The fact that there exists someone more x than you does not mean that you are not x.
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There’s a section of Barret Avenue (on my bus ride) that is apparently being cleaned up by a volunteer group, or has pledged to reduce its emissions, or something. As part of some city PR rep’s bright idea, they’ve demarcated it with signs as “The Green Mile.”
Which is a nickname for the walk to the electric chair.
I should mention that one of the reasons my resume is changing is that the thing I talked about late Wednesday night? Totally happened. Bam!
Its name was Ivangrad
Last night I updated my resume for the first time since 2003, since this month is the first time it’s actually changed. I wrote it as HTML rather than a Word file, because I don’t like the latter, even if it would guarantee me the magic resume qualification of fitting everything on one page. My career counselors in college were psychotic about this, but since I’m not mailing any hard copies at the moment, I don’t think it matters for this one.
I uploaded the resume to the site, but I’m not going to link it, since it reveals my physical location. Maybe if you’re mad foxy clever you’ll figure out where it is. And no, I’m not getting a new job any time soon.
The point of this entry was that I only realized this morning that the color scheme I used for the document was the same as the exterior paint on the first house where I lived, in Georgetown.
One of the nice things about my site’s log files: I now know empirically that xorph.com plays in Peoria.
Let’s see if LJ picks it up this time
In case you can’t read the text on the second one (which would be the back), it’s the Devil’s Dictionary 2.0 definition of “blog,” so of course this would be pending Mr. Knauss’s approval.
Seriously, if I got a couple dozen of these printed up, would anybody else be into it? I know my bitter, self-mocking iconoclasm is somewhat uncommon within my circle of readers, but there is a time and place for the ironic acknowledgement of one’s own participation in an overhyped and crass medium of expression. Like, say, concerts.
It occurs to me that I really don’t care about my GPA. This is literally the first time in my life, or at least in my living memory, I’ve been able to say that. I was always ashamed of my Cs in Handwriting, and since fourth grade I’ve been straining for As (and, since junior year of high school, usually getting Bs). Right now I want to get through my two classes, finish a project and graduate. All that matters is passing.
Of course, that project may be the lurker below. I had a solid setup with a professor at the beginning of the semester; it sounded like work I’d enjoy, and there was even compensation involved. All we had to do was wait for the company that wanted the code to sign off on the contract.
It’s March 10. Guess whether they’ve done so. Guess also whether the aforementioned professor appears to care, beyond a little guilt.
I’m going in tomorrow to talk to my advisor and find out what I need to do to get the DBCAC site approved as my final project. It’s for a nonprofit organization, and the work is easily as complicated as what I would have been doing otherwise; I’ll even write a paper about it if they want one. The quiet assumption is that MS students get a rubber stamp on their project requirement by building a professor’s resume, but I tried that and it didn’t happen. I’m not going to let someone else’s short attention span keep me here another semester. School has ceased to interest me, and I’m going to be finished in May, one way or another.