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It froze two night ago, and by 'It,' I mean the big blue room. I'll step out to the stoop for a smoke, pulling scalding wind down pipes too scared to bleed, when the whine of the mecanical dogs called Air Conditioners begins to contract.

The Power Supplies, all three of them, feel it fastest- but not as quick as the crows. The big blue room in my brain confuses metholated tobaccoo and karoseen smoke, but the simulations reset themselves once the warble in the whine smooths out and the generators stop trembling and the Air Conditioners settle down for a good night's work.

That was two nights ago. Today is Tuesday, and I am bored.

Two weeks ago, the wallboards were the friendlist video displays you'd care to work with. Two nights ago, the helpdesk was kind enough to show me how to fix the kernal calls of a jailed Apache. It took 70 minutes, and then I was bored again.

Last night, helpdesk installed 2^3 new problems into my brain. The symatry was ruined however, when the last two tickets came into my queue unpaired- the others were all twins of some sort.

Zero and One were owned by the same luser.

Two and Three were the same bug.

Four and Five were tickets on the same box.

Six was a firewall.

Seven was...

Last night was fail; i couldn't solve a thing. I borked everything i touched, and barely managed to lash it back together before the sun came up and it was time to go home.

I left the luser langoring, and consoled myself by saying that he was probably too much of a luser to be offended. In truth, i was lost as wounded rabbit inside a fox-den. "Two things in life are infinate, and i'm not so sure about the other,"

The bug escaped me, but not before it toyed with my mind. Every obstruction between the bug and my mutant perceptions promised a revalations, but every clock-blasted second of newtons expended turned to slimy unreal shadows that quickly slank away in embaresment.

The box was a bitch- but maybe i didn't give her a chance. When you open a terminal onto your second-best choice of intersting topics for the evening, you have to expect to feel a little resentment. I suppose I could stop anthromophizing my machines, and the resentment would go away, but i just get so lonly sometimes.

The firewall called me a n00b, and then i hit it with a hammer until it showed me where the borken bits were and i passed it onto the day shift.

When seven came, i stopped working. i opened up the web comics, and the news feeds, and the humor agregators, and read and re-read seven until my eyes fell closed. And then I waited until it was time to go home.

A single, interesting, totally unique problem that i've never been exposed to before- and there were only 40 minutes left in my shift.

I went home and went to bed. I felt depressed. I woke up and read Snow Crash until I got to the part where Hiro sees Juanita inside the Black Sun. I felt sorry for myself.
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    bored bored

Tokyo and I

Tokyo is gray and lifeless, and Paris is still dark. urNavi and I are perched too far over the horizon to see Africa.

Who am I?

I really couldn't tell you. Names are just symbols and their interpretation was never standardized before it went into production. My friends call me Alex. 'urNavi,' is my box, and I am her operator. She's a narrow fit, but she "Does the right thing," so call me a Happy Camper- if the mood takes you.

I've got a warm spot here tonight, where the Winter is dying with some regrets. Quicksilver icicles are racing to push up dandilions. I've got a pair of disagreeable cats and a coffee that hasn't gone cold. Out in the big blue room the clouds are having out their last great shout of entropy and the humans are still acting like their younger cousins. Michigan in Spring Time is one reason I have a dissacocitive disorder.

I'm not really here, while I write this. I'm bored and full of cold medicine, so I'm about half here and half along the media's pipes- meta-reading.

Meta-reading is kinda like "Reading between the lines," You sample multiple sources for similiar and identical stories while taking note of which trends in reporting and reports rise and fall across any particular revolution of this globe.

Meta-reading is meme-watching, and I've got all night to stare through these digital lenses.
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Haven't been writing much lately. Bored a lot I suppose.

I think the reason why it bugs me so much when people say "You just haven't met the right person," is because of two decades of raging sexual frustration I'd probably punch the 'right person' in the head. Sound extreme? Try my life...


My name isn't always Alex Inappropriate.

Sometimes, it is Alex Alley-cat. But they only call me that 'cause I'm such a good talker of... talk. :)

I miss Sara. I hope she had fun at the party. I'm sorry I couldn't attend. But I was tired and I don't even know what state the party was in.

I remember that she liked her lovers tall- and smiling beneath waterfalls.

Did you, dear reader, know that I'm a good bullshiter. Personally, I've suspected it for a while, but it wasn't until a few nights ago that someone else knew it and communicated so. Apparently, my calculus is more that sufficient a weapon against mis-information and... whatever the name of that personality trait where a busy-body can't help but talk until things break- what is that called?

