.
- Screw will suddenly decide to pop out about six hours later. Replace hard drive and RAM. Upgrade mood.
- Reinstall OS X. Install Boot Camp. Try to set up partition for Windows.
- You have erased OS X! GOTO 7
- Obtain Microsoft Windows™ XP Professional patented encrypto-mathic secure Protectivation Key™ by advanced method of asking a couple dudes.
- Install Windows. Accompany Maria to hospital (she is working; note that in current state of health she should possibly be a resident). Find Wifi. Post.
- Profit!
My dignity, like a bottle of Gauthier ’88, shatters on the prow of Alison’s new blog.
I have whiplash now! Great! Dammit! This is from about eight seconds of headbanging during “Blister in the Sun” at Erin and Stephen’s wedding. I used to be able to dance like that for hours, and now my limit is less than eight seconds.
I guess having ruined my spinal column in college is worth some cred. Maybe.
This is going to seem unprovoked but go with it
Who the fuck sent me the creepy email with the talking monkey?
Update 2307 hrs: Ken did.
Stephen and Erin got married! To each other! Stephen’s pastor talked about his webcomic in his toast! Stephen wins. (And now has to hope none of his grandparents remember to search for it.)
Erin Polgreen, we failed to intersect at brunch! Email me?
Live the good life on the offworld colonies
Think of somebody you knew briefly, for a week or two, maybe one night, maybe a month: a camp counselor or a host sister, a bad date or that guy who dropped out before midterms. Think of somebody you owe.
You’ve got one afternoon and one present, no larger than a garment box, to give this person. You have a table at a restaurant anywhere (except Paris) in the world.
Where do you eat lunch? What’s in the box?