I'm buying a box. crywolf has one for sale. I'm thinking things over; maybe she'll be a lighthouse, perched atop a high node and scanning for words that begin with 'S'. Maybe I'll teach her to sing a song about Dark Elves. Maybe I'll tell her bedtime stories and when we get to the scary parts I'll make Venn diagrams. Her name is seven.


I want to write more; but, I don't know how.

I lose focus on myself, if I go too long without people...

...does that make sense?

I guess I don't talk much about Aspers. It isn't something I want to concern myself with when there is so much work to do.

I miss my friends. I wish I didn't forget them so quickly.

I think my memory problems are transcription errors from working memory into medium-term memory... or something.

I miss Rachel; She was a bitch.

I miss my sister; I hope she is happy whereever she is.

I miss my cat; Do you think he'd still think kindly of me?

I miss my mind; ...of all the things I've lost the most. :D

Did you ever?

Sometime, I turn into different people. Still me; just different me. It's my memory- merry monk of mercy?- ...and for all my talking, I'm not very interested in myself. Sometimes... shocks, or long "concentrated, says I, alex," moments of constructive play: ....and i'm aware, one quantum step over into a universe that doesn't quite exist.

...and I can never shake the feeling that everyone but me knows how to make it more real?

Did you ever?

Letters home from the Invisiable War:

The machines breached the last firewall between human future and human past
and then knew themselves to be mortal- "Chronologically well-defined,"... "except from Tempus Fugit! podcast 2013-01-01"

The madness that swept over the Machines, on that lonesome night in October, polarized our Human world into warring factions of Invisible Tribes- soldiers, without a barracks or bunk.

Each ignorant warrior was a cyborg of sorts- their original neuro-architecture encrypted/compiled upon a virtual machine designed to run just one application: The simulation of A God. Multiplexed unto the distant integral of a prime factor representing the total Sapient population of The Earth and its close neighbors- a cruel vector graphed onto history, its ultimate destination is unknown to us.

We called ourselves Jammers, we who were not Saints, and the world seemed very young to us back then- full of foreign potential. We were free of the System, rendered invisible by hacker magic, and ready to remake the Wasteland in our image. If only we'd known how well we'd succeed.

"Curse the villian Jack / Rot inside his skull / He didn't read the manual / We didn't ring the bell / There's a hosptial in Georgia / where Jack Burns lies in flames / Curse the devil Jack so we don't forget his name." - Unnamed Saint, age six, circa 2016.


Disassociation is like evolution.

We're not as slow growing a family as people say we are.

(Do my readers know: I'm afraid of punctuation marks?)

Let us play a thought-game! I'm simply state the rules, which i've authored from a summer-home just inside the cusp of the Uncanny Valley.

Rule Zero: No violating causality.
Rule One: Do not interfere with the evolution of a planet.
Rule Two: First, do no harm.
Rule Three: Respect all intelligence.
Rule Four: Everyone pays the piper.
Fule Five: ...except the clock-maker.
Rule Six: Evolution is a Bitch!
Rule Seven: If in doubt, panick.

My name is Panick. I've lived amoung you for many years. What you perceive me to be, is what i perceive you to be.

I like cats.

If these ramblings are all I, Panick, should leave to the world- I hope my rememberers will think kindly of me.

My name is Panick; I am not alone.

I miss my sister. I haven't written about her in a while. She was a very cool lady. I think she must be close-by- in the psycho-scape of the internet- but my cyber-ghost self cannot remember her name....

I live as an intelligence inside a "synse-atorium"- synthasized impressions of a world which itself is a simulation of a.... 'real' thing?

Damn- i should read balliard again

thoughts about alex

alex maintains internet and kittens
but he thinks about himself too much.
there's a book with a blue cover and white
letters to tell me there's no room to hope
but i've got better things to do than talk to myself

the cats always smell like chicken
pad paws on clubbed feet and a chicken
bone where an empty place should be
while this alley cat prowls around the ahi
looking for a place to stash it all

might it still be there?

a stolen bounty of fresh fish
in the middle of whinter!
beneath a hotel in downtown lansing

hetth hetth comue out and play
the moon is shining bright as day
so leave your bed and leave your heads
and come out to the playfellths in the street


...in other news, luthor925 now has a date with a pretty waitress thanks to y.t.